The Fire Triangle: Part II - Oxidizer

by Merc_Marten

Summary:

Nick and Judy have gone their separate ways, and the arson attacks plaguing Zootopia have abated. But soon, a new peril will arise, threatening to turn the city into a war-zone, a menace that will quickly become fursonal for Judy Hopps. Nick Wilde, meanwhile, will journey to a distant city in pursuit of an elusive criminal--and find himself face to face with a monstrous power-grab scheme. But, is it already too late to stop it?

Notes:

Continued from The Fire Triangle Part I - Fuel

Chapter 1: Prologue

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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A little knowledge is a dangerous thing

Alexander Pope

[]

Knowledge is power

Roger Bacon

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Entr'Acte, Part 2
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WWyhjKjHnAA

Prologue:

Sometime you hit the lottery...and sometimes the lottery hits you.

There is no way…no WAY that rusty bucket of bolts should still be able to move; the odds must be something like a gajillion-to-one. And yet there she goes, rolling down the track with his assistants in hot pursuit.

A sickly-bittersweet odor fills the air; spilled creosote and the ozone tang of an overheating transformer. The screech of the wheels, steel moving against steel for maybe the first time in decades, is like feedback from an amplifier as big as a Stonehedge slab. Before the rogue sheep can cover his ears, the noise lowers to a deep, moaning rumble, and fades away into the dim red lights of a tunnel. Swirling dust and motes of rust sting his eyes like a thousand miniscule pinpricks. He forces them to stay open, trying to see what's happening at the far end of the abandoned Metro station. Jesse just might make it on board the train-car before it gets away; Woolter's chances are a bit more uncertain.

As for Doug, he knows that he's too far away to catch it…and so he just stands there, listening as the sound becomes a stillborn silence. He tries to reassure himself. Not to worry; this is only a minor setback. His enforcers will stop the train and get his laboratory back.

And when they do, the bunny who tried to jack it is going to have a very unpleasant encounter with a third rail.

But…who was she? In the brief glimpse he'd caught of her, she'd looked vaguely familiar. And had there been someone else on board with her? Doug could have sworn he's seen a…

"Never mind," he tells himself, at last wiping his eyes, "If there was someone with her, he'll be in for shock of his own when Jess and Woolter bring him back."

It's the sheep's own fault, of course; he should have made sure and disconnected that motor instead of merely assuming it wouldn't work after sitting idle for so long.

Or…maybe he's not quite that much to blame. The only practical way he could have disabled the train-car would have been to pull the plug altogether—and that had never been an option. The process by which he transformed Nighthowler blossoms into Nighthowler serum required a stink-load of electricity. (It was the reason he'd set up his lab down here in the first place.)

Doug's thoughts drift back to that bunny again. Wai-i-i-t a minute, now he remembers where he's seen her before; Judy Hopps, could that have been Judy Hopps? Maybe, but…didn't she quit the ZPD? And how the heck did she find out…?

"Weaselton!"

The answer comes to him like flash of lightning—and makes him want to ram his head into somebody's midsection, Yes, of course, the weasel; that was how she'd known where to find his lab, "Sniveling little two-faced jerk, getting himself busted for trying to steal those Nighthowler bulbs, instead of buying them like I said. I should have darted him the minute he hit the streets again."

That, in fact, was what the rogue-sheep had wanted to do. But Dawn Bellwether had overruled him, saying it would arouse too much suspicion and besides...they might need the little jerk later on.

Bellwether…ohhhh dangit, she wasn't going to like this.

Wincing as if he'd accidentally stuck himself with a cactus needle, Doug pulls out his cell-phone and presses the appropriate speed-dial button. There is no answering burr, only silence; he gives it another second, still nothing.

He looks at his phone, no bars are showing; instead he sees a flashing message, 'No Service'

His brows jump upwards. What the HECK? He's never had that problem down here before. In fact, wasn't Woolter talking to Her Honor only a minute ago? All right, then why…?

He freezes in place. He can't hear or smell anything, but there's someone here with him. Wha…how did he not notice? He reaches instinctively for his trank-dart pistol…then remembers it's still on the train.

A deadpan voice speaks from over his shoulder.

"Don't even think about it, Ramsey."

Doug turns, and sees another pair of sheep. But he doesn't relax; they aren't his guys—or Bellwether's. Technically, they're not even his species. One of them is a bighorn ram and the other is a Marco-Polo sheep; hard, lean, muscular bodies and horns that wrap clear around their heads. They're dressed in what look like, long, black dusters, with tac-vests underneath. Even Jesse and Woolter wouldn't be a match for these two, much less him.

Someone grabs him by the shoulder, spinning him like a turnstile, and he whirls around to face…

"Baa-ahhhhhh!"

His bleat is a mix of horror and terror; he's never met this wolverine, but he's heard about him.

He watches as the other animal raises a finger.

"Very foolish of you, Douglas, getting involved in Dawn Bellwether's little scheme. If only you'd kept a low profile, you might have succeeded in staying off our radar screens. Instead…."

The mini-lecture ends in a head shake that looks almost remorseful.

"Y-You know about that?" Doug asks, his fear giving way to disbelief.

The wolverine's eyebrow pulls upwards.

"Oh really Douglas," he sounds almost disappointed, "We, of all mammals, should recognize the effects of Nighthowler serum when we see it. From there, it was an easy connection to make." His lip curls upwards, showing a fang, "Especially with such resources as we possess." The lip goes up even further and now both fangs are on display. "A florist disappears, and when he's found, he's berserk with Nighhowler poisoning. And when does this happen? Less than a day after another flower shop is robbed of every bulb they have—of guess WHICH plant species? After that it was a simple matter of seeing to it that Duke Weaselton made bail, and putting a trace on him." The brow cocks upwards even further. "And where do you suppose he led us?"

Doug feels his jaw drop open. Disbelief is stepping aside, making way for sheer incredulity

"Y-You knew about the lab! Then why didn't you tell…?"

That's as far as he gets before the wolverine raises a paw with the claws fully extended; a paw covered in dirty-white fur.

Doug cringes as he lowers it again. "I'll ask the questions, if you don't mind." Whitepaugh waits for the sheep's nod and sounds almost genial when he speaks again. "I must say, for someone who was only supposed to provide security, you accumulated quite a fair amount of knowledge during your time in that bootleg pharma-lab."

Was that a question; does it require an answer? Doug can't tell, but he decides not to take any chances.

"Animals kept quitting without notice and whenever they did, I'd get sent in to pinch hit. I hated the heck out of it, but you never said 'no' to that sea-mink. He had me doing everything but clean the toilets."

"Hmmm, yes," Whitepaugh strokes his chin with a thoughtful finger, "I suppose an operation like that would have a high degree of absenteeism, wouldn't it? Does Mayor Bellwether know that you were formerly employed by The Company?"

The rogue sheep shrugs indifferently.

"Don't know; she never asked, and I wasn't about to volunteer." For once, he's able to meet Whitepaugh's gaze. It's a safe enough question.

What follows next is anything but.

"So, was that your lab we saw disappearing around the bend a moment ago?" It sounds innocuous enough, but the look on the wolverine's face is enough to bring tears to Doug's eyes. He knows now...he's not walking out of here alive.

"Y-Yes," he bleats, averting his gaze.

Whitepaugh nods solemnly.

"So…I guess that leaves you as our only source of information."

The terrified ram will never know what prompted his next move. Without warning, without thinking, he launches himself head-first at the wolverine.

It almost works; caught completely by surprise—and caught dead in the center of his chest—Whitepaugh tumbles over backwards.

But then he continues to tumble, pitching heels-over-head, and springing up again on the balls of his feet.

"All right Douglas, that wasn't foolish, it was just plain stupid." Whitepaugh brushes himself off with the back of his paw, looking only a little bit irritated.

And then he nods over the rogue-sheep's shoulder and Doug feels his hooves being swept out from under him. A half-second later, someone grabs his arms and he hears and feels the rasp of zip-ties being cinched around his wrists. A snarling voice growls, "Stand him up," and he finds himself hauled roughly to his feet. At once he begins to squirm and bleat. Now, ALL of the wolverine's teeth are showing.

"I've killed for less than that, Douglas," he informs his captive in a voice that's almost a purr. "Fortunately for you, you're too valuable to lose. In the course of your rather brief career with Ms. Bellwether you appear to have stumbled onto something that might be of extreme value to us." The fangs vanish into a rough smile, "so you won't be dead," and then they come back again, "but you're going to wish you were."

The grip on his arms tightens, and he watches as the wolverine's white-furred paw makes a vicious fast draw into the folds of his coat. Doug tries to struggle when he sees the dart-gun, a real beauty, a top of the line model, much nicer than the one he used to…

Whitepaugh pulls the trigger and shoots him; the pistol chuffs but doesn't buck. Doug feels an impact on collarbone, but there's barely any pain, no worse than an airsoft pellet. He braces himself, waiting for the world to go dark.

But that's not what happens; he remains completely conscious. There's no drowsiness, no dizziness, not even a hint of fatigue.

Instead he feels…he feels…

His mouth is drying up, and his vision seems to be narrowing. His heart is kicking into high gear, and his breath is coming in short gulps. A-And why is it getting so cold in here? He begins to shiver, and not just from the chills; he feels as if he's lost all control, a sensation of completely helplessness—and not just because of the zip-ties binding his wrists. His will has been sapped away, leaving him utterly at the mercy of this wolverine.

Wolverine? Right now his captor seems more like some kind of demonic entity than any living mammal.

Doug collapses to his knees, nearly pitching face-first onto the oil-stained stink of the floor before a harsh grip yanks him upright again. When he glances downward, he sees a splotch of neon-burgundy red on his...

A hard paw slaps his cheek, spinning his head around. When his vision clears, Whitepaugh's face is only inches away from his own. The wolverine's breath is pungent and steamy, emitting a stench like a rotting carcass.

"Only a mild dose, Douglas," he says, "I'd have given you a larger one, but we need you lucid—for now." The last two words come out as both silky and menacing.

Doug blinks—once, twice, then several times. Even through the enveloping veil of fear, it comes to him; a revelation, an epiphany. He KNOWS what he's been given, but...but that's impossible! Swallowing deeply to wet his throat, he tries to speak, but all that comes out is a wordless bleat. He tries again, and succeeds—just barely.

"You...Y-You shot me with...You shot…. Th-That was the Nighthowler antidote; you...you had it all along."

The faintest specter of a smile appears on Seth Whitepaugh's face.

"Yes…but not quite, Douglas. You see," he cocks a finger, "Nighthowler IS the antidote—and that's where you come in."

Chapter 2: A Rock and a Hard Place (Part 1)

Summary:

Return to the Shrew's Lair

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Part II - Main Theme:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C5P8jn3rjdw

Chapter 1—A Rock and a Hard Place
(Part 1)

"Wha…? No, no, nooo…not NOW; I just got to sleep!"

Judy knew it wasn't the alarm-clock, not in the middle of the afternoon; the nagging buzz could only be coming from her cell-phone. That was why she almost tried to ignore it, pulling the comforter into an even tighter cocoon around herself. Ahhh, ohhhh, who could it be? Was it her parents, her sister...how about another prankster; "Pred and Prey, Stay AWAY!?" (She hadn't actually been trolled for more than two days now.)

Or…maybe it was Chief Bogo, calling to tell her she was good to come back to work.

"All right, allll right…you win!"

She threw off the covers and snatched up her phone from the bedside table.

And then...what the heck?

"Fru-Fru? Why would SHE be calling me…Never mind bunny, pick up quick, before it goes into voice-mail."

Pressing the red 'connect' button, Judy spoke cautiously into the receiver.

"F-Fru-Fru, what…?"

The response was a skull-piercing, silver-tin squeak that made the doe-bunny yank the phone away from her ear. For a second, she thought she'd been pranked again, but then she realized—that wasn't feedback, it was a sob, a high-pitched rodent-sized sob.

She put the cell-phone back against her cheek and tried again.

"Fru, what's wrong?"

"J-Judy," the little arctic shrew's voice was like a nail gouging aluminum siding, "Judy, please…I don't know where else to go. Please, you're my little Jude's godmother; you've got to help me."

"All right, Fru, calm down." Judy slicked back her ears with her other paw, silently wishing she'd never taken this call. Whatever Fru-Fru wanted, it wouldn't be good. "Tell me what happened."

"It's Daddy!" The little arctic shrew's answer came as another feedback squeal, "I-I've never seen him like this. I'm afraid he's going to do something crazy. Please Judy, you're a cop; maybe he'll listen to you. Come to the house, please!"

The paw which had been stroking the doe- bunny's ears now slapped across her face. Whoa, good thing this wasn't a video call; a mob boss...listening to her? There was about as much chance of that happening as there was of Chief Bogo asking Duke Weaselton for advice. Fru-Fru was obviously so distraught that she wasn't thinking straight. Otherwise, she might have considered things from the other side of the discussion.

Consorting with a known criminal is not exactly the wisest career move for an aspiring police detective. If Judy paid an unauthorized visit to Mr. Big's house and ZPD Internal Affairs got wind of it, she wouldn't need to kiss a fox in order to kiss her badge buh-bye.

"NICK! Dumb bunny…don't think about him!"

"J-Judy?"

"Yeah Fru, I'm still here." Dangit, she needed to stall, to give herself time to think. "What happened? Did…?" A thought struck her. Oh no, not that! "Did another one of your dad's properties get burned down?" She was crossing her fingers so tightly it seemed they might fuse together.

"N-No, that didn't happen, " Fru-Fru sniffled, sounding not at all relieved. "There was a meeting here last night. A bunch of those awful Sahara Square pigs came here to speak to Daddy…and…and…" She began to sob again, forcing the bunny to hold out her cell at arm's length again. "I'll tell you about it when you get here, but please…come talk to him."

Judy's paw found her face a second time.

"Ohhhh, sweet cheez n' CRACKERS!"

And then she spoke into the phone again.

"Give me a minute, okay Fru?"

"Please, Ju…"

"A minute, okay?"

Without waiting for an answer, Judy pressed the mute button. Putting the phone back where she'd found it, she began to pace back and forth across the floor. Dangit, this would have been a tough enough dilemma if she had a week to make up her mind; instead, she probably had less than a minute. Ohhh, what was she going to DO? If she agreed to see Fru's father, she might be sending her police career swirling down the porcelain. But, if she didn't say yes, she'd be turning her back on a friend, a friend with nowhere else to go. Crikes…Fru-Fru had to be at end of her rope and hanging on by the fingertips if she was willing to go to a cop for help—even if said cop was the godmother to her eldest child.

But then a wry look creased the doe-bunny's face. Maybe so, but wasn't that shrew still her father's daughter? 'I'll tell you when you get here,' she'd said. While that might not have been an intentional ploy, it meant there was only one way Judy was going to find out the reason for her call. And that would be to go in and talk to her dad. Hrmmm. what was it Nick had told her once? 'Friend or no friend, don't ever forget something; in La Cosa Nostra, blood is thicker than everything...'"I TOLD YOU NOT TO THINK ABOUT THAT FOX!"

Mostly, inner voices are a pain; your own, fursonal, pestiferous Greek chorus. Sometimes, however—what would you do without them? These were to be Judy Hopps' feelings in the next few seconds, when her conscience decided to cut to the chase.

"What if you say 'No' and Mr. Big DOES do something crazy? What happens then?"

"What happens then is a gang-war," the doe bunny muttered under her breath.

And that made up her mind for her. She grabbed her phone and unmuted it.

"All right Fru, I'll come," she said, and then quickly, before the arctic shrew could say anything, she tacked on a qualification, "But I have conditions."

Fru's answer was a high-pitched whistling noise that only a bunny could have detected, the sound of a shrew sniffling.

"Wh-What kind of conditions?"

Judy blinked hard and made a fist with her free paw.

"I'll come see your father, but when I'm done, I'm going straight to Chief Bogo and brief him on everything we talked about."

"Judy, you can't!" Fru's cry came as another shriek of feedback, and the doe-bunny would not have been greatly surprised to hear the stuttering beep of the call being disconnected.

Instead, the line stayed open…and Judy moved quickly into the breach.

"Listen Fru, I'm taking a big enough risk as it is, agreeing to see him without notifying the Department in advance. Heck, I'm taking a risk just accepting this call!" She paused to let her words sink in, and then continued. "I took an oath when I joined the ZPD…an oath that's as important to me as the oath of Omerta is to your father; c'mon, you know that." She had no idea if any of this would have an impact, but when Fru-Fru spoke again her voice was much calmer than a moment ago.

"All right Judy…but when you speak to Daddy, before you say anything else, I want you to tell him what you just told me.

"Fair enough," Judy said. (This was actually what she'd intended from the start. But why prolong the discussion needlessly?) "Okay, how do I get to you?"

"I'm sending Mr. Manchas," the little arctic shrew replied, and there was something in her voice that made the doe-bunny suspect that the black-furred jaguar was already on the road. Had Fru known all along that the answer to her plea would be in the affirmative? Well, as Judy had already noted she WAS the daughter of a mob boss.

"And yeah, that IS something I'd better not ever forget," the grey-furred bunny reminded herself, a warped smile curling around the edges of her muzzle.

And then another thought struck her.

"Wait, don't send him to my apartment," she said, speaking quickly, "Have him pick me up out front of the Elm Street Metro." She did not explain or elaborate; at this time of the afternoon, there'd be there'd be at least a few other vehicles waiting to pick up passengers outside the station. No one would notice another one, limousine or not. And if Renato Manchas couldn't find that place on his own, he had no business working as Mr. Big's fursonal driver.

"Yeah, good idea," Fru responded, having grasped the doe-bunny's reasoning at once. She was a child of La Cosa Nostra all right. "He'll be there in about thirty minutes."

Judy made a quick calculation, "Hmmm, so he IS on his way already," and then shrugged and let it go.

"I'll be there too. Bye Fru."

She stowed the phone and went to her closet.

An hour later found her sitting in the back of a limo inside the Creavers Valley Tunnel, midway between Downtown Zootopia and Tundratown.

Moving her paw over the car-seat, Judy noted that the upholstery was newer than the rest of the interior—except for the carpeting, which was also of a more recent vintage. Hmmm, could this be the same limousine in which Emmit Otterton had been darted with Nighthowler; the one where she and Nick had later been jumped by Kevin and Raymond? It was not outside the realm of possibility, although it WAS rather surprising that Renato Manchas would ever be willing to set foot inside of this particular limo—fully refurbished or not.

Manchas…was he looking at her again?

Judy lifted her gaze…just in time to see his eyes dart away from the rear-view mirror.

He'd been doing that ever since picking her up. At first the doe-bunny had found it annoying; now it merely scratched her curiosity. The glances she'd caught had shown nothing in the way of disapproval, much less hostility. No, the big cat had seemed almost…what was the word for it, melancholy…regretful? No, neither one of those quite fit.

She was tempted to ask him about it, and so she might have—except she needed to stay focused on the task ahead.

As the limo came out of the tunnel and into Zootopia's arctic district, she sat up and peered out the window, taking stock of her surroundings. What she saw was both familiar and oddly unfamiliar. She'd been in this part of Tundratown before, the first time she and Ni...she and her former partner had been brought in to see Mr. Big. That visit, however, had occurred in the dead of night, and she'd been sandwiched in between a pair of very unfriendly polar bears. This time, the sun was up and she had the back of the limousine all to herself.

The season had been different then as well. Back then, all the streets had been carpeted with layers of snow. Now, while there was plenty of white stuff strewn along the roadsides, the pavement itself was bare. (Even Tundratown has to pay homage to summer.) The mountains on her left, normally a uniform white, were splotched here and there with patches of grey and even a hint of green. Behind her, only the upper halves of the skycrapers adjoining Downtown Zootopia remained sheathed in frost, giving them the appearance of ginormous shaved-ice dispensers. Here in the foothills, most of the architecture was alpine; houses and businesses built to resemble either chalets or mountain lodges. If you wanted to find igloos or ice palaces you needed to look further down the valley, towards the flatlands encircling Icy Lake.

Now Manchas turned left and onto a wide boulevard. As he rounded the corner, Judy took note of a polar bear in a tall cap, standing sentry beneath sign reading 'Private Road—No Turnarounds'. At the limo's approach, he stiffened and readied his weapon. (O-M Goodness, was he packing a…?)

But then the bear peered closer, and smiled and waved. Judy saw Mr. Manchas return the gesture and then sat back again, feeling her nose beginning to twitch. Given the current state of affairs in Zootopia's underworld, what she'd just witnessed was hardly surprising—but it was still unsettling. The Tundratown and Sahara Square mobs really were on the brink of war…and God help the city if they took it to Defcon One. One thing at least was comforting to the doe-bunny; she'd been absolutely right to agree to Fru-Fru's request. To forestall such a calamity, she'd have gladly put her life on the line…so why not her career?

The houses here were of a much different caliber than the ones she'd seen elsewhere in Tundratown. All were spaced at wide intervals, all of them were gated, and all of them were surrounded by either high walls or towering fences. Through a few of the latter, Judy was able to glimpse the onion-arched facades of what looked like Russian dachas. Clearly Antonino Grandi, aka Mister Big, liked to keep his soldiers close at paw.

Unsurprisingly, the Grandi family compound was situated at the far end of the street. This place Judy remembered; timber, and plaster and tall, gothic windows; a high-peaked roof, more befitting to a cathedral than a private residence. Like every other house on the street, it was surrounded by an industrial strength palisade; in this case a stone wall that could have withstood a direct hit from an artillery shell. What was different here was the absence of any gate. Instead the entrance was secured by a stout chain—a chain watched over by not one but THREE of the Big Shrew's bodyguards, two polar bears and a Siberian tiger, all of them heavily armed.

Though the sun was bright and shining, it seemed to Judy that the entire estate was enveloped in a cloak of dark mist—the fog of war. And what could one little bunny do to burn off such an all-encompassing shroud of acrimony?

She had no idea; she only knew that she had to try.

Entering by way of the estate's front door, Judy found a Greenland wolf waiting for her in the foyer; dark suit and even darker glasses, an animal she didn't recognize. He was standing at parade rest beside a low stool. And as the doe-bunny came closer, she became aware of a stiff tail, a tapping foot, and a hard frown. If Fru-Fru wanted her here, this animal obviously felt otherwise.

"Step up there," he instructed her, in a toneless, Nordic voice, waving towards the stool with a device she recognized as a metal-detector wand. Judy did as she was told and then raised her arms, remaining stock still while he ran the wand over her. Even though she knew he was only doing his job, she decided she didn't like this animal, (and judging by the look on his face, the feeling was more than mutual.)

After giving her a quick twice-over with no response from the detector-wand, the wolf stowed it and motioned for her to step down.

"This way," he growled, striding to the hallway door and all but flinging it open.

The interior of the house was just as Judy remembered; that is, what little of it she was able to remember. The first time she'd been here she'd arrived by another entrance and had practically been frog-marched inside. Since then, she had never been back. Oh, she'd met Fru for lunch on numerous occasions, and the two of them had many times gone shopping together; (the little shrew was a genius at finding bargains.) But until today, she had never returned to the Grandi Estate, and for a very simple reason. This house was the property of Mr. Big, not his daughter. And like any good mob boss, he considered his home his castle.

It was a castle with La Cosa Nostra practically written all over it; dark, heavy timbers, stone and hardwood floors covered in brocade carpets, and walls in washed-out pistachio green, hung here and there with dimly lit paintings. The biggest difference for Judy was that the frost which had seemed to fill every nook and cranny on her previous visit was largely absent this time; hardly an icicle to be seen anywhere.

Summer had definitely arrived.

Passing by a window that fronted on a small courtyard, Judy spotted something peculiar, a domed greenhouse protecting only a single piece of flora, a tree of many small trunks and big, trefoils leaves. Wait, was that a fig tree? Yes, it was and what the heck was that doing here in Tundratown?

The wolf eventually brought her to a heavy chestnut door which he opened without knocking. Stepping aside, he ushered the doe-bunny through and closed it behind her.

On the other side of the doorway, everything was instantly familiar; this was the office where, two years ago, Judy had first encountered the Padrone of the Tundratown mob. Only, where was…?

"Judy, is that you?" A wee, tinny voice queried hopefully. It was coming from the top of Mr. Big's massive slab of a desk.

"I'm here, Fru," the doe-bunny assured her, moving quickly around to the front.

Fru-Fru was parked on the desktop, laying back with an overstuffed belly in an overstuffed lounge-chair. She was wearing a mist-blue maternity dress that would shortly need to make way from the next size up. On her right was a basket of mealworms, and on the left was a bowl of…vanilla cake frosting?

As Judy watched, she took one of the worms, dunked it in the confection and popped it into her mouth, devouring it in two quick bites…and reminding the doe bunny that size and appearances notwithstanding, shrews are one of the world's most rapacious predators.

But...mealworms with icing? Ewww, no wonder that wolf hadn't wanted to wait around.

"What can I say, I get cravings," Fru shrugged, having caught her guest's expression. By way of further explanation she patted her expanding tummy. "Thanks so much for coming, Judy," she said, and then gestured to a spot behind and to the left of the doe bunny. "Please…sit down."

The rattan chair was a bit large for a rabbit, but she managed…and she also noted that it didn't go with the rest of the room décor; Fru must have had it brought in especially for her visit.

That was when Judy noticed; something in this room was conspicuous by its absence.

…Or rather, someone.

"Wh-Where's your dad?"

Fru-Fru blew a tuft of air from her face and her eyes turned upwards for a second. The look on her face might have been either embarrassment or disappointment; the doe bunny was unable to tell.

"Jude-eeeeee, I couldn't bring you here while he was home; he'd never have let you in the house." She was a lot calmer than she'd been on the phone…which was more than you could say for her visitor.

"Oh wonderful," Judy groaned to herself. Great, then what would Mr. Big do when he came home and found her here in his private office? Her next thought was, "Am I THAT obvious?" because Fru was grinning at her…sheepishly, but still a grin.

"Don't worry Judy, he won't…do anything. If that was even possible, I'd never have asked you here." She aimed a finger downward at the floor. "Slide out of that chair for a second and thump your foot, g'head."

Judy eyed the little arctic shrew curiously for a second. Now, THERE was a request she didn't get every day. Just the same, she let herself drop to the floor and drummed her foot against the carpet. Nothing happened and she looked up again with a twitching nose.

"'Kayyy…what?"

Fru-Fru only grinned again, and this time her eyes were twinkling.

"Hey c'mon…you're the cop over here; you figure it out."

Judy felt her ears begin to turn backwards, but then looked down again. Wa-i-i-i-t a minute; she was standing right on top of…

She thumped her foot gain, and again there was nothing—where there should have been a hollow, booming noise.

She looked up again. "The ice pit—it's gone."

Fru patted her belly again. "When Daddy found out I was having a boy, he promised me no one would ever get iced in this house again. And to prove it, he had the hole filled in." The pride in her voice was unmistakable, but then her face turned almost grave. "I'm telling you this, Judy, so you'll understand that what else I got to tell you here is the truth."

That was good for another raised rabbit ear…and an eyebrow to go with it. "Excuse me, what...else you have to say?" She could feel her nose twitching again.

"That's right." Fru-Fru sat up in her chair. "While you were on your way here, I got to thinking about what you said, how you gotta tell the Chief about your talk with my dad, after you leave." She leaned even further forward, whiskers twitching like antennae. "So I got something I want you to tell him from me."

"Whoa, is this the same shrew that almost got hysterical on the phone with me?" Judy wondered in amazement. It reminded her of her earlier call with Erin. And it made her realize something; when it comes to hormonal mood swings, adolescence has nothing on a pregnancy.

Fru, meanwhile, was struggling to get up out of her chair. Judy reached quickly to help her, but the arctic shrew only waved her off.

"I got this, I got this, but can you lift me up over there, Judy?" She was pointing to the mantel over the fireplace.

Judy cocked her eyebrow again; it was yet another odd request but then so had been asking her to thump her foot...and that had made perfect sense in the end.

However, there was another problem.

"Uhmmm, that's a little high for me, Fru…and I don't want to try jumping while holding you; not in your, uh, condition."

"There's a step ladder you can use, over by the fireplace tools," Fru-Fru pointed to the left side of the hearth, nodding for emphasis.

"So it's true," Judy said a moment later, as she cupped the little arctic shrew in her paws, "Your dad really IS getting out of the rackets."

Fru-Fru's brow flattened and so did her mouth. "Where'd you hear that, Judy?"

"Oops, way to go, DUMB bunny." Judy mentally chided herself and then thought fast for a second. "Around the Precinct." she said, shrugging it off, as if it was no big deal. "It's just gossip so far...but it's true?"

"Yeah, it's true," the little arctic shrew sighed, already resigned to the fact that her father's plans were known to the ZPD. She patted her tummy again. "He wants to make sure little Tony never gets into 'that life,'...and so do I." Her face had stiffened with resolve.

THAT was something Judy found easy to believe. Not merely his grandson, but also his namesake; Mr. Big would absolutely not want this boy in the rackets, no way!

With such a delicate load in her paws, ascending the stepladder was a slow process; Judy had to move with the stylized steps of an actor in a Tanbuki play. When she started lifting Fru up towards the mantelpiece, the little shrew shook her head.

"No Judy, not up there; up there." She was pointing towards the shelf above the mantel, the one containing a portrait of a wrinkled, old lady-shrew, flanked by a pair of Rosary candles.

"Okay," the doe bunny nodded, beginning to get what Fru was after.

It was a bit of a stretch to reach up that far, but Judy managed it. Taking a step back down the ladder, she watched as Fru-Fru waddled to the center of the picture, placing a paw against the canvas, and another one over her heart. Her voice was as somber as the face of the shrew in the painting.

"Judy, on the memory of my sainted great-grandmother, I swear to you: Daddy had NOTHING to do with burning down that recycling plant and that flower-shop!"

"So Ni…the fox was right about that too." This time the doe bunny wisely kept her thoughts to herself. Unfortunately, there was another, even more awkward response that she couldn't avoid speaking aloud.

"How do you know this Fru?" she asked, immediately bracing herself.

"Because he told me—wait!" She had seen Judy starting to raise a finger. "Wait, I know what that sounds like, but please… hear me out before you say anything, okay?"

"All right," Judy let her arms fall to her sides, watching the little shrew with a curious eye and a twitching nose.

"Okay," Fru-Fru leaned back against the canvas and slid downwards, using the frame as a makeshift seat; one of the advantages of being so small. Then she said, "I know my father Judy. If he'd had anything to do with either of those fires he would have said something to me like, "'Baby, you know you're not supposed to ask Daddy about his business.'" Her muzzle shot suddenly upwards, as if in defiance. "But that's NOT what he said...and I didn't have to ask him; he came to me. I had just finished putting little Judy to bed when Raymond walked in and said my father wanted to see me in his study. When I got here, Daddy was sitting on the desktop and as soon as Ray set me down, he got up and took me by the paws." She took a deep breath and when she spoke again her voice had become a fair approximation of Mr. Big's wheezy rasp.

"My child, you're going to be hearing some bad things about your father very shortly; that I gave the order to have two of the Red Pig's businesses torched. I swear to you daughter; on my dear, departed Grandmamma's grave, I did NOT do these things."

She stopped abruptly, and Judy realized she was being scrutinized for her reaction. Dangit, what was she supposed to say? She believed what Fru had just told her, but it wouldn't last three seconds in a court of law…or with Chief Bogo.

But then the arctic shrew spoke again.

"It's the same thing Daddy said to Joey the Shadow when he came here for the sit-down last night—almost word for…"

"Wait, WHAT?" Judy's ears felt as if they were going to shoot straight through the ceiling.

"Joey Porcini," Fru amended quickly, "He's the Red Pig's Consigliere…"

"No, that's not what I mean," Judy had to steady herself on the ladder to keep her balance, "Your father let you attend the meeting; you were THERE?" She couldn't believe that even Mr. Big would be that indulgent…and even if he was, his 'guests' sure as heck wouldn't have stood for it.

Fru-Fru's eyes turned momentarily upwards, and she began to scan the air around her, as if searching for an intruding mosquito.

"Ummm, noooo…but…you see this fireplace here?" She was aiming her finger downwards, "Wellll, the chimney goes right past the TV room upstairs and umm…well, if you stand at a certain spot, ummm… right next to that part of the wall…"

"Okay Fru, I get it." Judy spoke quickly wanting to spare her friend the embarrassment of having to admit that she'd been eavesdropping. "And everything you just told me never leaves this room."

"Thanks Judy," the arctic shrew responded, letting out a breath of heartfelt relief.

"No problem," the doe-bunny smiled and then quickly grew serious, "Maybe you better tell me about that meeting from the beginning. I promise not to repeat anything you say, but if I'm going to be able to help you, I need to know what happened here last night."

"Yeah, right," Fru-Fru puffed out her cheeks. "Can you put me back down on the desk first?"

When 'The Shadow' Porcini had arrived at the Grandi family compound, he'd had a troop of bodyguards with him. Except for Vinnie 'the Painter' Truffalini, Fru hadn't recognized any of them. "But I know a stinkin' Razorback when I see one," she spat out the word like lye.

"And the Red Pig didn't come himself?" Judy asked. She wasn't surprised, only curious.

"No, and it's a good thing, too." Fru-Fru's cheeks were puffing out again. "That javelina's a total, stinkin' psycho."

Peccari's absence from the meeting had given Fru a little hope that maybe her father and the Sahara Square mob would be able to hammer out a peaceful settlement to their differences. But no sooner had Koslov shut the front door, than Mr. Big had sent her upstairs, offering her only the timeworn mob mantra as an explanation, 'Business is business.'

Fru-Fru had taken her place next to the chimney just in time to hear her father swearing once again that the arson attacks on the Red-Pig's property had in no way been carried out at his behest. After that, she hadn't been able to hear much of anything; the animals downstairs had all been speaking in hushed tones.

"But then just like that, they all started yelling at each other. I couldn't make out most of it, but it was like a horror movie down there; y'know, when the monster comes in and everybody starts screaming at once?" She hugged herself and shuddered. "Except this was all angry, not scared…and what I DID hear… When Truffalini called Koslov a 'Goombear' I thought for sure that the next thing I was gonna hear was gunshots. And then I heard Vinnie 'The Shadow' screaming 'Snitch' at my father."

At this Judy gasped and felt her paws fly up to her face. Even she knew that in La Cosa Nostra, there's no greater insult than to accuse a fellow mobster of violating the code of Omerta.

Whoa, good thing Mr. Big had gotten that ice-pit filled in. Otherwise at least one of his 'guests' would have left the room that way—but not without taking one or two of the Big Shrew's soldiers with him; the Razorbacks were nobody's helpless little pigs, and by the sound of things, there'd been way more than three of them in here.

And even worse had been yet to come for Fru-Fru; after several more minutes of verbal chaos, her father's voice had pierced through the din like a red-hot needle.

"You stay away from my daughter, you hear me, Shadow? OR I'LL STUFF YOUR NOSE DOWN YOUR T'ROAT!"

"Oh my God," Judy felt like hugging herself too. No wonder Fru was so desperate.

"I never in my life heard Daddy scream like that," the little shrew was almost in tears again. "I swear, I didn't know his voice could GET that loud."

Mr. Big's angry fusillade had been the straw that broke up the meeting. Porcini and the Razorbacks had stormed out through the front door and gone screeching out of the driveway with their tires throwing up rooster-tails of snow. As soon as they were gone, Fru had summoned Kevin and told him to bring her back downstairs. At first, the polar bear had tried to demure. "You should wait little bit, babuschka...till Big Shrew feels better, da?" It was no use; Fru-Fru was The Boss's daughter, and she wanted to see him right now. Eventually, reluctantly, the polar bear had complied with the order.

"I should have listened to him when I had the chance, Judy." the little arctic shrew sniffled, wiping at an eye with her finger, "When Kevin brought me downstairs again, as soon as we hit the ground floor, I could hear Daddy ranting...l-like a crazy animal, all the way down the hall. 'That jerk, that punk, that pezzi di sporcizia…how dare he talk that way to me? ME! Maiale bugiardo, I'll make him eat his words with battery acid!'" She sniffled again, "If I hadn't been there myself I never would of believed it...that my father could lose it like that."

But even then, Fru-Fru couldn't have imagined how angry he really was.

"When I saw Daddy after Kevin opened the door...oh my God, Judy! I thought for a second one of those pigs must have slipped him a Nighthowler. He had his jacket open, his shirt collar was all undone, and his fur was all sticking out every which way, like a punk rocker or something. All his teeth were showing too. And his EYES; sweet mother of mercy, it was like someone had stuck a coupla deviled sparrow-eggs in his eye-sockets. At first, he didn't even seem to know I was there…stomping back and forth, all over the desktop, waving his paw in the air. And then…and then, wh-when he finally noticed me…"

Her words ended in a choking sob, and it was nearly a minute before she was able to continue.

When Mr. Big had turned and seen her...

"He…screamed at me Judy, for the first time ever, 'YOU! YOU GET OUTTA HERE!'…a-and not in those words; he used language even Kevin hadn't heard him use before."

She began to cry again, and Judy looked fervidly around the office. Dangit wasn't there anything in here she could use as a tissue?

"He…apologized to me over breakfast this morning," Fru sniffled, wiping her eyes on the back of her sleeve. "But he's still almost crazy-mad about last night." She lifted a pair of fingers and crossed herself. "I just hope it's not too late already. When Daddy left the house earlier, he didn't tell me where he was going."

That was something he probably never did anyway, Judy mused to herself. But never mind; what the heck had happened here to set the Big Shrew off like that? And not just him; from the way things sounded, the Red Pig's envoys hadn't left in a particularly jolly mood either. What could have started it? WHO could have started it?

To find out, Judy knew she would have to choose her next words very carefully…and even then, it would be a roll of the dice. However she presented the suggestion, Fru-Fru wasn't going to like it. In a worst-case scenario, she might even order the doe-bunny to leave the house and declare that they were no longer friends.

It was a risk, but the only thing that might shed some light on what had touched off that powderkeg last night.

"Fru," she said, speaking very slowly, "whoever burned down the Red Pig's properties, I'm getting a…a very strong vibe that he and your dad were already feuding—even before the Tux-On fire. I-Is that right?"

Okay, there it was; Judy crossed her fingers, waiting for the answer.

"Uh-huh," Fru's expression had shifted from distress to disgust—but not directed at her, the doe-bunny was relieved to note. "Yeah that's about it; they've been sniping at each other since back when summer started."

Judy let out a breath but not all of her breath; that was only the first hurdle.

"Oh-kayyy," she said, mentally crossing her fingers. While Fru-Fru wouldn't be offended by her next question, she most likely wouldn't know the answer either. "Do you have any idea what started it?"

To her considerable surprise, the little arctic shrew's response was as bitter as a straight shot of Amaro. Her eyes narrowed into fire-grate slits and the corners her mouth arced downwards almost to her shoulders. In the meanwhile, her paws had tightened up on her the arms of her chair, as if preparing to rip them from their mountings.

And when she spoke, her voice was as screechy as finger-claws on a blackboard.

"Oh yeah, I got an idea how it started. It was all because a' that STUPID ring!"

"R-Ring?" Judy felt her nose twitching…and not out of mere curiosity; disquiet was in the mix too. The word shouldn't have raised even a single red flag with her and yet a whole covey of them seemed to be taking flight. "Wh-What ring?"

"My engagement ring," Fru looked as if she wanted to bite somebody's face off.

Judy started to lean closer and then stopped herself. Given the little shrew's mood right now, it might not be the best course of action to get within range of those chompers.

Fru, however, had seen her reaction, and moved quickly to calm herself.

"Sorry, sorry…it just makes me so mad when I think about it." She turned sideways and for a second, Judy thought she was going to spit. But then she held out her left paw in the doe bunny's direction, while she fumbled in a pocket with the other. "But I didn't mean this engagement ring, I meant the other one, the FIRST one. Now where the heck…? Dang, I haddit here a second ago."

Judy stared completely puzzled; just when she'd thought that things couldn't get any more confusing. A…NEW engagement ring; who the heck buys a new engagement ring...unless they've lost the old one? (And that obviously wasn't the case here.)

After another minute of rummaging, Fru's face lit up, "Success!" Extracting a tiny object from her pocket, she held it out in Judy's direction. It was perhaps the size of a gumdrop, but the doe-bunny recognized it immediately—a ring-box.

"G'head, take a look ," the little shrew prompted, but it was easier said than done. Too small for Judy to get a decent grip on it, the box at first denied all attempts to get it to open. Finally, on the third or fourth try, she managed to hook a thumb-claw under the lid and peel it backwards.

Inside was a ring of a deep-yellow gold set with a lustrous diamond. A gorgeous piece of work, but there was nothing special about it, at least not that she could see. Of course, it was a shrew-sized ring, and so she couldn't get a decent look at it anyway, and yet…

And yet...why was her nose twitching nervously again?

She looked up at Fru and saw the arctic shrew pointing to her left.

"There's a magnifying glass on the desk right there."

Yes there was; a fine-looking piece...etched in brass, with an art-nouveau handle. That was the good news; the bad news was that it was of a size intended for a larger mammal...of say, polar bear proportions. In Judy's paws it was as big as a tennis-racket and as unwieldy as an industrial sledgehammer. After three unsuccessful attempts to lift it up over the ring, she decided to compromise. Propping the glass up on its edge, she slid it sideways along the rim of the desktop until the ring-box was centered in the lens.

Yep, there we go…except the image was still a little blurry. Judy tilted the lens back a little and the view quickly crystallized.

At once, she let out a yelp of surprise, and lost her grip on the magnifying glass. It fell onto the desk with a flat, wooden slap as her paws shot up to her cheeks again.

"Sweet Cheez' n'…oh my God!"

What Judy had seen beneath the magnifying lens was putting everything else in a clear view as well; at last it was all beginning to make sense…including why Fru-Fru had chosen to reach out to her.

She looked up again at the arctic shrew—and saw her sitting rigidly, with folded arms and an expression of grim contempt.

"I know, right? A lavender diamond!"

Notes:

Fru's reveal at the end goes back to the opening chapters of Part 1, Fuel

Chapter 3: A Rock and a Hard Place (Cont'd...Part 2)

Summary:

The shrew comes home to roost.

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 1—A Rock and a Hard Place
(Continued…Part 2)

If Fru-Fru's revelations so far had been only surprising, the one she had waiting around the corner was a nuclear bombshell…but Judy wouldn't find that out for another minute or two. Leaning forward in her chair, she peered at the little arctic shrew as though she might—or might not—have actually been there.

"Hang on; you got your engagement ring at Rafaj Brothers Jewelers?"

Fru's snout turned upwards like a miniature elephant's trunk, a sign of irritation in a shrew.

"Not ME...Tad bought it." Tad was Tad Dennison, her husband. But forget about that; now it was Judy's turn to be annoyed.

"Oh get off it, Fru. You know that's not what I mean; why on earth would anyone even close to your family go shopping for a diamond in Sahara Square?"

What she meant was this: Fru's fiancé had taken an incredible risk, showing his face in the Red Pig's territory. Had he been a made member of the Tundratown syndicate, he'd have been safe enough; the rules of La Cosa Nostra strictly forbade the kidnapping of 'a friend of ours'. And that also applied to a made member's immediate family—including relatives by marriage. Tad, however, had been neither of those things, at least not then. A water-shrew, originally from the Canal District, he worked as a design engineer for Lukkrasiv Aviation, an aircraft company based in Savanna Central. He was 'strictly legit' as they say in the mob.

That, in fact, had been the one condition Mr. Big had placed on his daughter's choice of husband. "You may marry whoever you wish, dearest one," He had said to her, "as long as they're not in 'the life.' That's the one thing I will not allow."

"As IF I'd marry a wiseguy," Fru-Fru had laughed, after repeating the story to Judy over coffee and sfogliatelle. In the end, it had become a moot point anyway; she had ended up falling for a shrew who wasn't even a mob associate, much less a made mammal. All well and good…except when it came to going shopping for an engagement-ring in Sahara Square. Because Tad was a civilian—and not yet engaged to Mr. Big's daughter—the minute he'd set foot in Zootopia's desert enclave, he'd been fair game for a ransom-grab. That had been the reason for the doe-bunny's question—but Fru apparently thought she'd meant something else.

"Hey, he didn't know the Red Pig owned a piece of that place." She was folding her arms defensively.

Judy felt her arms gripping the side of her chair—as if it were an ejection seat about to catapult her straight through the ceiling. Wait…WHAT? Rocco Peccari had been a partner in that jewelry store? Sweet cheez' n crackers, no wonder those jackals had been so reluctant to cooperate… "Heyyy, hang on a second. If that's true, then….?"

Before she could ask the question, Fru had already beaten her to the draw.

"Hold it, Judy. I know what you're thinking… but no, the Rafaj brothers were running those blood-diamonds behind the Red Pig's back. He had no idea, the big jamook. " A brief smirk flashed across her muzzle and then hardened into a sneer. "But you better believe he knows NOW; when those two jackals hit the street again, I wouldn't wanna be in their fur."

"Neither would I," Judy silently agreed, sitting back in her chair and trying to process what she'd just heard. What the heck? Did those brothers have a death wish or something? Well, one thing was for certain. Whatever lingering doubts she'd had about coming here, they had just gone straight out the window. This…was HUGE. When Chief Bogo heard about it, it was going to blow him straight through the back wall of his office. Fru-Fru had just let slip an incredibly vital piece of information.

Only…had she really done it by mistake? Passing information to the cops, 'accidentally-on-purpose,' was another cherished mob tradition. And if the Red Pig really hadn't known that the Rafaj brothers were dealing in conflict diamonds, it wasn't snitching anyway, at least not technically.

Judy folded her paws and leaned forward in her chair.

"Fru, I think you know this only brings up more questions."

"Yeah, I know." the little arctic shrew sighed, sagging in her seat like a defeated candidate, "I can't promise to answer all of 'em, but I'll tell you what I can."

"Fair enough," the doe-bunny nodded her understanding and then decided that what had worked before might be worth a repeat. "Maybe the best thing would be for you to just fill me in on what happened from the beginning."

"Yeah," Fru-Fru sighed again and then pursed her lips into a look of disgust, beating a tattoo on her knee with a paw. The next words she spoke came straight out of left field. "Ahhhh, I just HADDA go and look at that news story."

"Huh?"

Fru and her fiancé had been browsing the web, looking for a place to take their honeymoon. (Tad had not yet proposed, but both of them knew it was coming.) While checking out Spain as a possible destination, something else had caught the little arctic shrew's eye, a news item with the headline, "French, Spanish police bust thieves of rare 'purple' diamond."

Curious, Fru-Fru had clicked on the article…and there, before her eyes had been the most exquisite gemstone she'd ever seen.

"That thing was such a deep purple...if I hadn't known better, I would have swore it was an amethyst; except there was never no amethyst that beautiful. I saw it and I said to Tad, y'know, just off the top of my head, 'Whoa, I wish I could have a wedding diamond like that.'" Repeating the words for Judy, she now seemed to wish that she'd bitten off her tongue instead.

A week later, when Tad had finally popped the question…

"I couldn't find a purple diamond, sweetheart…but I think I got the next best thing."

When he'd opened the box and shown her the ring, Fru had squealed with joy and thrown her arms around him, smothering him with kisses.

"So, uh…I guess that means you like it?" Tad had asked her.

And Fru had said, "Shaddup and kiss me back, already."

He had wisely complied with the order.

"That was that happiest day of my life up until then," Fru-Fru sniffed, beginning to get teary-eyed again, "but little could I have known…."

When she'd gotten pregnant the first time, she'd had it relatively easy, only a very brief bout of morning sickness and minimal moodiness. Not so the second time around; even before the test confirmed she was expecting, Fru's emotions had jumped on a runaway see-saw and her ankles had ballooned up to twice their normal girth.

So had her fingers…

"My engagement ring started to hurt so bad, I couldn't get to sleep at night...and then I couldn't get the darn thing to come off. When my finger started to go numb, I told Tad he'd have to take me back to the shop where he got it and get them to take it off and fix it."

"Not the ER?" Judy was lifting an ear and an eyebrow.

Fru 's brow went up even higher than hers. "Are you kiddin'? Those ER docs are butchers when it comes to gettin' rings offa fingers; they'd of wrecked it, and no thanks, Ralph!" She glared defiantly for half a second, before her expression dissolved into embarrassment. "That's what I thought at the time," she whimpered, shaking her head remorsefully. "But if I'd known then, what I know now…"

The first piece of unpleasant news had come when Tad had revealed exactly where he'd purchased her engagement ring. When Fru had heard, she'd practically had a conniption. "You bought it in SAHARA SQUARE! You stupid mortadella, you're lucky you didn't get snatched; you know who controls that district? I'll chop my stinkin' ring-finger OFF before I'll let you take me to that place!" She'd held up her paw, waving it in his snout. "You listen to me Tad Dennison; you're gonna find somewhere else to get this taken care of and you're gonna find it right now!"

And to prove that she meant business, she had kicked him out of their bedroom until he did. Two days later, he'd come almost crawling back to her with the news; there was a jeweler in Little Rodentia that could do the job.

Ever the attentive husband, Tad had insisted upon accompanying her to the shop; a seedy little place in the district's low-rent neighborhood, with a name that could hardly have been less appropriate, Upscale's Fine Rodent Jewelry.

"I swear Judy, that's the joint I would of thought was selling blood diamonds." Fru-Fru sniffed. "What a hole…and I mean literally, the place was nothing but some hollowed out bricks stuck together."

Sleazy outfit or not, it had taken the Upscale hamsters all of two minutes to get Fru's ring off—and less than fifteen minutes more to get it resized to a perfect fit. All the while, they'd been gushing over the exquisite work and asking her where she'd gotten it.

"Of course, I didn't tell 'em." Fru said, raising her chin defiantly, and showing her Cosa Nostra roots once more. But then her gaze dropped down to the desktop again, and her voice faded to a near mumble. "But maybe I shoulda…"

When she'd left the jewelry shop with her husband, Fru-Fru had thought her engagement-ring issues were over. In fact, they were just beginning. A week later, she and Tad had met for an al fresco lunch at their favorite downtown spot, Café Voré. They had just finished eating when a shadow fell over their table. Looking up, they'd seen a Sun Bear in a dark suit holding a badge above their heads. Judy recognized the description almost at once; Detective Lieutenant Charles Saw, Deputy Chief of the ZPD Organized Crime unit. With him had been a trio of uniformed officers, all of them larger species, standing in a rough circle around the arctic shrews' table.

"Tad Dennison, Fru-Fru Grandi Dennison," the bear had intoned solemnly, "You're under arrest. Get up from the table please, and keep your paws where we can see them."

Pushing his chair back and standing up as instructed, Tad had stared up incredulously at the detective. Fru however, had found it somewhat more difficult to comply.

"My pregnancy was starting to hit me hard by then, Judy. I was getting morning sickness at like all hours of the day, and with zero warning. So when I got up outta my chair, my lunch came up with me—all over the stinkin' table."

Seeing his wife in distress, Tad had attempted to go to her…only to find his path blocked by the sun bear's paw. "Stay where you are, please."

That had been enough to get Fru-Fru's blood up. "Lissen Cole Slaw," she'd said, addressing the Lieutenant by his derisive underworld nickname, "you know who my father is?"

"Yes, I know who he is," the bear had responded tonelessly before flashing a quick, toothy smirk. "Now ask me if I care."

"Mind telling us at least what we're being arrested for?" Tad had demanded, also beginning to lose his patience.

"For illegal possession of a blood diamond," Saw had informed him curtly. He had then motioned to one of the uniforms who had stepped forward, placing a rodent cage on the ground. "All right, inside," he'd growled, motioning with a paw.

"I was playing the tough girl, Judy," Fru grabbed for another mealworm, dunked it fast and swallowed it whole, "A real gangster's moll. You know; 'We didn't do nothin','we'll be out before dinner,' 'Vern Rodenberg's gonna clip your claws for this, pal.' Tad kept telling me to please be quiet, but I was too mad to listen—coz I knew something. If I hadn't been Big Shrew's daughter, the ZPD would never of rousted me over something that petty …much less sent Cole Slaw to do the job. Stinkin' coppers; possono andare tutti a Napole!"

"Uhhhh, Fru…" Judy grimaced and looked sideways for a second.

So did her host—who had managed to get herself so worked up, she'd forgotten she was talking to a police officer.

"Ooooo, sor-reeee," the words came out as a squeaky groan, delivered through clenched teeth.

"It's okay, Fru," the doe bunny assured her—although she was anything but certain that it WAS okay. Like it or not, the little arctic shrew had just opened a breach between them; a narrow gap, but a gap nonetheless. Judy was a cop and the animal sitting opposite her was the daughter of a crime boss… and there was no getting around that fact—or that someday, it might drive them apart for good.

For a long, heavy moment, an awkward silence filled the room, finally broken when Fru cleared her throat.

"G'humm….l-like I said Judy, I was playing the stand-up shrew; but the truth is, I was scared, really scared. That was the first time in my life I'd ever taken a pinch. I had no idea what was happening; and what about Tad? Sweet Mother of Mercy, I'd DIE if he ever became a Guest of the State!"

"Fru," Judy reached up to pat the desktop, and this time the assurance in her voice wasn't forced. "You and Tad weren't going to jail; that case was weak to begin with." She felt no guilt in saying this. By now, Fru-Fru almost certainly knew it for herself.

Yep.

"Actually, they had practically NO case, Judy. Back when Tad bought me that ring, it wasn't illegal to own a lavender diamond, only to sell them. The law saying you couldn't have one at all didn't pass until less than a year ago; I found that out when Mr. Rodenberg came to see me. Anyway, finally they let us go, no charges filed." She pointed to the box on the desktop again, "They even had to give me back my ring." Her mouth bowed into a deep frown and she waved a paw like a grandee dismissing a peasant. "'Course, I refused to wear it after that and Tad hadda get me a new one."

Then why did she still even have it? Judy had to wonder, but kept the question to herself; there were more important matters afoot. 'No charges filed' should have been the end of the engagement ring saga—but she already knew that wasn't the case.

Meanwhile Fru-Fru was still talking.

"But before then Judy, I was so scared. No offense, but like I said before. I knew the cops had only busted me to get to my father…and that they'd do anything to nail him—like when they tried to get Nick to flip on him."

Okay, that made Judy's ears lay back. Friend or no friend, this time Fru had gone too far.

"That was the DA Office's idea, not the ZPD." she said, straightening up and folding her arms indignantly, "and that agency doesn't even exist anymore; it's been replaced by the Attorney General's Office."

Fru-Fru cocked her head in surprise.

"Whoa, you know about that?"

"D'ohhhhh, DUMB bunny!" Judy could have kicked herself right out the window. If Fru was able to play her so easily, what was going to happen when her FATHER got here?

She leaned forward in her chair, clutching the arms for emphasis. "Yes, and I don't want to talk about it—or him—all right?"

"Sorry, sorry," Fru had thrown up her paws in surrender. "Sorry, that was the hormones talking…just like they did back when I got pinched; even now I still get the shivers when I think of it."

"Okay," Judy nodded, quietly deciding to let it slide. "So, what happened next?"

Fru-Fru gave her a tilted look.

"YOU happened, Judy."

The doe-bunny's ears jumped straight to attention. "What...me?"

"That's right," Fru was regarding her intently. Had she been a large predator, Judy might even have feared for her safety. "When you and Nick ran that diamond sting on the jackals, remember?"

"Oh, right," Judy answered uneasily, wanting to kick herself again. Dangit, how could she have forgotten about that? Whoa, wasn't she just hitting 'em out of the park—hey, wait just a carrot-pickin' minute! "Hold it, hold it; help me out here, Fru." She had raised her paws as if on traffic duty. "How is that related to anything else you told me?"

"Oh, it's related, Judy, it's related," Fru's anger was rising again. "It's been 'related' ever since the Red Pig accused Tad of being a snitch; saying MY husband gave up the jackals to the cops!"

"He…did…WHAT?" Just when Judy thought it couldn't get any crazier, "but that's nuts, Fru. Even if Tad was our informant…"

"He wasn't!" the arctic shrew snapped showing her teeth again.

Judy stopped, inhaled slowly through her nostrils and tried again.

"Okay, yes…but correct me if I'm wrong. Even assuming Tad did make the call on the Rafaj brothers, he's still just a regular guy; the law of Omerta doesn't apply to him. Am I right?"

"Yeah, exactly," Fru answered with a tight-lipped nod

"That's what I thought," the doe-bunny nodded back. "And, in any case, he had no idea that the Rafaj brothers were in bed with the Red Pig. Even I know it's not breaking the Rule of Silence to inform on an independent operator."

Fru-Fru spread her paws in exasperation. "I know right? Tell the Red Pig, not me!"

Judy strongly suspected the Sahara Square mob boss had already been told just that—and probably several times. She leaned back in her chair, massaging her temples with her fingers. "Okay, give me a second; I need to think about this."

"Yeah, sure," Fru answered, and the room fell into silence once again as Judy closed her eyes and mulled the little arctic shrew's revelations.

In La Cosa Nostra, the worst offense a wiseguy can commit is to become a snitch; the second worst is to falsely accuse another wiseguy of being a snitch. Knowing this, Judy could easily understand why the Tundratown and Sahara Square mobs were gearing up for war.

Except, as the doe-bunny had just pointed out, Fru's husband wasn't a 'friend of ours'—so why on earth would the Red Pig have made such an accusation? Well-l-l-l, Rocco Peccari WAS noted for honoring mob protocol mostly in the breach; it stood to reason that an animal like him would be just as capable of twisting it to his own ends. Yes, maybe...but to WHAT ends? Think, Judy, think…try to think like HE would.

She opened her eyes and looked at Fru again.

"Okay, do you have any idea why the Red Pig really accused Tad of being an informer? I just can't see him saying a thing like that unless there was something in it for him."

"Yeah, that's what I thought, too," the arctic shrew nodded, "But I got no clue as to what it could be. Maybe Daddy will be able to tell you when he gets here." Without warning, her gaze once more intensified. "But there's one thing I've gotta know …and please tell me the truth. Do you have any idea on who actually dropped the dime on those jackals?"

"No," Judy met the shrew's gaze with a firm voice and an unwavering eye, "No, I don't, Fru-Fru. The ZPD only gives out that kind of information on a need-to-know basis…and I didn't need to know that. As a matter of fact it was better that way. If you don't know who your informer is, you can't accidentally give him away to your suspect. Believe me, that's the last thing you want when you're running an undercover sting."

"Yeah, yeah…I didn't think you knew, but I had to ask, okay?" Fru had raised her paws again. "For Tad," she added, as if that made everything alright.

It didn't; for the first time since they'd met, Judy had gotten the impression that the little arctic shrew was trying to lean on her. What would Fru-Fru have said to her if she had known who the informer was—and refused talk about it? Would she then have…brought up Duke Weaselton? Fru was well aware of that incident; she had been right there in the room when her father had 'persuaded' the Dukester to talk…at the behest of one Judy Hopps and her partner. Would her friend really have threatened to…?

Someone rapped on the door and Raymond ducked his way through without waiting.

"Your father has returned home," he said, speaking to Fru-Fru and ignoring Judy as if she wasn't there, "He will see you shortly and wants you to wait for him."

"I-I'll be here," the little shrew answered, looking ready to skitter into the nearest hiding place.

"Da, good," the bear nodded, and started to turn away.

"Hang on, wait a second." Judy was standing up in her chair and raising a paw, "Can you tell him I'm here, too. I don't want him to walk in and be surprised."

Raymond glanced over a shoulder with a cold eye. "He already knows this," and exited the room without another word.

And once again Mr. Big's private sanctum fell silent as the bunny and shrew settled in to wait for her father.

Judy expected a long delay; making visitors feel small by keeping them in limbo was another time-honored mob tradition—especially if that visitor was someone you didn't particularly WANT to see.

Not this time; less than half minute after Raymond's departure, she heard the thump of heavy footsteps in the hallway outside, followed by a sense of the floor vibrating. That could only mean one thing; Koslov was approaching…and that could only mean Mr. Big would be here in short order.

When the door opened, the first animals to enter the office were Raymond and the Siberian tiger Judy had seen minding the gate, followed by the wolf who had greeted her at the front door. It was only after they had formed a protective cordon around Mr. Big's desk that the bulky form of his chief bodyguard came squeezing in through the doorway, so massive that he appeared to be exiting from a clown-car. Stumping over to his usual place behind the desk, he laid his paws on the desktop and opened them, revealing a tiny swivel chair with the back turned towards his guest.

That was something he always did, and Judy had only recently learned the reason why; the back of Mr. Big's chair was bullet-proof—and a reminder to the doe-bunny that the life of a mob-boss is one of constant peril, even without the hovering threat of a gang-war.

When Koslov turned the chair around, Judy found herself facing a much differently dressed shrew than the one she'd first encountered in this office more than two years previously. This time Mr. Big looked like a charter member of the country-club set; a coffee-brown suit-jacket, with tan-slacks and a matching kerchief; his throat encircled by a silk cravat. His head-fur, which he normally wore plumped into a pyramid had been slicked back into a facsimile of 1950's ducktail. The only thing missing was a fancy crest, stitched beneath his coat's left-side breast pocket.

The expression on his face however, was exactly as Judy remembered from their initial meeting, a curious blend of sorrow and contempt. And as before, he spoke his first words as if she wasn't even in the room.

"My child, how can you have done this?" He said, turning his chair in Fru-Fru's direction, "Bringing the cops into my home at such a time?" He spread his paws like a saint about to be martyred, rolling his eyes upwards at the ceiling. (So did Koslov, Judy noted.) "That a shrew should live to suffer such disrespect from his own daughter."

It was enough to make Judy Hopps want to roll her eyes. Holy carrot-sticks! THAT was a performance worthy of a high-school drama queen. Except Mr. Big had been entirely serious and if she knew what was good for her, she had better take it as such. In other words, shut up and let Fru answer him.

"Daddy, please!" the little shrew pleaded, cracking voice and clasped paws, "I'm sorry, but I had to do it. You CAN'T go to war with the Red Pig right now. Please, papa…think of little Judy, think of little Tony." She was clutching her belly and starting to cry again, "Don't…do…this—please."

Mr. Big's response to this was something Judy had never seen before and never would have expected to see. His eyes slammed shut and he swiftly doubled over, as if he'd taken a sucker-punch to the gut. When he raised his face again, his cheeks were streaked with tears. Pulling out a kerchief, he wiped his muzzle with one paw while motioning to Koslov with the other. At once the hulking polar bear slid him closer to his daughter.

"Dearest child, Daddy has no choice." He sniffled, taking her paws and squeezing them. "Last night, in this very room, the Red Pig's Consigliere insulted me beyond the limits of what any Mammal of Honor can be expected to endure." Fru-Fru tried to answer this, but he had already placed a finger against her snout. "And even if he hadn't, the decision no longer rests with me. The next move is Peccari's; the last business to burn was one of his, not one of mine."

There…there it was; Judy saw her opening and she went for it.

"Except YOU didn't do it, Mr…I mean Don Grandi."

At once, every face in the room turned in her direction…but none, thank goodness, wearing hostile expressions; only looks of pure astonishment.

She hurriedly went on. "Fru-Fru already told me you didn't order that fire...OR the one at IRS Recycling—and I believe her."

Mr. Big spent the next couple of seconds studying his guest, before his mouth and his eyebrows turned bitterly downwards.

"I'm glad you believe it," he hissed, waving angrily at nothing, "because the Red Pig absolutely refuses to accept my word of innocence." He pointed at the bear on Judy's left. "Last night, his enforcer, The Painter, swore to me that Raymond there was one of the bears that put the torch to his brother-in-law's flower shop." At this, the polar bear began to tug unhappily at his collar. Seeing him, the Big Shrew flapped a paw in his direction. "Relax paisan, I know you it wasn't you." And to Judy and Fru he said, "That's where I was just now, checking his alibi. I think you can guess what I found."

Judy started to lean forward, but stopped herself, sensing he wasn't finished.

"For all the good it will do me!" he squeaked, thumping his fists on the arms of his chair. "Peccari is absolutely convinced that I gave the order to burn down that flower shop. Even his Consiglier, Joe 'The Shadow' refuses to believe I didn't do it…and he's supposed to be the sensible one in that family!"

He stopped and Judy realized that she was once more under the microscope. But that was okay; this time she was ready. (She'd been ready ever since exiting the limousine.) Still, she'd have to watch her presentation.

"Don Grandi, I would never want to insult your intelligence, but I have to point out something. If you didn't burn down either one of the Red Pig's properties, then maybe he didn't burn yours down either."

To her considerable surprise, the reply to her suggestion came not from Mr. Big but from the enormous polar-bear standing behind him.

"Da, we have considered this…but if was not Red Pig set those fires, who was it, then?" He was lifting his paws in confusion.

Judy blinked and stared for a second. A response like that from Koslov was like a two-hour speech from anyone else. Heck, she couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken more than six words in her presence. Deciding quickly, she directed her answer to Mr. Big rather than him.

"Don Grandi, a mammal in your position must have made more than one enemy over the years…and is it not possible that one of them is also an enemy of the Red Pig?"

"There, that was pretty good," she thought—until she noticed that Fru's face was pinched up in a pained expression. Uh, ohhh…

"Yes…but no." Mr. Big had lifted a pair of fingers and was speaking in the scholarly tone of a professor lecturing a pupil. "If a third party wanted to set the Red Pig and myself against each other, he would need to possess a lot more than just simple hatred. It would also require him to have an extreme measure of both ruthlessness and cunning, to say nothing of blood as cold as the Icy Lake." His look became almost contemplative, "Let us suppose, for a moment, that someone were to attempt this scheme and either the Red Pig or myself caught on to it, what do you think would happen?" Judy said nothing, it was a rhetorical question and she knew it. Sure enough, "there are animals out there that might be willing to risk my anger—or that of Peccari—but never both of us at once. In fact," He swirled a paw in the air, "I have known only one individual in my life who possessed that combination of animosity, ingenuity, and audacity—and he's been dead for three years now."

Behind him, Judy saw Koslov's face turn mournful, and watched him raising his fingers to cross himself. Mr. Big noticed it too, and looked up sharply over his shoulder.

"Stop…we do not mourn that animal in this house."

Ooooo…that did it; Judy knew she shouldn't get sidetracked, but…

"Wh-Who are you talking about?"

It was Koslov who answered her.

"McCrodon…'The Mister' James McCrodon, big arms dealer from Zoo York City. You have heard of him, da?"

"I know the name," Judy admitted nodding. A part of her was practically screaming that she needed to move the heck away from this topic and right NOW. And yet…her gut was telling her to stay the course. And so, in the end, she decided to go with her instincts. "What was his problem with you and Mr. Peccari?"

This time, the response came from Mr. Big himself.

"Some years ago, when McCrodon was under indictment by the State of Zoo York and facing a sentence of 25-to-life, he decided to go on the lam." He pointed at the floor, in front of his desk. "I mean here, in Zootopia. In preparation for his escape, he sent one of his brothers to me, offering a million bucks, if I would provide him with sanctuary."

Judy felt an eyebrow cocking upwards and a corner of her mouth with it.

"I take it you told him, thanks but no thanks?"

The arctic shrew's expression became a mirror of her own.

"No amount of money in the world was worth that kind of potential trouble." he said, raising another finger to emphasize the point. "Besides, while I respected The Mister and perhaps even liked him a little, I never, ever trusted him. Letting THAT sea mink inside your territory was like inviting a vampire to spend the night…and so I politely told him 'no'."

"So…let me guess," the doe bunny responded, pulling speculatively at her chin. "He went to the Red Pig next...and got the same answer; am I right?"

The arctic shrew's face crinkled wryly.

"Not quite; when his brother Gerry came to me, he had already been to see Rocco Peccari. But yes, his answer was the same as mine, 'Sorry but I cannot help you.'"

"Uh-huh…and how did he take it?"

Mr. Big rubbed his snout with a finger. "Surprisingly well…or that was what I thought at the time. Gerry even kissed my ring before he left. Of course," he cautioned, the tip of his snout canting upwards, "that was only The Mister's brother, not the Mister himself."

"Okayyy," Judy's nose moved back and forth, as she tried to remember. "But if I recall correctly, didn't The Mister end up beating that case?"

"Yes, he did," the arctic shrew was nodding deeply, "with the help of a Mr. Vernon J. Rodenberg, Attorney at Law." He looked sideways for a second, his mouth stretching into a long scowl. "And THAT is what ultimately set him against the Red Pig and me."

"Huh—how?" Judy was leaning forward and cupping her face in her paws, as if she was listening to a campfire tale. Distraction or not, this was just too good to miss.

Mr. Big's response to this was something else she'd never have expected from him. Turning his gaze upwards, and studying a corner of the ceiling, he drummed his fingers unhappily on the arm of his chair.

"After his acquittal, I…g'hmmm, sent him a note of congratulations in which I…g'heh, claimed to have been the one that had sent Vern Rodenberg to defend him. I uh...hadn't; the rat made the trip on his own initiative. But what I didn't know was that…g'hmmm, The Red Pig has also sent The Mister a message of congrats, saying HE'D been the one who'd asked Rodenberg to represent him." Finally looking in the doe-bunny's direction, he added glumly. "Just my fortuna, both messages happened to arrive at nearly the exact same time."

"I see," Judy said, biting her lip and wishing she had a tail...so she could step on it, to keep from laughing. (Fru had one, but it wasn't helping, she was practically rolling out of her chair.)

"Needless to say this did not go down well with The Mister," Mr. Big was saying, shifting an annoyed glance between his guest and his daughter, "although I didn't know it at the time. About a week later, when Kevin came in to tell me he had James McCrodon on hold, I thought he was calling to thank me. Instead, the first thing I heard when I picked up was…" he stopped abruptly, looking once more at Fru, "Words I will not repeat in front of my daughter…but the next thing he said was, 'You two-faced little jerk, you think you can refuse to help me and then try to CON me? Dirty little punk, I swear by all the saints…if it takes me the next twenny stinkin' lifetimes, I'll bury you for this—you AND stinkin' Porky Peccari. Youse hear me, pipsqueak? I'll throw yers in a hole so deep, they'll have to dig you up on the other side o' the world!"

A second ago, Judy had been amused; now she was aghast.

"He threatened to go after both of you at once? He must have been out of his mind."

"He was," the arctic-shrew shrugged, "Or he was towards the end; he got hooked on Foxycodone, and between that and all the prescriptions his doctors had him on, it turned his brain to calamari. Eventually, it cost him everything…including his life. And he never got near either me, or The Red Pig." His face was painted with the downcast expression of a professional mourner.

"Okay, then..?" Judy started to ask, but then noticed that Fru was shooting her an anxious look. Ri-i-ight, it was time to put this train back on track. "Okay, then getting back to the subject of your troubles with the Red Pig, what do you think will happen to your grandson if you two go to war? You do that and there's no way that little Tony won't end up in the rackets…and then he'll end up like…" (Dangit, what was that wolf's name again?) "...like Tony Lupino, put away for good. Is that what you want?"

Mr. Big's brows shot upwards and she braced herself for a stinging rebuke. But the shrew was only surprised that she knew the name.

"How did you ever hear about…? Never mind, it's not important." He was giving her the talk-to-the-paw-gesture. Fru saw it and started to come unglued again.

"Dangit Daddy, listen to her, she's right; you KNOW she's right. If you and Peccari go to war, my Tony will NEVER get out of 'the life.'"

"I have no CHOICE!" her father said again, slamming his fist on the arms of his chair—and nearly catapulting himself onto the desktop.

"All right," Judy took a deep breath and let her paw dangle behind a knee with the fingers crossed. "Time to play my ace…" And she could only hope that it was an ace, and not a four of clubs.

"Don Grandi," she said, clearing her throat, "if I may speak plainly, you must remember that there's another party with an interest here and that's the ZPD. And while I may be just a lowly officer I think I can safely tell you something. The Department is not going to sit quietly on the sidelines if you and the Red Pig declare war on each other; not while there are innocent lives in the cross-fire. We'll do whatever it takes to protect the citizens of Zootopia; I'LL do whatever it takes. That's the oath I swore when I joined the ZPD and I'll honor it, no matter what." She turned her most piercing look on Mr. Big, who gave it right back to her. He must have really been something when he was making his bones on the streets of Tundratown. Did she dare throw down her trump card?

She swallowed hard and played it.

"And God help you both if it's a COP that gets hurt in your turf war; the City will come after you with everything we have and all the Vern Rodenbergs in the world won't be able to keep you from going away…stay where you are, mister!"

She was speaking to the Greenland wolf…who had bared his fangs and was moving towards her.

"Mind your manners, Kjell!" The Big Shrew snapped, shooting an angry finger at his soldier. The wolf backed off as told, but continued to glare balefully at Judy.

"My apologies for the rudeness, Officer Hopps," Mr. Big said to her—in about as unapologetic a voice as she'd ever heard, "But I assure you, I would never allow an officer of the ZPD to become hurt in such a conflict." His gaze turned upwards again, "And, much as it pains me to admit this, neither would the Red Pig."

Judy forced herself not to stare but was unable to keep her nose from twitching. What, now? Didn't he know? Was he not aware of…? Ohhh, Sweet cheez n' crackers, this could be her way inside.

She sat back in her chair, folding her arms and assuming her most haughty expression. "It's a little late to tell me that Mr. Big—because there's ALREADY been a police officer who got hurt because of your conflict with Rocco Peccari." She thumped herself in the chest with a pair of knuckles, "And I should know, because I was that officer; I came that close to being killed in the Tux-on fire!"

"WHAT?!"

Everyone in the room was staring, thunderstruck; Mr. Big, Raymond, the wolf and the tiger; even Fru-Fru was wide-eyed and mouth agape. Holy Carrot Sticks, they really didn't know what had almost happened to her.

"Ohhh Judy, are you all right?" Fru was struggling to get out of her chair again.

"I'm fine, I'm fine, don't worry about it," Judy assured her, motioning for her friend to sit down again.

"What happened?" Mr. Big was asking, and this time his contrition was genuine.

Judy gave him the no-frills version.

"It happened while I was chasing a suspect through the alley behind Tux-On. When the roof collapsed, it took down a power pole, and I was nearly electrocuted. I ended up with a minor concussion and had the breath knocked out of me, but like I said," She held up a thumb and forefinger, "it was THAT close."

"But…this fire was set by Red Pig, not by us," the Siberian tiger pointed out in a pitiful growl, earning himself a scornful look from both Mr. Big and Koslov.

"Yes, I know," Judy said, also throwing him a sneer, "and I also know what my dad always says, 'I don't care WHO started it.'" She focused on Mr. Big again, "And neither will the ZPD, if one of our own gets killed in your fight with the Red Pig. If I had died because of the Tux-On fire, you'd BOTH be in jail right now." She didn't know how true that was, but it sure as heck felt that way.

It must have felt that way to Mr. Big too, because he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. And that was when Judy knew, she had finally gotten to him. Whoa, you just never could tell; she had walked into this office hoping she had an ace and all along she'd been holding a royal flush. Nearly dying in that alleyway had given her what is known in mob parlance as 'a legitimate beef'—especially since the Big Shrew had been completely unaware of what had happened until now. (And it was a pretty safe bet that if he hadn't known, neither did the Red Pig.) Furthermore it pointed up an undeniable fact; a gang-war is a monster not so easily contained. If, and when, the two mob bosses chose to fight it out, there was no guarantee that another cop wouldn't be caught in the maelstrom.

And if THAT happened…

"Very well, then…" Mr. Big slapped the arms of his chair, and looked straight at her. "I will make one last attempt to extend the olive branch. You may tell the Red Pig that I am willing to accept the possibility—the possibility—that he did not burn down my properties…if he will extend the same courtesy to me. I further propose a cease-fire while we, each of us, look into whether or not another party may have been behind those fires. If he agrees, I will take no further action against either him, the Sahara Square family, or against any of his properties. On my Grandmamma's grave, I swear this."

He held up a paw and behind him Koslov crossed himself again.

But then his face turned hard and icy.

"However, know this, Officer Hopps…if the Red Pig spurns my offer, if he spits on my olive branch; especially if he tries to double cross me, there will be no peace between us. Should even one more of my properties go up in flames…if it is firebombed, if someone lights a match, if it gets hit by a bolt of lightning," He raised a bony finger, pointing it straight at her, "Then I promise you, NOTHING will stay my paw." He leaned suddenly forward, his bushy-browed face suffused with a 'show me' stare. "What is your answer?"

"What is..MY…?" Judy fell back in her chair with her nose twitching. "..m-my answer; what the heck is he talking abou…? Oh, Sweet…Oh, my God, is he serious? He wants ME to deliver his message to the Red Pig? How the heck am I even supposed to get in to see Rocco Peccari? That maniac won't let ANY police mammal get within a hundred yards of him. So, what chance do I have, when I'm one of the cops that helped bust his jewelry store! Ohhhh, did I just get played again?"

And THAT was when she understood something else; the Tundratown Mob boss was trying to give himself an out. If she turned down his proposal, he could legitimately say to Fru, 'Well, I did my best; I tried to offer a truce to Sahara Square.'

Was that it…or was he simply testing her? Either way…NO way! Mr. Big was only tolerating her presence here because she had once saved his daughter's life. Rocco Peccari, on the other paw, didn't owe her diddly. And he was supposed to be about as even-tempered as a rattlesnake on a hot griddle.

That was when Fru-Fru also caught onto what was happening.

"Daddy no, you can't ask her to do that….it's suicide!"

Judy took a deep breath and slid out of her chair again. And then, walking up to the desk, she stood on her tiptoes, and held out a paw in Mr. Big's direction.

"My answer is, I'll do it."

Notes:

The purple diamond theft, mentioned by Fru-Fru, actually happened. What she didn't mention was that it was stolen by way of a confidence trick, much like what the Rafaj Brothers feared Nick might be planning to pull on them. In a nutshell, it was the old bait-and-switch ploy; asking to see the purple diamond and then switching it for a fake while the owners were distracted.

Chapter 4: A Rock and a Hard Place (Cont'd...Part 3)

Summary:

Bulls and Bears -- they're not just for the stock market any more.

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 1—A Rock and a Hard Place
(Continued…Part 3)

Chief Bogo's reaction to the doe-bunny's disclosure could be summed up in three words.

"You…did…WHAT?"

Her response to this was watching her carefully-crafted explanation pack its bags, tell her 'good luck', and fly straight out of her head. Well, if she didn't know what to say, she at least knew how to say it.

"I know sir, and I take full responsibility for…"

"Too blasted right you will..!"

"…and I'll accept any disciplinary action you may choose to take, and without question." She watched him rise up to his full height and saw his chest expand. "Hurry, before he interrupts again!" "But I picked up some extremely valuable information during that meet, sir." she added hastily, "I know what started Mr. Big's feud with the Red Pig; it goes all the way back to the Rafaj Brothers Jewelry sting; Rocco Peccari is part owner of that store."

She had no idea where that last part had come from—or if playing her ace, straight off the top of the deck had been the wisest course of action. Well-l-l, she must have done something right because a second ago, Bogo had been ready to tear her a new one. Now, he was plopped back down in his chair, looking like a mammal that's just come home to find his house repainted in electric purple.

But then his expression abruptly stiffened and he leaned across his desk, thrusting a finger at her. "Hold up, stop right there!"

"B-But sir…" Judy stammered, only to see him show her the, 'talk to the hoof' gesture.

"I want Charles to hear this." he said, swiveling in the direction of his desktop intercom.

"Charles?" the doe-bunny wondered, "Charles who?"

She got her answer when Bogo pressed the 'talk' button.

"Clawhauser, is Lieutenant Saw still in his office?"

"Uhmmm, not sure Chief," the plus size cheetah responded in an uncertain tone of voice. "Let me check." He went away for several seconds and then came back, in his usual, effervescent humor, "Yes sir, he's still here. Shall I page him?"

"Yes, have him come to my office right away." Bogo informed him. He switched off and turned back to Judy, who was lifting an ear and an eyebrow.

"Not Captain Wissent?" She asked. David Wissent, a European bison, headed the ZPD Organized Crime Unit and was Saw's superior. If what she had to say was as important as the Chief seemed to think it was, why hadn't he been summoned, too?

Bogo looked at her oddly for a second and then let out a rumbling breath and sagged a little, giving her the impression of a deflating balloon.

"Right, you've not been here for a while, have you? Captain Wissent was in a serious motoring accident last week. He's expected to recover but he'll be laid up for some time to come." He turned sideways, adding in a low mutter, "And even then, it won't be a full recovery; he might not be able to return to work at all."

"Ohhh, I'm sorry to hear that Chief," Judy answered, genuinely sympathetic. Detective Captain Wissent and Chief Bogo were known to be very close, having come up through the ranks together. The bison was supposed to have had a lock on becoming the ZPD's next Chief of Detectives when his boss, Omar Xingu 'pulled the pin' next year.

"Wasn't anything criminal," Bogo was saying, having once again anticipated her thoughts. "Some daft-idiot pedestrian was too busy texting to pay attention to the oncoming traffic. Another driver swerved to avoid her, and it set off a chain reaction." His face became a smoldering ember. "And, wouldn't you know it? The only animals seriously hurt were David and one other driver; the others all walked away with only a few scratches."

Judy suspected that Captain Wissent and that 'one other driver' had been the only larger species involved in that accident—she'd seen rodents crawl out unscathed from vehicles that looked like they'd been steamrolled. Wisely, she kept that to herself; instead trying to focus on what she knew about Detective Lieutenant Charles Saw, the dour, unsmiling, and now acting-head of the ZPD Organized Crime Unit.

A sun bear by species, he hailed originally from the Shan State in Myakmar, an area long under the thumb of perpetually warring crime cartels. Born into virtual slavery, he had escaped, along with his family, at the age of 12, losing his mother and two of his sisters along the way. Because of these experiences, he was known to harbor a deep loathing for all things criminal, in particular the organized side of it. Although Judy had never heard anything about it from the sun bear himself, she had been warned several times—by both her former partner and Benjamin Clawhauser—to give him a wide berth. "You need to know, Carrots; Saw's supposed to be none too happy about you being friends with Mr. Big's daughter."

So far, it had never become an issue and for a very simple reason. Since the day Judy had put on her badge she crossed paths with Lieutenant Saw maybe once in a blue moon.

Now, however, that moon was full and on the rise. "Sweet cheez n' crackers, protect this, thy humble bunny-servant."

"Hopps?"

Oops, Chief Bogo was speaking to her again. She could only hope she hadn't zoned out for too long.

"Before the Lieutenant gets here, I want to ask you something. You knew the sort of trouble you'd be facing if you paid an unauthorized call on Mr. Big—especially after the episode of Rock Hardesty—but you did it anyway; why?"

Okay, this time the doe-bunny's words didn't desert her.

"Two reasons, sir. Number one, like the old saying goes, 'sometimes it's easier to obtain forgiveness than permission.'"

"Let's hope, for your sake, that's the case here." The big Cape buffalo muttered, apparently to himself, and then looked at her again, "and the second reason?"

Once again, she didn't hesitate.

"Sir, if there's one thing I've come to understand over the past few hours it's that the Red Pig and Mr. Big are right on the brink of war. And so I'll tell you what I told him; I'll do whatever it takes to protect the citizens of Zootopia from getting caught up in their fight…even at the risk of my life." She lowered her voice but kept her eyes level with his; "So why not at the risk of my career?

Bogo stared at her for a second and then face hoofed himself.

"Five thousand officers on the force, and I get one who's a Snarl Trek fan."

Judy felt her mouth move sideways, "Actually Sir, I'm more of a Snarl Wars…"

"Shut yer tiny mouth!"

"Yes sir."

"Hnnnghh," Bogo fell back in his chair regarding the window and drumming his fingers on the top of his desk, seemingly lost in thought. Then he looked at her again, speaking a little more softly than a moment ago.

"So, tell me something else Hopps, if y'do lose your badge over this, will it still have been worth it?"

Judy bit her lip and thought for a moment. "In all honesty sir…I don't know; it all depends."

Bogo lifted an eyebrow and rumbled, "On what, then?"

"On whether or not my meeting with Fru-Fru and Mr. Big will help to prevent that gang-war from happening," she said, adding in a simple shrug, "If it will, then yes…yes, it was worth it. If not…" she looked away, voice faltering, unable to hold his gaze any longer. "If not...well, then obviously it wasn't."

"Then let's keep 'em crossed that it was worth it," Bogo told her in a soft snort, and was he actually smiling little? "and NOT just for your sake."

Someone rapped on the door and they both turned towards it.

"Come," said the Chief, and it swung open almost silently.

Lieutenant Saw was short for a bear, no surprise, since he was a member of one of the smallest of the Ursine species, a Mewlayan sun bear, an animal averaging only half the size of a black bear, and not much bigger than a polar bear cub.

But what he lacked in stature, the Lieutenant more than made up for with his rippling, iron-hard physique—combined with razor-sharp claws of what seemed like an impossible length and the speed with which he was allegedly capable of moving. He held the rather notorious distinction of being the only officer on the force known to have killed in the line of duty using only his paws; (a clear case of self-defense, but still…the other animal had supposedly been a grizzly bear.)

He was dressed, as always, in a jet black suit with fur to match, except for a halo of burnt orange around his muzzle. (He was also supposed to have a swatch of sunrise-colored fur across his chest, but right now, it was invisible.)

"Chief," he said, offering his superior a half bow, "and Officer Hopps." Here, he gave no salutation. "What's going on?"

"Have a seat, Lieutenant," Bogo said, indicating the chair next to Judy.

Giving her a cursory glance as he passed, the sun bear seemed to glide into his seat, almost as if he were moving by levitation. Like all of his species, he held his paws at a peculiar, slightly inward-turned angle.

When he was firmly settled into his chair, Judy started to speak, only to be interrupted by a snort from Chief Bogo—his way of declaring that he had the floor.

"It seems," he said, slowly turning his gaze from her to Lieutenant Saw, "that earlier today Officer Hopps here received a summons from her friend Fru-Fru Grandi Dennison. What Ms. Dennison wanted was for her to come to Mr. Big's house and attempt to get him to call off his war with the Red Pig." He frowned and focused on Judy again, "And apparently she saw fit to accept the invitation without notifying the Department first."

Judy grabbed the arms of her chair and braced herself. Here it comes again, 'You did WHAT?'

But Lieutenant Saw only regarded her blankly, his face showing no more expression than a store mannequin. "I see."

Okay, now SHE wanted to scream. Dangit, why couldn't he just blow up at her and get it over with; was he trying to prolong the agony? Considering his reputation, it was entirely possible.

"May I ask; what were the circumstances?" he asked her, still in that same, flat monotone.

Judy knew she shouldn't rush it, but…

"I had to do it, Lieutenant. Like I told Chief Bogo just now; to keep this gang-war from happening, I'd willingly put my life on the line, so…"

She stopped as he raised a paw at her.

"I'm not interested in why you did it, Officer Hopps, only in WHAT you did."

"Yes sir," she answered, thoroughly chastised. Dangit, how had he managed to make her feel so small, while saying practically nothing?

"She actually picked up quite a bit of useful intelligence," Chief Bogo intervened, having seemingly decided that she'd suffered enough, "Were you aware, for instance, that Rocco Peccari is—or rather was—a silent partner in the Rafaj Brothers' jewelry store?"

For the first time since he'd entered the Chief's office, a flicker of emotion flashed across Lieutenant Saw's face, lifting his eyebrows in brief surprise. It was there for only fraction of a second, before his countenance turned stony again.

"I take it, Officer Hopps, that you heard this from Mr. Big? Do you believe it?"

Judy drew in a measured breath, reminding herself not to get defensive.

"Actually sir, I heard it from Fru-Fru first…and yes, I believe it, because they also told me that the Rafaj brothers were trading in blood diamonds without the Red Pig's knowledge." She allowed herself a small shrug, "I can't see either her or Mr. Big lying about a thing like that. As they say in the mob, there's no percentage in it."

"Hmmm, yes." Saw was musingly clicking his claws together; an unnerving sound, given what he was capable of doing with them. "I must admit, she's got a point there, Chief," he said, turning his attention to his superior. "Mr. Big would just love to see us tie Rocco Peccari to a blood-diamond operation."

"I agree," Bogo answered with a tight-lipped nod, and then looked at Judy again. "Right then Hopps, take it from the top."

And that was what she did.

For most of her presentation, Lieutenant Saw remained unmoved. The same, however, could not be said for Judy herself. When she came to the part where Fru had recounted the tale of her and her husband's arrest, she found it increasingly difficult to maintain her self-control. That bust had been wrong, just plain wrong; cruel, and also unnecessary. She could only pray that her anger wasn't showing. Well, if it was, Lt. Saw was giving no indication that he'd noticed—but now that didn't mean much where he was concerned, did it?

When she came to the revelation that The Red Pig had accused Tad Dennison of snitching out the jackals to the cops, however, that got the sun bear's IMMEDIATE attention—and also Chief Bogo's.

"Cor…so that's what started it!" he belled, exchanging a look of foreboding with Lieutenant Saw.

"Yes, explains a lot, doesn't it?" the bear agreed, regarding Judy with what might have been a glimmer of respect.

That was when she felt the time had come to ask it; the question she'd been holding in check ever since she got here.

"Sir, forgive me if this is out of line," she said, speaking to Chief Bogo, "and I don't expect an answer, but there's something I have to ask. WAS Tad Dennison our source on the Rafaj Brothers blood-diamond bust?"

She battened the hatches and braced herself, but the response from the big Cape buffalo was surprisingly mild; almost sympathetic.

"Sorry Hopps, but that's a bit above your pay-grade. Our informant only gave us that information in return for a promise of complete anonymity." He snorted, adding, "And that's the promise I never break…not to anyone."

"I understand sir," Judy nodded quietly and held out a paw beside her chair, pawlm down. "Consider the subject dropped," she said, opening her fingers for effect.

"Right," Bogo nodded and then yielded the floor to Lieutenant Saw.

"Getting back to your conversation with Fru-Fru Officer Hopps, I seem to recall something else. Specifically, she asked you to warn her father in advance that you were planning to report to Chief Bogo after you met with him. Did you?"

"Uh, ohhhh…" Judy felt her nose twitching—and knew at once that it would be pointless to try and bluff it out. This bear would see through any façade, as though it was fashioned out of thin air.

"N-No sir," she stammered, looking downcast, "But I'm almost certain he already knew that when he came in. In any case, Fru will have told him by now." Oooo, did that sound lame or what? She could have slapped herself silly.

Chief Bogo seemed to agree with her...up to a point. "That's as maybe Hopps, but Mr. Big still should have heard it from you. You, of all animals, should know how easily offended he is."

"Perhaps Chief, but what's done is done," Lieutenant Saw was spreading his paws in a gesture of 'whatever,' "and in any event, I don't think the Big Shrew will be too upset about it; if that was the case, Officer Hopps would have already heard about it from his daughter."

Judy had to force herself not to stare. What the heck, was that sun bear actually coming to her defense?

In his way, yes he was.

"One thing we need to keep in mind Chief, she's not the only animal who committed a breach of protocol here. If Fru-Fru Dennison wasn't her father's only child—and carrying his grandson—he would have banished her to the Meadowlands for what she did."

"That's true sir," Judy had to agree, "You should have heard him when he came into the office." She cleared her throat and pushed her voice into her sinuses, making it as wee and wheezy as possible. "That a shrew should live to suffer such disrespect from his only child."

That was good for a mirthful snort from Chief Bogo, and even Saw smirked a little.

"That's Mr. Big all right," he said, "a Black Pete all the way."

Judy's nose began to twitch.

"Excuse me Lieutenant…a Black Pete?"

"Mob slang for an Old Skool gangster," the sun bear explained, with that faint wisp of a smile again, "as opposed to a Young Tusk, like Rocco Peccari. You'll never hear The Red Pig talking like a character in a bad soap opera."

"I don't doubt it sir," Judy sniggered in spite of herself…before she remembered something. Very shortly, she was going to get the chance to test that theory fursonally—if she didn't get kicked off the force first.

"Yes, now please continue, Hopps," Saw told her, making a rolling motion with his paw.

Picking up the thread again, Judy once more elicited no response…until she came to the disclosure that Mr. Big had been completely unaware of what had happened in the alleyway behind his tuxedo shop.

"Wait, WHAT?" Bogo came out of his seat like a jack-in-the box, big hooves splayed on the desktop, "He didn't know that you'd nearly got killed in that fire?"

"No sir," Judy answered quickly, casting a sidelong glance at Lieutenant Saw, who was, so far, showing no emotion, "And it wasn't an act, I'm sure of it. Everyone in the room looked like they'd seen a ghost when I told them, even Koslov."

That was what finally got a rise out of the sun-bear, "In the name of all the Mats," he declared, scratching at his muzzle in complete puzzlement, "how on earth could Mr. Big not have been aware of that? He prides himself on knowing all the dirty details."

Rhetorical question or not, Judy thought she had an answer

"Well sir," she ventured, hoping she wasn't sticking her neck out. "It wasn't exactly something the ZPD wanted to publicize." She chewed her lip for a second. "Frankly, I didn't want it to become public knowledge, either."

Both Bogo and Saw nodded at this—uneasily in The Chief's case, because he knew something the sun bear didn't. The reason that Judy's near-death experience had been kept quiet was because of a tangential issue. If the ZPD made that information public, then they'd also have to disclose the name of the animal that had saved her life.

And the blankety-blank Lewis kid was already giving them enough aggravation, without being turned into a hero.

"So after the shock wore off, what happened next?" Bogo asked, office-chair squawking in protest as he sat down again.

"That's what finally got Mr. Big to take me seriously," Judy answered him, the words rolling easily off her tongue for once, "I more or less repeated what I'd already told him, and this time he listened. And that was…" She stopped, feeling the words pull to a halt inside her throat. Oh-kay-y-y now came the really dicey part. And both Bogo and Saw seemed to know that something memorable was coming; they were scrutinizing her like a lab specimen. She crossed her fingers and went on. "And that was when Mr. Big told me he was willing to offer a truce to Sahara Square; a cease-fire while they try to sort out separately whether or not those fires could have been set by someone else."

That was enough to trigger another look from Bogo and Saw, first a sharp one at her, and then a wary one, directed at each other.

"Huh, sounds a little too good to be true if you ask me, Lieutenant. I'd say there's a catch in there somewhere."

Judy found herself wanting to shrink into her chair. She had hoped it would be possible to kind of ease into recounting the Big Shrew's next words; now there was nothing for it but to jump in with both feet.

"There is, sir…I-I mean sirs. Mr. Big wants me to deliver his, um, 'olive branch' fursonally."

There…there it was, out in the open. Once again her paws were gripping the sides of her chair, as if she was sitting in a kayak preparing to shoot the rapids.

Yes…and no. Chief Bogo seemed about ready to come out of his hide, but Saw was only eyeing her curiously.

"And…did you accept?" he asked.

Judy took in a short breath and let it out through puffed checks.

"I didn't see as I had much choice at the time," she told him, and then added a hurried qualification, "and in any case, I had a way out; I could always say later that the Department refused to let me meet with him."

She said this while looking at Chief Bogo, whose expression had mellowed slightly.

But only slightly; "Which I WILL," he informed her archly, and was about to say more when the Lieutenant lifted a paw.

"Hold that thought for a second, Chief? I want to hear exactly what he said to her."

Judy repeated the conversation almost verbatim. When she was finished, the sun bear emitted a small, sardonic growl.

"Rrrrgh, THAT was vintage Mr. Big. First the honey, then the vinegar; never demanded outright that you deliver his offer to Peccari, and phrased it so that if they do come to blows, he can claim it's the Red Pig's fault for rejecting his proposal."

"But was he serious, d'you think?" Chief Bogo asked, giving Judy that piercing look again. He was no longer close to erupting, but still steaming around the edges.

It was Saw who answered him.

"Ohhh yes, he meant it Chief. A Black Pete like him would never make that kind of an offer unless he was sincere," he frowned, or Judy thought he did; with his perpetually cheerless demeanor, it was hard to be certain. "But he was also serious when he said, 'If even ONE more of my properties burns, nothing will stop me from going to war.'"

Judy cleared her throat nervously. She agreed with the Lieutenant 100%, and that meant it was time to give voice to another of her thoughts.

"Honestly sir, I thought Mr. Big was just trying to write himself an escape clause, giving me an impossible task to perform, so he could say…"

She stopped, brought up short yet again by Lieutenant Saw, who was this time shaking his head.

"If that was his purpose—and I don't think it was—it didn't work. Didn't you tell me just now that his daughter tried to talk him out of recruiting you as his emissary?"

"Well, yes sir," the doe-bunny admitted, "But not because she thought it couldn't be arranged. She thought it could be arranged, but that I'd never come back alive."

"THAT'S where she was wrong, Hopps," the sun bear was cocking a finger. "Even The Red Pig won't kill a cop, at least not an honest one, and especially now."

Judy felt her lips pull inwards. Ohhh, she really did not want to have to bring THIS up.

"Sir with all due respect, Mr. Big once threatened to have me iced." (It had actually been a lot more than a threat, but no WAY was she telling him that.)

"Perhaps," Chief Bogo joined in from behind his desk, "but that was different, wan' it? First of all, at the time, Mr. Big didn't believe you were a real police officer; who'd ever heard of a bunny-cop back then? Second, even if he had believed it, he knew the Department had no idea where you were; you were grabbed out the back of one of his limousines and taken to his house under guard. And third," he let out a low rumble and his mouth became a jagged crinkle, "you threatened him to his FACE and in his own home." He was speaking to her but looking at Lieutenant Saw, who came halfway out of his seat, as if he'd just been given a quick jolt of electricity.

"You did WHAT?!"

"Ohhhh, now he says it!" Judy groaned to herself. "I know, sir…I know. All I can say is, it was my second day on the force. I'd never make such a dumb-bunny mistake today." Oooo, why the heck was there a bad taste in her mouth, all of a sudden?

"Good to hear," the sun bear said, seeming to accept her explanation, "Because you just might have need of that newfound knowledge, Hopps—and very soon."

"Sir?" Judy's ears were up and her nose was twitching.

"What d'you mean then, Lieutenant?" Bogo asked, looking equally perplexed.

"I mean," the sun bear answered, looking from her to the Chief and back again, "that getting you in to see Rocco Peccari might—let me stress—just MIGHT be doable."

"What, now?" Judy thumped her foot and Bogo blew a note of astonishment. Wisely, she decided to let him respond to the sun bear's proposition.

"How're we s'posed to accomplish that then?"

Saw held up a finger.

"Number one, we put the word of Mr. Big's offer out on the street. If I know Rocco Peccari, he'll be a lot more inclined to let Officer Hopps see him if the request comes as a confirmation of something he's already heard." He gave her that scrutinizing look again. "But first I need to know something; did Big ask you to keep his proposal a secret?"

"No sir," Judy answered at once, spreading her arms, "How could I have done that anyway?"

"True enough," Saw conceded with a small nod, adding almost as an afterthought, "Wouldn't surprise me if the Big Shrew is already getting the word out."

"All right, what's the next step, then?" Chief Bogo asked, beginning to get testy.

By way of response, the sun bear rose from his seat. "The next step is, there's someone else I need to talk to."

Bogo stared at him with his brows beetling.

"Well, who is it?

Saw regarded him indifferently for moment, "The ONE individual trusted equally by Mr. Big and the Red Pig. I'll keep you informed, sir."

He went to the door and opened it.

Now the big Cape buffalo was halfway out of his seat. "Blast it, Saw! That doesn't tell me…"

But the Lieutenant had already left the room.

"Mmmrgh!" Bogo slumped down in his chair again, muttering to no one in particular. "I HATE it when he does that!"

"Yes sir," said Judy, who was once again wishing she had a tail to step on. It was a lucky thing that Ni…her former partner wasn't here; he'd be rolling on the floor right now.

Uh-ohhhh, the Chief was giving her the look again.

"Well f' what it's worth Hopps, you did bring us some very valuable information…"

"Thank you sir," the doe bunny answered, saying nothing more. By now, she knew her boss well enough to understand something. Often, when he raised your hopes, it was only in preparation to let them come crashing down again.

"But you've still only earned y'self a reprieve," he said, wagging a finger in her direction; (well at least he wasn't thrusting it at her.) "And how long it lasts, depends on whether or not the Lieutenant is able to arrange that meeting with The Red Pig." He looked towards the window for a second, drumming his fingers on the desktop. "Frankly, I don't see how it's possible; but that bear has yet to promise me something he couldn't deliver."

"Well sir, he didn't really promise anything," Judy pointed out cautiously, and then out of nowhere, she heard herself asking, "If you'd been me sir, would you have done it? Would you have gone to see Mr. Big without notifying the Department first?" This time, she didn't steel herself. If he was going to fire a rocket for that, it would have gone off already.

"To stop a possible gang war between the Tundratown and Sahara Square mobs," Bogo stroked at a horn, momentarily lost in thought. Finally, he said, "yes…yes, I think I should have," and then he turned that piercing gaze on her again, "And also like you, I'd have accepted the consequences of my actions."

"Yes sir," the doe-bunny answered, sighing with inward resignation; she had never expected to get out of this intact, anyway. Pushing the thought aside, she racked her brain for a change of subject.

But the Chief was already there; "and to think that this city's on the edge of a cataclysm, all because of one, silly engagement ring." He folded his arms and snorted, "Can y' believe the gall of those jackals, selling a blood diamond to Mr. Big's son-in-law? What the devil were they thinking?"

"Well Chief, Tad hadn't even proposed to Fru-Fru when he went to buy her that ring." Judy reminded him. "And the Rafaj Brothers probably had no idea that she was his intended. I've met him a few times and believe me, he's the last animal you'd expect to marry into a Cosa-Nostra family; dresses like an Ivy League professor and talks like one too." She cleared her throat for a second, "'Now see here, my good mammal'…that sort of thing."

"Mmm," Bogo grunted, leaning back in his chair, "Of course that brings up something else, dun' it? All this time we've had them in custody, the Rafaj Brothers have been holding out on us; never said a word about their connection to the Red Pig."

"Well, in a way Chief, you can hardly blame them," Judy ventured, drawing another derisive snort from the big Cape buffalo.

"Idiots...as if Peccari won't be knives out for them anyway…"

"Yes, I know," the doe-bunny answered soberly, and then… Ahhh, here was something else she didn't want to ask, but had to know. "So, the charges against them are still pending? They haven't been dropped because of…errrr, that surveillance video getting posted online." There had been rumors flying to that effect ever since it happened.

Bogo waved a dismissive hoof. "No, they're still…Oh, no!"

He had suddenly gone rigid, eyes wide with alarm.

"Chief, what…?" Judy started to ask, but he was already answering her.

"They weren't able to get the charges dropped… but they DID manage to get their bail reduced." He pivoted towards his intercom again, "And they're supposed to be getting out today!"

This time, Judy didn't have to remind herself to keep quiet.

"Clawhauser!" Bogo was almost bellowing, "I need to know something right now; have the Rafaj brothers been released on bail yet?"

"J-Just a second sir," the plus-size cheetah responded nervously and then went away momentarily. Or not momentarily; he was back after only a few seconds. "No sir…their bail was only just posted an hour ago, they won't be released until later on tonight."

"Huh," Bogo muttered in an aside to Judy, "Maybe there's something to be said f' paperwork after all." And to Clawhauser he said, "Right, get me the Attorney General's office right away."

"Yes, sir."

In what seemed like less than a heartbeat later, the big Cape buffalo's cell-phone buzzed—so quickly that Judy wondered if it was the AG's Office calling or someone else?

It was not only the AG's Office, it was the Attorney General himself, the fact of which was deeply gratifying to Chief Bogo.

"Hullo, Igor? Yes, Bogo here. Thanks f' getting back to me so quickly. Well, I've just learnt something very important about the Rafaj brothers. Yes, that's right…the blood diamonds. Well, it seems that none other than the Red Pig was a silent partner in their… No, no…they were selling them without his knowledge… Yes, I know…complete idiots. No, we didn't hear it from them...hrm? Because they've made bail, and they're scheduled to be released this evening. Yes, that's why I… Yes, of course. I'll let you go. You're welcome Igor, good-bye."

He stowed the phone and looked at Judy again, considerably more at ease than a moment ago

"There, that's done…shouldn't be a problem getting their bail revoked now I think; if nothing else, they're a flight risk, aren't they? Hrm? Hopps, what is it?"

Judy was looking at him with her nose twitching again; only this time, it wasn't in apprehension—or even curiosity.

"Sir, if we really want the Rafaj Brothers to come clean on us, I've got an idea…but first I'll need to borrow Officer Swinton…"

---

At that moment, Detective Lieutenant Charles Saw, ZPD, had just finished presenting his own proposal…a pitch that nearly blew Vernon J. Rodenberg, Attorney at Law, straight out of his chair.

"You want me to do WHAT?"

He stared in bewilderment at the cell-phone display…which, for a rat, was the size of a desktop screen.

"At least hear the details before you have a coronary, Counselor." The sun-bear informed him in that same, placid voice he always used.

"I'm listening," Rodenberg said, feigning indifference…although in actuality, he was intrigued.

He and Saw had always thoroughly despised each other. The Lieutenant regarded him as little more than a shameless opportunist whose pro-bono work was at best, a sop to his guilt and at worst, a cynical public relations gambit. For his part, Rodenberg thought of the sun bear as an utterly ruthless manipulator, more than willing to bend the rules to achieve his own ends. 'Minkiavelli with a badge' was how he had once described Charles Saw to his niece.

For all that, they still regarded each other with a measure of respect. They had to, or this conversation would never be happening.

Now, the grey rat listened with interest as Saw related the details of Judy's interview with Mr. Big, culminating with the arctic shrew's proposal of a truce.

"But also he insisted that Officer Hopps deliver it herself…and that's why I'm calling you."

"I see," Rodenberg responded coolly, tapping his fingers together to conceal his disquiet. He already had heard the gist, if not the specifics, of the sit-down that had taken place at Mr. Big's estate the other evening. He knew that it hadn't ended well, but oy-vey, things had gone that badly? Mr. Big felt the only way to get Peccari to take his truce-offer seriously was to use a COP as his courier?

Not!

Good!

Just the same, he would never give Lieutenant Cole Slaw the satisfaction of seeing him sweat.

"All right Saw, if—I say IF, because it probably won't be possible—but assuming I was able to arrange an audience with Mr. Peccari for Officer Hopps …why should I?"

Saw laced his arms and patted an elbow, the center of his mouth pulling slightly upwards in what for him was a smug expression.

"Because no one has more to lose here than you, Counselor; up until now, Mr. Big and the Red Pig have been content to let you sit on the fence." He leaned forward, his face filling the laptop screen in a fisheye distortion. "But if they go to war, you can bid that arrangement a fond adieu; they'll each demand that you drop the other and work exclusively for them. And whichever one you choose, you'll shoot straight to the top of the other's hit parade; you simply know too much for either one of them to take any chances." He sat back again, and this time his expression was clearly one of self-satisfaction. "The classic Hoppson's Choice, Mr. Rodenberg."

For a long moment, the grey rat regarded him with his whiskers twitching, his expression betraying nothing.

Then he said. "Mmmm, perhaps you didn't hear me, Lieutenant? Why should I help you?" He spoke this time with a slightly different inflection—and it was a change of tone not lost on the sun bear, who was now regarding him with an expression chiseled in smoldering flint.

"Only you would demand a quid pro quo while's Zootopia on the brink of catastrophe." His growl was as bitter as burnt coffee.

"Says the cop who just demanded a quid pro bono from me," Rodenberg shot back icily. "You got any idea what you're asking me to do here, Booby? That meshuggeneh pig's liable to have me slapped around even for making the suggestion. And it wouldn't be the first time," he reminded himself, and then for the sun bear's benefit he added, "so no freebies."

"All right, all ri-i-ight." Saw waved a paw as if throwing in a towel, "What is it that you want, Counselor?"

Rodenberg allowed himself the briefest of smiles.

"I'll tell that to Officer Hopps when I see her."

It took a lot to make Charles Saw truly angry, but this was more than enough.

"Why, you little…" he snarled, baring every single one of his teeth, "Quid pro quo is one thing, Counselor, but if you think I'm giving you a blank check…!"

"Oh but yes, you will," the grey rat hissed, showing the full length of his incisors, "because there's something you got wrong just now, Lieutenant; if Mr. Big and The Red Pig hit the mattresses, the animal with the most to lose isn't me—it's YOU!"

"What do you mean I have the most to lose?" The sun bear demanded, staring into the screen. He was trying to sound amused, but a slight tic at the corner of his mouth gave away his real feelings.

"Come, come Lieutenant, you know how these things work," Rodenberg answered, assuming his most affable fursona, "If those two go to war and an innocent mammal gets caught in the middle, the good citizens of Zootopia are going to be looking for a scape-goat." And with that, he dropped all pretense of sociability, hissing and flashing his incisors again. "And NONE of this would have happened if you hadn't hauled in Mr. Big's pregnant daughter on a charge made out of tissue paper!"

Saw's brow jumped upwards in surprise.

"What the…? You know I was acting under orders."

"Yeah…orders from a guy who's gonna be laid up for at least the next three months," the grey rat pointed out, "And nobody blames an injured cop—so if this situation goes south, it's all on you."

"Is that a threat, Counselor?" Saw's head had tilted sideways and a fang was showing.

"I never make threats, Booby," Rodenberg smirked, "Threats don't get carried out." He sat up again, "Now c'mon, let's cut the garbage. Those are my terms; take 'em or leave 'em."

Saw chewed on his lip and looked sideways for a second, "Chief Bogo would have to approve…"

"Take 'em or leave 'em!"

For a long, sulfurous moment, the bear just stared at him.

"All right Counselor, you've got your wish—but only if you're successful. No meeting, no nothing; those are MY non-negotiable terms."

"Done," the grey rat responded, but not without a hint of unease. Everything he'd said about the Red Pig's possible reaction to the proposal had been 100% accurate.

But then that was nothing compared to what might happen if he was forced to side with either him or Mr. Big in their upcoming conflict. "That shmendrik bear's right about one thing; I AM trapped in a sucker-box over here."

Yes he was, but at least he might get something out of it.

"Don't try to set the meeting up too soon." Saw was cautioning him, "Give it a day or two; I want The Red Pig to hear about the Big Shrew's proposal through the grapevine before you bring it to him."

"NOW you're thinkin'." Rodenberg nodded his vigorous approval, "And it fits too. I'm supposed to see Peccari on a different matter, the day after tomorrow. With a little luck, he might even ask ME if I know anything about Mr. Big wanting to call a truce."

"Good," Saw replied almost beaming…and then raised a cynical eyebrow. "So, what's up, Counselor? Is the insurer still stonewalling him on the Interspecies Recycling fire?"

"None o' yer beeswax!" Rodenberg snapped, but inwardly he was reeling. That, in fact, was exactly the reason for his scheduled meeting with Rocco Peccari. Oy, how the heck had Cole Slaw managed to find out the insurance adjusters were playing hard to get? Granted, it wasn't anything the sun bear could use to build a case, but it was still something he shouldn't have known.

"Get in touch with me as soon as you talk to him," Saw said. And then, having successfully gotten in the last word, his face disappeared from the display screen.

"I hate it when he does that!" Rodenberg groused to himself.

Chapter 5: A Rock and a Hard Place (Cont'd...Part 4)

Summary:

♪ You got to...know when to hold 'em... ♫

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 1—A Rock and a Hard Place
( Continued…Part 4)

No one should have been more content right now than Farrokh 'Frank' Arsia. Instead the kulan was struggling to keep his distress under wraps.

It wasn't easy; like all species of wild ass, he was possessed of ears the length of corn-shucks, built-in semaphores that could easily betray his emotions. Learning to keep them in check—especially while arguing a case in court—had required many hours of arduous practice

By rights, he shouldn't have needed that level of self-control at this particular moment. After much effort, he had finally succeeded in getting his clients' bail reduced—and found a bondsmammal willing to front him the money for their release. Now, having at last secured the Rafaj Brothers' freedom (pending trial,) he had just finished escorting them through processing at the Savanna Central Correctional Center. That task accomplished, the only remaining obstacle between the jackals and their temporary liberty was the jail's front lobby. It should have put Frank in a chipper mood; a good day's work, all in all. Instead, he was apprehensive, and for a number of different reasons.

Upon hearing the news of their impending release, Ahmed and Ismael al-Rafaj had all but thrown themselves at his hooves, practically whimpering with gratitude. A lovely gesture, but even they had to know that it had required no great feat of legal wizardry on their attorney's part—not after that surveillance video from their jewelry shop had somehow been posted online. In the wake of that fiasco, a rookie public defender could have gotten them out on bail. (A true legal shark like, say, Vernon J. Rodenberg, might have even had their case dismissed.)

The Rafaj Brothers…

Frank had long since begun to understand why their previous attorney had quit on them. There was something more than a little off-putting about these two.

As practically anyone in the legal profession knows, clients who lie and hold out on you are par for the course. Frank Arsia, Attorney at Law, could count on the fingers of one paw the animals he'd represented who'd been completely honest with him, (and he didn't have paws, he had HOOVES.)

Ahmed and Ishmael, however, had always seemed to take it to a whole new level. Every time the kulan had met with them, he'd come away with the uneasy feeling that they'd omitted a key detail—and not by mistake. Furthermore, some of their answers had always seemed just a little bit TOO well-rehearsed, even for a felony suspect. And that brought up another issue, nearly all of those answers had come from Ahmed al-Rafaj; he did most of the talking for both of them. And always before he spoke up, he would first throw his younger sibling a silencing glare.

And therein lay the problem; it didn't always work. Ismael al-Rafaj was easily the most cantankerous canine Frank had ever encountered; his outbursts were the verbal equivalent of a stink-bomb. The thought of him letting loose like that in front of a judge was enough to make the kulan feel colicky.

Even more perturbing was the jackals' point-blank refusal to give him the name of even a single one of their blood diamond sources. Frank could understand not wanting to reveal that information to the police; trading in conflict diamonds is frequently the second career of illegal arms dealers—and these individuals are most assuredly NOT noted for having a forgiving nature.

Fine, but then why keep that information from their lawyer? Not only was that pointless, it was counterproductive—as he must have pointed out to the brothers at least a dozen times by now. It was no use; no matter how hard he'd pleaded, no matter how many times he had cited the attorney/client privilege, they'd refused to budge. Even now, they hadn't dropped so much as a hint as to where they'd obtained their blood diamonds. The only thing of which Frank could be certain was that they'd had more than one supplier—but how many more? About that, he still didn't have even the slightest idea. "Dirt on my head," he had never been so frustrated with a case.

And the jackals wouldn't even say why they were holding out on him. They never denied it, but they wouldn't explain it either—and that was the most vexing part of all. The only clue had come during one of Ismael's sporadic eruptions. "Our graves are nearly dug as it is!"

What in the name of Fursepolis had he meant by that?

Turning the corner, Frank saw, directly up ahead, an electrically operated metal door with a CCTV camera mounted above it. Ahhh, almost home; this was the last hurdle before the front desk, where his clients would collect their fursonal effects and then be set free on bail.

The thought of it gave him another shaft of unease—and this time for a reason the kulan couldn't quite fathom.

He stopped, waiting with the jackals for the doorway to open, and feeling his ears lay backwards. This time he made no attempt to conceal his displeasure; any other attorney in his position would have felt the same way. Savanna Central Correctional was an ACS, not a city-run facility—which meant it was basically managed by low-wage rent-a-cops.

And that meant, he was in for nice, long wait.

---

Approximately 50 yards distant, Judy Hopps was also in an anxious state, although for a decidedly different reason.

"Dangit Swinton…Where ARE you?"

It should have been a slam dunk. When the doe-bunny had sketched out her idea for Chief Bogo, he had not only given his approval, he'd practically rubbed his hooves together in anticipation.

"Ahhh, I only wish I could be there to see their faces," he'd said, sounding almost wistful.

"I'll give you a full report, sir," Judy had promised, raising her paw in a mock bunny-scout salute. Yes! Having gotten the green-light from the Chief, she'd needed only to get hold of Swinton. After that everything would be good to go.

Famous last words! Almost from the instant she exited Bogo's office, Judy's plan had begun to unravel. First, when she'd tried to phone Swinton at home, the call had gone directly to voice-mail. Sending a text had further elicited no response—and then nobody in Precinct 1 had seemed to know if the pig-cop even had an email address. Finally, with less than an hour to go, her phone had buzzed and the elusive sow's face had appeared on the screen.

She had not been in the most amicable frame of mind. "Dangit Hopps, I'm on a date right now! This better be important."

"Sorry. Sorry, but yes it is," Judy had answered, laying out a rough description of her conversation with Chief Bogo. When she'd explained what she'd needed Swinton for, the sow had grunted—and then sighed.

"All right, I'll be there, but this better work—and you owe me, rabbit!"

"Claire, you're a lifesaver," Judy had almost beamed, only to have the pig-cop let loose a cloudburst on her parade.

"How soon are they getting out, Hopps? I'm all the way up in Old Growth City right now."

"Ohhhh, carrot stiiiiiicks!" the doe-bunny had groaned silently, wishing she had a wall close by, so she could pound her head against it, "Just get to SC3 as quick as you can, okay?" (SC3 was the Savanna Central Correctional Center's unofficial nickname.)

"We'll do our best," Swinton had promised and then rung off.

Now Judy was standing outside the entrance to the jail, thumping her foot and wishing for time to slow down.

Located in the Vole Garden, a neighborhood in the southwest quadrant of Savanna Central, the facility was a two story brick-and-concrete affair, built roughly in the shape of a checkmark. It was actually two separate facilities; a larger wing, for animals serving time for lesser offenses, and a smaller one for those awaiting trial. It was here that the Rafaj brothers had been housed ever since their arraignment.

And wouldn't it be just a bunny's luck? This place was a good three miles further from Old Growth City than the Precinct 1 jail.

"Whatever you do, DON'T tell yourself, 'at least things can't get any worse,'" she reminded herself sardonically.

A buzzing at her hip pulled her swiftly away from these thoughts. Extracting the cell from its holster, she saw Swinton's face on the display screen. Judging by what was visible in the background, the pig-cop was calling from the inside of a moving vehicle—one that wasn't moving all that swiftly.

"We're trying Judy, but there's a wreck on the expressway and we're having to use surface streets to get there. Is there any way the officers on duty at SC3 can stall things for a while?"

"Already asked, Claire," the doe-bunny sighed. "They told me 'sorry, we don't have the authority.'"

Swinton's mouth became a flat, hard line.

"Deadhead jerks!" she grunted, "Wel-l-ll do what you can; we'll be there as soon as possible."

"Thanks, I know you're giving it your best," Judy nodded, and with nothing more to say, she disconnected and returned the phone to its holster.

"Nnnnnngh," Stretching her arms above her head, she caught herself wishing, not for the first time, that she'd kept her brilliant idea to herself. How much of a trainwreck was this turning into? Let me count the ways.

First of all…Swinton had told her 'We're trying to get there.' as in, her date was coming with her to the correctional center.

"It's the only way Judy," the pig-cop had said. "We'd have to detour all the way to Riverside to get my car—and then I'd never make it in time." While the doe bunny had understood, she had also understood something else.

Swinton's part in her plan was supposed to be anything but an active one. Maybe so, but if she brought her date along, it would mean involving a civilian in police business—and the responsibility for however that played out would rest squarely on the shoulders of Officer Judy Hopps. Knowing that, the doe-bunny had been momentarily unable to make up her mind; should she, or shouldn't she? What had finally tipped the scales was when Swinton had said, "Eddie's a big boar, with big tusks; you wouldn't believe he's a regular guy just to look at him—and he doesn't want to know what any of this is about."

"Okay," Judy had answered reluctantly—VERY reluctantly. Now her plan had better work or else.

Looking towards the jail's front window, she saw that the Barbary sheep and cougar in charge of the front desk were watching her again. As before, their expressions were completely empty of either amusement or sympathy. As a matter of fact, their faces looked just plain empty; bored with life, the world, and especially with their jobs.

But then, considering the nature of their work and how much, (or rather how little) it paid, that was hardly surprising,

Shortly after the unravelling of the Savage Predator plot, the Zootopia City Council, in a cost-cutting move, had voted to privatize the city's correctional system. While they'd presented it as a bold, even innovative idea, it had actually been languishing in bureaucratic purgatory for nearly a year. You could thank then-Mayor Leodore Lionheart for that one. From the get-go, he'd been foursquare against the idea and had blocked it at every turn; surprisingly, so had his successor, Dawn Bellwether. Once those two were out of the picture, however, there'd been nothing to prevent the measure from passing, and it had sailed through a late-night city council session with only a single dissenting vote.

The bid for control of the city's jails and prisons had been won by Aker Correctional Systems, a highly respected firm that also ran the Zoo York and Zoo Jersey prisons. Upon taking up the task, Aker's first act had been to offer jobs to the correctional officers and other fursonell let go in the wake of the transfer. On the surface it had seemed like a magnanimous gesture.

In practice, it had been anything but; the reaction from the former ZCS correctional officers had been swift and to the point. To a mammal they had summarily rejected the offer, variously describing it as 'a joke,' 'an insult,' and in other, far more colorful terms. "Fast food wages, with practically no benefits," was how Claire Swinton had once described it, "and you can kiss your seniority good-bye." Since then, Judy had made a point of never mentioning the name 'Aker' in the pig-cop's presence; she could go on for hours about 'those stuck-up suits and the deadheads they hired to replace us.'

And Swinton had been one of the lucky few who had managed a transfer to the ZPD. Her feelings on the takeover were downright tepid compared to those of some of her less-fortunate former colleagues.

She'd been spot-on about one thing though; 'deadheads' was a more than apt description of the animals watching Judy through the window right now; but then, what else would you expect? With such pitiful compensation, it was practically a given that the officers hired by Aker would be of a far lower caliber than the animals they'd replaced.

That they were; more than a few of them were Police Academy washouts, and even more had gone to work for Aker simply because it was the only work they could get; a few were even former correctional officers, cashiered by the city for repeated disciplinary infractions. Unsurprisingly many, if not most of them didn't last; the ACS turnover rate for new hires was supposed to be higher than for animals working in retail. Small wonder then, that the big cat and sheep behind the jail's front desk looked like nothing so much as a pair of convenience-store slackers—except for the uniforms.

Yes, and that was another thing; great, screaming lettuce-heads, who the heck had designed those outfits? Black pants and tan shirts (with epaulets,) Sam Bruin belts and tall caps with ridiculously short bills. They looked like something out of a bad remake of The Hunter Games. Taken together with everything else, it should have been a recipe disaster, but instead…

From practically the moment ACS had taken over from Zootopia Corrections, the recidivism rate for newly paroled convicts had gone into a downward spiral—until now it was at the lowest level in decades. Say what you wanted about Aker's pitiful compensation, animals released from their facilities were NOT going out and committing more crimes. Almost equally impressive was that there'd been not even a single escape from an Aker jail since the firm's arrival in Zootopia. "That Lewis kid would NEVER have gotten away from them;" words allegedly spoken by District Rep Sven Kristofferson at a recent City Council session.

How had Aker Correctional Systems pulled it off? Nobody seemed to know, and even fewer seemed to care. As the old saw goes, 'If it ain't broke, don't fix...'

Oops, the Barbary sheep was signaling to her, waving a hoof while pointing with the other one. Great…wonderful; the Rafaj brothers were one door away from the lobby and there was still no sign of Swinton. Should Judy try to call her again? No, no time; just get inside and wing it—try to stall them for as long as possible.

And if that didn't work…

She felt in her pocket for the document, the court order revoking the Rafaj Brothers' bail. Whatever else happened, those two weren't going anywhere tonight. The only problem was, the directive was basically a nuclear option. It would work, but it wouldn't leave much worth salvaging. The likelihood of the jackals agreeing to cooperate afterwards would be not unlike the chances of a rhino taking up residence in the treetops.

And that would not sit well with Chief Bogo—OR the Police-Board.

...especially if the powers that be discovered that Officer Hopps had gotten a civilian involved—and, even more especially when she was already sitting at a count of 0-and-2. Strike one, the 'behaving badly' tapes of her and her former partner, strike two, her unauthorized meeting with Mr. Big. If she missed on this one, there would be no joy in Bunnyburrow; mighty Judy just struck OUT.

She hurried through the entrance, making a beeline for the front desk; thank God there were no there no other visitors here right now.

"Where…?" she started to ask, and was answered by the cougar's laconic finger, pointing to the hallway, just left of the desk.

"Thanks," she said, surrendering her keys and cell-phone as per standard jailhouse procedure. Ducking hurriedly around the corner, she found herself in front of a metal door, fitted with a thick, armored-glass window, too high up for her to look through. She waited for a second; nothing happened, and she turned and called over a shoulder. "Buzz me in, please?" Another second passed and Judy thought they either hadn't heard her or weren't paying attention… Wait, there it was, the hum and the click.

The door opened and she stepped through—and immediately found herself less than an inch away from Ismael al-Rafaj—who was at first equally surprised, and then practically dripping with loathing.

Well, at least he'd recognized her; as had his brother, whose gaze was only slightly less poisonous. The donkey accompanying the jackals—presumably their lawyer—seemed to have no idea who she was.

"You…and what are you doing here?" Ismael demanded, showing a fang.

Before Judy could respond to this, the donkey intervened.

"Excuse me, but who is this?"

"Officer Judy Hopps, ZPD," the doe-bunny said, showing her badge to the attorney. "And you are…?"

Before Frank could answer, Ismael cut in ahead of him

"She is the…the rabbit who kissed the fox, right in front of us."

Judy might have been a prey species, but there was no way she wasn't going to pounce on this. Slapping her paws on her hips, she sneered upwards at the pair of jackals.

"Yep, that's right; and you two fell for it like a ton of bricks. Instead of hitting the security shutters, like you should have, you threw my partner and me out of your shop." Lifting her paw, she waved it back and forth, as if showing off an invisible engagement ring. "WITH the evidence in our possession; way to go, chumps."

Oh-kayyy, Ismael had given her an opening, and she'd seized on it. But now would either he or his brother take the bait? "Oh please, let it happen," Judy silently begged. A shouting match would delay the jackals' departure nicely. And every second now was as precious as a nugget of gold.

Unhappily for her, a cooler head quickly prevailed.

"Never mind that, you still haven't told us why you're here." It was the wild ass, again, and this time he was proffering a business card. "Frank Arsia, attorney at law, I represent these two jackals. So again, what is your business with my clients?"

Judy set her jaw and took a breath; there was nothing for her to do now except swing for the fences.

"Mr. Arsia, the ZPD has it on good authority that the Red Pig put a contract out on the Rafaj Brothers." She pointed behind her, towards the lobby and the front exit beyond. "If you let them leave here, you can probably count their life expectancy in minutes," an exaggeration even if true; they wouldn't be hit that quickly. But in Judy's mind, it was a necessary gambit, anything to hold them here for as long as possible.

The kulan lifted a skeptical ear.

"Rocco Peccari? What possible issue could HE have with my clients?"

"We haven't determined that as yet," Judy folded her arms and focused her gaze on the pair of jackals, speaking in a slightly accusatory tone, "Why don't you ask them?"

Arsia took a step forward, as if preparing to push past her. But then, halfway there, he turned and glanced sideways at the brothers—and stopped dead in his tracks.

They were practically hugging one another, looking absolutely petrified.

It wouldn't last long, and Judy knew it; she had seen this many times before. Tell practically anybody that there's a mob hit out on them, and the first thing you get is shock—followed by denial.

Predictably it came first from Ismael. "Rubbish!" he cried, throwing up his paws in disgust, "The Red Pig had nothing to do with….with these ridiculous claims that the city has lodged against us—of my brother and I having supposedly dealt in conflict diamonds."

Judy almost smiled, recalling a line from a book; 'The best way to tell a lie is to tell only so much of the truth—and then shut up.'

Ismael, meanwhile, was winding himself up into a lovely snit.

"This is nothing but another one of your filthy bunny-tricks."

'Bunny-tricks'...now Judy was almost laughing. Glancing over at Ahmed, she saw him struggling to keep his fangs sheathed. The lawyer, Mr. Arsia, appeared to be one step away from turning around and kicking the younger jackal's head for a field goal. You could almost hear their thoughts, ringing through the air like the blast of a double trumpet, "Shut! UP!"

If Ismael heard it, he gave no indication.

"A crude attempt to wring a false confession from my brother and me; and it will not work!" He concluded by folding his arms and thrusting his muzzle upwards. Beside him, his brother was no longer able to keep his fangs under wraps, and was muttering something unintelligible to himself. Frank Arsia seemed equally exasperated. Nonetheless, Judy could see that both he and the elder jackal were beginning to eye her suspiciously.

"Most peculiar that you should only just now have learned of this," Ahmed told her, narrowing his gaze.

"Yes, I find the timing rather odd as well," Frank Arsia agreed, raising that ear again. "And if the Red Pig's Razorbacks are truly lying in wait for my clients, why did the ZPD send only a single officer to deliver the warning?"

Judy gritted her teeth and mentally crossed her fingers. All right, she had stalled for as long as she could. Swinton and her date would either be waiting outside or they wouldn't be; either way, it was show-time.

"I'm telling you, this is for real!" she cried, spreading her arms like a crossing-guard, "They've got spotters parked right outside the jail. Come and look for yourself if you don't believe me!"

For a moment, it appeared as if the jackals and their lawyer were just going to roll right over the top of her…but then Mr. Arsia snuffled and turned to his clients and snuffled.

"I'll go…just in case."

Ismael's ears and lips shot backwards in a canine snarl. "No, we have wasted enough…!"

"Better safe than sorry, brother." Ahmed interrupted, laying a paw on his sibling's shoulder. He was still every bit as skeptical as Ismael—but also smart enough to consider what might happen if the bunny-cop was right. However remote the chances, however unlikely it might be that the Red Pig had his enforcers waiting outside the jail, his wrath was something almost too terrible to contemplate.

In a curious but fortuitous irony, the guards' careless attitude now played directly into Judy's paws; she had to ring four times before she and Mr. Arsia were finally buzzed through the door.

"All right, where are they?" the attorney demanded, as soon as it closed behind them.

Judy crossed her fingers, for real this time, and issued a silent petition. "Please, Swinton...BE there!"

"You can't see them from here," she told the kulan, "Walk with me and pretend like we're talking."

"All right," he said, falling into step beside her.

She led him on a circuitous route along the perimeter of the reception area…and this time, it wasn't merely for the sake of delay. Had the Red Pig's goons really been watching from outside, this would be the best way to avoid attracting their attention.

"If they're out there, why hasn't the ZPD arrested them?" Mr. Arsia asked, even more doubtful than a moment ago.

"For what?" Judy shrugged. "The pigs out front of the jail are only the spotters, not the hitters. They won't even be armed." She directed her gaze upwards at the attorney for a second. "And if we try to roust them, Peccari will know that WE know he's gunning for your clients. He doesn't yet, and that's our biggest advantage so far."

Arsia's ear flicked briefly backwards; he was still unconvinced.

"And just WHY would the Red Pig be—as you so quaintly put it—'gunning' for my clients?"

Now Judy's ears pulled backwards.

"Like I said before, Counselor, ask them, not me. We haven't had time to figure that out yet; all we know is that Rocco Peccari has it in for the Rafaj Brothers and in a big way." Glancing upwards again, she met the kulan's gaze directly, "And make no mistake Mr. Arsia, if he doesn't get them tonight, he will eventually. There are only two ways off of the Red Pig's hit list. A. he gives you a pass; B. by way of the city morgue." She wondered for a second if she wasn't laying it on just a little too thick—and then decided, 'nahhh.' "Good thing there aren't any Razorbacks housed in here right now," she said, making a sweeping gesture around the lobby with her paw. "In that case, your clients would have probably been hit already." She nodded in the direction of the bored-looking animals behind the front desk, adding, "And I think you can guess the reason why."

Nearly anybody could have guessed it and strangely enough, that was what finally prompted the kulan to shed at least some of his distrust. Hitting a target in jail is another venerated Cosa Nostra tradition—and a contest between the losers running this place and even a single, seasoned mob assassin would be virtually no contest at all.

But now Judy had come to the point of make or break; the vantage from which Claire Swinton and her date would be visible—IF they were out there. "Okay, this is the place."

The front foyer of the SVCC had been built in a semi-triangle; the left side windows fronted by a row of closely-spaced Dracaena Trees. Now Judy moved close to the glass, cupping her paws above her eyes and peering into the space between two of them, looking for…

Nothing! The place where she'd instructed Swinton to wait was empty…DANGIT! Nothing to do now but to go for that court order and…

…And that was when a car pulled up to the curb in front of her.

And hallelujah, the occupants on the other side of the tinted windows were visible only as silhouettes…but even so, you couldn't mistake them for anything else. They were pigs—with a capital P in the case of the driver. Whoa, Claire had said that her BF was a big guy, but this was the most ginormous boar-pig Judy had ever seen; he seemed to fill the driver's compartment to nearly overflowing.

And, just to put a cherry on top, he was sitting at the wheel of a coal-black, low-slung Lincoon Clawntinenal, a car that practically screamed 'Wiseguy.'

"Swinton, I could kiss you!"

"Well?" a voice from behind the doe-bunny demanded, and she had to thump her foot to keep from sniggering.

"Take a look for yourself, Counselor," she said, stepping back with a somber expression and gesturing to the place where she'd been standing. Arsia regarded her doubtfully for a moment, and then took her place at the window, leaning in close to the glass.

…And then he shied back so hurriedly he almost fell over backwards. "Bismillah!" the doe bunny heard him gasping under his breath. It had worked; her plan had…

Without warning, the kulan's ears laid back and his nose wrinkled upwards; an expression of unbridled, asinine rage.

Judy's heart fell straight into her stomach. Wha…? What the heck had she done wrong…?

But then the attorney directed his gaze away from her, and towards the corridor leading back to the jail cells. His ears had flattened so tightly against his neck they seemed to have melted into it.

"If you don't mind, Officer Hopps," he said, not looking at her and speaking in a taut, quivering voice, "I would like to have a...a PRIVATE word with my clients."

"But of course," the doe bunny answered, wanting nothing so much as to leap up and perform a twist in the air, "Yes!"

A moment later, she was leaning back against the wall outside an interrogation cell, arms folded and the sole of one foot propped against it. Even with her sensitive rabbit-ears, she was unable to make out what was being said on the other side of the partition, but then again, she didn't need to. Every utterance from Frank Arsia was delivered as a loud, angry bray, while the responses from the Rafaj Brothers were barely audible, if that. Judy could understand the kulan's feelings and was even able to sympathize with him a little. If the Red Pig's enforcers really had been out there, waiting to hit the two jackals, their lawyer would have gone too if he'd gotten in the way. (The Razorbacks never let little inconveniences like bystanders interfere with their work.) No surprise then that he was so furious with them.

For her part, Judy felt neither guilt nor shame at having deceived the jackals. There might not be any hitters lying in wait for them NOW—but there would be, soon enough. Not only had they been dealing in blood diamonds behind The Red Pig's back, they were arguably the animals responsible for having dragged him into a possible gang war with the Tundratown mob. Come to think of it, that gave Mr. Big some probable cause to have them iced as well. "Nope, sorry Counselor," the doe-bunny thought, massaging the back of her neck with a paw, "I'm actually doing your clients a favor."

Someone knocked on the door to the interrogation cell. When Judy opened it, she found Frank Arsia there, his face suffused with the expression of a teacher who just caught two of his students cheating on a test. Behind him the Rafaj brothers were seated at a metal table, unable to meet either her or their attorney's gaze.

"Would you step inside for a moment please, Officer Hopps?" the kulan said, his tone deeply formal and crisp as an onion skin. "My clients have a request they wish to make."

He said this and glanced severely at Ismael, who for once, turned away shamefaced.

"Very well, what is it?" Judy asked. She already knew the answer, but wanted to make the brothers squirm a little. She too held them at least indirectly responsible for the ongoing cold-war between Tundratown and Sahara Square.

Arsia waited until the door had closed and then favored each jackal with a quick, hard glare, letting it linger for a moment in the case on Ismael. Then he turned and spoke to Judy again. "My clients wish to waive bail…"

That was as far as he got before Ismael was halfway out of his seat. An even harsher look from his attorney—and also from Ahmed and Judy—put him swiftly back in his place again.

"And they also wish to be placed in protective custody," the kulan went on.

Judy raised an ear, assuming her best naïve-hick fursona.

"Why, what would you need that for, boys?' she asked, smiling sweet venom at the pair of jackals.

They just looked at each other and then the floor. "You know what for…bunny," Ahmed mumbled, bitterly.

"Officer Hopps to you!" she snapped, dropping all pretense of civility. "Yes, I know that, what I DON'T know is why the Red Pig wants you dead." She thrust a finger in the jackal's face, "So no more holding out on us, Ahmed. If you and your brother want the ZPD's protection, then you'd better be prepared to tell us everything—and I mean everything, the names of your blood diamond suppliers, the details of your relationship with Rocco Peccari, all of it; and this time it better be the whole truth."

"You can't…" Ismael started to protest.

"Or, you can take your chances out on the street," the doe-bunny cut him off, tetchily thumping her foot. "So, what's it going to be, boys? I can wait here all night for your answer."

She actually had to wait for only a few seconds, "Very well," the jackals murmured in unison before Ahmed raised his head again. "But we want to be transferred to a safer facility—and we want to be moved tonight."

"That can be arranged," Judy nodded, more than willing to allow him this small concession—although not without a condition or two: "Just remember; everything, no more holding out on us…or else." And then to Frank Arsia she said, "Take them back to their cells. I'll inform the officers up front that they won't be leaving for a while and then see about arranging a transfer to a different jail."

"Very good," the kulan replied, speaking for his clients.

Chief Bogo turned out to be delighted at Judy's report, and did not criticize her one bit for having gotten a civilian involved.

"Well done, Hopps; quite well done indeed. We'll let those two stew for a bit before you talk to them again, eh?"

"Right Chief," Judy answered, brightly. She actually wasn't sure if that was such a good idea but hey… Bogo was putting her in charge of the Rafaj Brothers' further interrogation. That more than made up for it.

"In the meantime, I'll see about getting them moved to another facility," the Big Cape buffalo was saying, "as for you Hopps, your work for tonight's done; come on home."

"Yes, SIR!" Judy answered, almost gushing with gratitude…and also relief.

Her plan had really been little more than a colossal bluff. Cooperation or no, the ZPD would never deny police protection to an animal under threat from the Red Pig. Judy knew it, Chief Bogo knew it and the Rafaj brothers and their lawyer might have thought they knew it, but they couldn't be 100% sure. And, given the nature of the animal whose ire they'd aroused, even a remote possibility that they might be left to their own devices was a chance they didn't dare take. That, at least, had been Judy's reasoning in coming up with her idea—and in the end, it had paid off handsomely.

Exiting the SC3 building, the first thing she noticed was that Swinton had already departed. Hmmm, that was a little odd. You would have thought she'd want to hang around and find out…

"D'ohhh, dumb bunny," Judy grimaced, laughing inwardly at her mistake. Of course the pig cop wouldn't have wanted to stay for the finale; she was out on a date, remember? It went without saying that…

"WHAT THE…?"

Another car was easing up to the spot where the Clawninental had been parked, a smaller vehicle this time…much smaller, a burgundy-red Hogda Civet, the occupants clearly visible through the windshield.

Both of them were pigs; the one in the driver's seat was a big, if not hulking, wild boar.

The animal in the passenger seat was Claire Swinton.

Judy just stared, wide-eyed, with her nose twitching.

"But…But if  that's  Claire and her boyfriend, then who the heck…?"

The answer hit her like a face-pawlm. And when it did, she didn't know whether to laugh, cry...or scream. So instead, she just laced her fingers behind her head and rolled her eyes upwards at the star-flecked sky.

"Ohhh, sweet cheez' n' whole-WHEAT crackers!"

Chapter 6: A Rock and a Hard Place (Cont'd...Part 5)

Summary:

This ain't no pleasure cruise....

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 1—A Rock and a Hard Place
(Continued… Part 5)

Before anyone had even said a word to her, Judy knew something important was going on. The realization hit her as she was passing through the front door of Precinct-1. As usual, there was Benjamin Clawhauser, seated behind his wraparound desk. What wasn't so typical was that the moment he spotted her, he cut short his phone conversation and almost frantically waved her over.

"What's up?" she asked, almost forgetting to stand far enough away from the desk to be visible over the rim. There must have been a worried expression on her face, because the plus-size cheetah moved quickly to reassure her.

"No trouble Judy, but Chief Bogo wants you to go straight to his office."

She felt her nose begin to twitch. "Okay, but first I need to…"

"He said don't bother changing into your uniform, just go straight up there."

"Ohhh-kay."

When Judy entered Bogo's private sanctum a moment later, she found him talking on his desktop intercom. His reaction upon seeing her was as instantaneous as Clawhauser's had been; a glance in her direction, and then another one at the squawk-box.

"Never mind, she's just walked in; get up here."

"On my way," said a voice the doe-bunny recognized as Lieutenant Saw.

"Chief, what's up?" she asked, shutting the door cautiously behind her.

"Change of plans, Hopps." Bogo's chair squeaked like a rusty windmill as he swiveled to face her. "Y' won't be going t' interview the Rafaj Brothers today."

Judy felt her face drop halfway to the floor. What the…? Why would he take that away from…? Dangit, that was HER gig; she was the one who had gotten those jackals to crack.

"Uhm, what for, Chief?" she asked, fighting hard to contain her anger.

He folded his arms and leaned forward.

"We've just heard back from Mr. Rodenberg. The Red Pig's agreed to meet with you."

Feeling her anger give way to confusion, Judy stared at him with a foot that was trying to thump. Okay, fine, but then why pull her off the Rafaj Brothers interrogation?

"Wha…when?" she all but blurted out.

"Right NOW," the big Cape Buffalo forcefully replied, jabbing his desktop with a finger for emphasis, "Or not at all; those were Peccari's exact words according to his attorney."

And with that, the doe-bunny's confusion gave way to contrition. The Chief hadn't taken the Rafaj brothers away from her after all; he had only put them on hold. "Should have known he wouldn't—DUMB bunny," her inner voice chided. She banished it by offering up a theory to the Chief. "Sounds to me as if The Red Pig's trying to sabotage this meeting before it even starts—just like Mr. Big did, when he more or less dumped it in my lap. He doesn't want to meet with me, but he can't say so without making himself look bad. And so he's giving himself an out by offering to see me only on very short notice." She cleared her throat, putting on her best underworld snarl. "Hey-y-y, I TRIED, it ain't my fault the cops wuz asleep at the switch."

Bogo snorted and then snerked.

"That's actually not bad, Hopps," he said, "And yes, I think you're right; it'd be just like that javelina, wouldn't it?"

"Yep," the doe-bunny agreed…even though had practically no idea of what 'that javelina' was like, outside of his volatile temper. But then she remembered something else; after two years on the force, she knew better than just to assume that a certain couple of jackals were still hers to interrogate. "What about the Rafaj Brothers, sir?"

Bogo sat back in his chair again.

"I'd much prefer not to delay their questioning any longer, Hopps—but you're the one who finally got them to cooperate. Do you want to hold off and talk to them y'self, or shall I assign someone else to the job?

Judy's ears shot up as if spring-loaded; this was the one response she'd never have expected from the big Cape buffalo.

Even more surprising was her answer.

"Give it to Nick Wilde, sir." Holy carrot sticks; where the heck had THAT come from?

Chief Bogo seemed to be wondering the same thing, sitting up fast and staring at her wide-eyed, "WHAT, then?"

"Whoa boy, think fast Jude," she told herself and then launched into an impromptu sales-pitch, having no idea where to go with it.

"Chief if you recall, Officer Wilde and I worked that blood-diamond sting together; he knows the case at least as well as I do…"

"To a point," Bogo countered with a bobbing finger, "he doesn't know that Rocco Peccari is the Rafaj Brothers' silent partner—or that he's got a contract out on them. That rather changes the scenario I shouldn't wonder."

Judy only shrugged.

"It'll take all of two minutes to bring him up to speed on that sir. And if there's any animal I know who won't be surprised by the news, it's that fox." To her surprise, she found she was warming to her presentation. "And beside that, he's got something I don't, Chief."

Bogo flicked an ear and peered more closely. "What's that, then?"

Judy clapped her paws together

"Empathy sir; Officer Wilde and the Rafaj Brothers are not only fellow predators, all three of them are members of a stereotyped species. Foxes are supposed to be shifty and untrustworthy; jackals are supposedly thieving and cowardly. I've already seen Nick…errrr, Officer Wilde use it to gain their trust at least once." She leaned forward, putting elbows on her knees, "And I don't think I need to tell you how good he is at questioning suspects sir; look at the way he played Duke Weaselton when we were pumping him for information about The Phantom." Actually it had been the two of them together, but the fox had certainly done his part—and Chief Bogo knew it.

He flicked an ear and sat back again, this time with half a smile.

"Huh, I'm hanged if you don't make a case Hopps." He said this, and looked at her closely, almost entirely with his right eye, "But...are y' sure you want to give them to Officer Wilde? Once they're his, they're his."

"Yes sir, I am," Judy nodded…and she was, even though she knew that it might cost her in the long run. After making that unauthorized call on Mr. Big, she needed all the 'attabunnies' she could get.

And yet…

It had never felt quite right to her, being brought back on duty while her former partner continued to languish in administrative limbo. Dangit, that fox was a good officer; he deserved better than to be left out of the loop while she was back in the thick of it.

And besides, the doe-bunny realized with a smile, whatever her reasons for making that pitch, everything she'd said just now was 100% true. Her former partner really WAS the perfect fox for the job.

"Very well Hopps," Bogo reached for his intercom again. "Clawhauser? Get hold of Officer Wilde and have him report to me ASAP."

"Uh, right away Chief." The cheetah responded, his feline curiosity audible even through the tinny speaker. Hearing him, Judy could only hope she'd made the right decision, "Please fox; don't let me down."

Oops, Bogo was speaking to her again.

"Actually, there's another reason Wilde should be a good fit for interviewing the Rafaj Brothers; we've just had them moved to the Precinct 7 detention facility.

Judy's ears went up and her nose began to twitch. "Not Precinct 9, sir?" The last she'd heard, the jackals had been transferred to the Outback Island jail.

"No, that's only the cover story," the Chief informed her.

"All right, yes," Judy understood, but she was still a little confused, "but why the Nocturnal District?"

Bogo smiled knowingly. "Well, think about it Hopps; the Red Pig's enforcers are all wild boar aren't they? Even in daylight, their vision's not the best; at night, it's practically negligible. And because of that, you hardly ever see their species in the Nocturnal District. They'll be spotted much more easily there than elsewhere in the city."

"Ohhh, I get it." Judy answered with a nod, at last understanding the Chief's reasoning. And there was more; both Nick and the Rafaj brothers had excellent night vision. In the dimness of the Nocturnal District they would find even greater rapprochement than if they were meeting in the full light of day.

"Precinct 7 only gives minor advantage, to be sure," Bogo said, returning to the main reason for the transfer. "Even with such poor night vision, wild boar are hardly incapable of operating in darkness—especially the Razorbacks." His expression turned flinty, "But after two of them actually DID turn up at the Savanna Central Correctional Center, we've decided to take no chances."

"Yes sir," Judy nodded. There had been no question of not reporting that incident and she was glad now that she'd done it. She had suffered no repercussions, and it had helped spur the ZPD to facilitate the transfer immediately—even though it might not have been necessary. Lieutenant Saw had been of the opinion that the pigs she'd spotted outside of SC3 had only been there to observe and report.

"If Peccari had really been planning to hit the Rafaj Brothers, you wouldn't have seen a thing—not until it was too late."

That conversation had been two days ago. And… say, where the heck was that sun-bear anyway? He should have been here by now.

Chief Bogo's expression, meanwhile, had become an ironic S-curve.

"And of course, we must do everything possible to assure our 'guests' that we're looking out for their safety," he said, capping the statement with a caustic snort.

That reminded Judy of something else and she felt her nose begin to twitch again.

"Sir, there's something I'd like to know. Before the other night, did the ZPD have any idea that the Rafaj Brothers were under the Red Pig's thumb?" In hindsight, it all seemed glaringly obvious, but at the time…well, back when they'd been running the sting, it hadn't been an issue. The important thing then had been to gather evidence that the jackals were dealing in conflict diamonds. Whether or not they'd been carrying a (legitimate) partner in the background had not yet figured into the scheme of things.

Bogo let out a small grunt.

"Mmm, we've…had our suspicions, actually; it's mentioned in the police report."

"Really?" the doe-bunny asked, ears standing halfway at attention. She didn't remember seeing anything like that when she'd read the report.

"Yes," Bogo laced hooves on the desktop, "buried in the back, but it's there all right." he lifted a hoof and waved it. "Nothing concrete you understand; only speculation and circumstantial evidence."

Judy's ears were up even further; this was fascinating. "What sort of evidence, sir?" she asked.

"Well," the Chief shrugged, "An upscale jeweler in Sahara Square; you'd best believe Rocco Peccari would find that a tempting target for a bit of usury, and also…" he looked uncomfortable for a second. "Well, the Rafaj Brothers are jackals aren't they?"

That statement made Judy's ears go rigid and caused her nostrils to flare—as Bogo's words from a night in the Rainforest District came back to haunt her. "Maybe ANY aggressive predator looks savage to you rabbits," and also, "You think I'm gonna believe a fox?"

Had he ever really shed those prejudices? Most animals with that mindset never completely lost it.

But then he raised both hooves; the doe-bunny's shift in body-language had not evaded his notice.

"Now don't go getting your ears all in a twist. What I meant was, being a denigrated species, the Rafaj Brothers would have found it very difficult, perhaps even impossible, to find a bank willing to underwrite their jeweler's shop—especially when they first opened f' business. Back then, if you lived south of the Climate Wall and y' couldn't manage a loan from a reputable institution, there was only one place you could go to borrow money."

"The Sahara Square mob," Judy puffed out her cheeks in mortification. True for telling and she should have known. Hadn't Nick Wilde's father once found himself in similar straits? And that wasn't even mentioning the elusive loan-shark known as The Phantom, an animal that specialized in lending to species with negative stereotypes.

Someone knocked on the door, and both she and Bogo turned in that direction.

"Come."

It opened silently and Lieutenant Saw entered, eliciting another snort from the big Cape buffalo.

"'Bout time, Lieutenant; where the devil were you?"

"Sorry," the sun-bear answered deadpan, "but I just got a call from Precinct-3. The Red Pig's crew was seen loading fuel and provisions onto his yacht earlier this morning; looks like they're preparing to get under way."

That was more than enough to mollify Bogo and he nodded over a sardonic smile

"Hmmm, so that's where he's holding the meeting, eh?"

"Not really surprising," Lt. Saw replied, flipping his paw in a throwaway gesture, "I would myself, if I were him." And then to Judy he said, "Come on Hopps, let's go." And without waiting for a reaction, from either her or Chief Bogo, he turned and reached for the door again.

Bears are not noted for being able to move quickly—not while standing upright, at least. Down on all fours, however, it's a different story. And so, no sooner did the door swing shut behind him than the Lieutenant dropped down onto his forepaws, loping down the concourse at such a brisk pace that Judy was obliged to follow his example in order to keep up. Hitting the ground floor level, they turned on a direct course for the ZPD motor pool.

It was only after they entered the garage that the sun bear rose up on his hindquarters again. Snatching a shop-towel from a wall dispenser, he scanned around the shop with a frown on his face.

"Couraça!" he called, wiping his paws on the towel. "Couraça, where are you?"

"I'm here Tenente," a sullen voice replied from the other side of a police van. And then a shape moved out from behind the vehicle, revealing itself as a grease-spattered giant armadillo.

"Where…?" Saw started to ask and was answered by a finger pointing lazily through an open door to the parking lot outside. Judy followed where the armadillo was indicating and saw that the space on the end of the first row was occupied by an off-black Mitsubisti Montarpan.

She felt her nose begin to twitch. "That's not one of…"

"No, it's a rental," Lieutenant Saw interrupted, already moving in that direction, "The Red Pig insisted; he knows that all ZPD vehicles are equipped with Lope-Jack, even the ones without radios."

"Oh, I see," Judy said, but now that they were getting closer, she had noticed something else. "Um, isn't that vehicle a little, uh, cramped for your species, sir?" In trying to put it as tactfully as possible, she had just made a whopper of an understatement. The SUV in question was a small mammal vehicle—a bit large for a bunny, but clown-car dimensions for a bear, even a sun-bear.

"Yes, but I won't be riding with you," Saw said, pointing to the vehicle in the next space over, an unmarked police cruiser. "Here's how it will work; I'll lead the way and you'll follow me to the first meet-point. When we get there, you'll pick up Vern Rodenberg and the two of you will continue on without me. He'll direct you to where Red Pig is waiting."

Judy felt her face twist upwards into a pained expression.

"Oh for crying out loud sir, isn't this kind of ridiculous? I mean…we already know where the meeting is taking place."

Saw glanced over shoulder and she was surprised to see him wearing a jocular grin.

"No Hopps, it's completely ridiculous. But Rocco Peccari's the animal calling the shots right now and if this is what he wants, this is what he gets."

"Yes sir," Judy nodded tartly.

On the way to the meet point, Lt. Saw attempted to brief her over the phone. It wasn't easy; she didn't have her blue-fang set and the SUV didn't have a holder for her cell. She was obliged to leave it in the center-console and speak up in order to be heard.

"Rodenberg didn't set up this meeting pro bono," the sun bear explained, "He expects a favor in return, and he'll only tell you what it is." Ahead of them, a light turned yellow. Saw could have made it but Judy couldn't and he pulled to stop so as not to get too far ahead of her. The tone of his voice, when he spoke again, indicated that he didn't like needing to have done that, (or maybe he just didn't like Vern Rodenberg.) "Whatever he asks for Hopps, you're to agree; that's already been decided." His voice was nearly a growl.

"Ummmm, what if he asks for something…ahhh, outrageous?" Dumb-bunny question, but she felt she had to ask it.

"He won't," the sun bear responded tersely, "Rodenberg's a jerk, but he's a smart little jerk. He won't demand anything that he knows we can't give him."

The light turned green and they moved on. After two more blocks it became apparent they were on course for ZTP Airport. Judy didn't need to ask why; the space around any air terminal is always strictly forbidden for unauthorized flights—and that includes police drones and other surveillance aircraft. It's a fact well known to the criminal element…and regularly employed, whenever they wish to avoid being tracked from on high.

They found Vern Rodenberg waiting for them in the Red Economy lot, leaning back on the fender of his beloved vintage Meercury Super-8. While Judy waited in the SUV, Saw parked and exited the cruiser. Seeing him approaching, the diminutive attorney stood up and reached for his briefcase.

"Ahhh, you're a few minutes early Lieutenant," he said, greeting the sun-bear with ersatz bonhomie.

Saw waved impatiently at the vehicle behind him, with Judy at the wheel. From his demeanor, you would have thought it was Rodenberg who had only just now arrived, and that he'd shown up a few minutes late.

"Yes, yes…now, would you please hurry up and get moving?"

"Not so fast there, Booby," the grey rat cocked a thumb backwards at his car. "First, where's my parking validation?"

Flashing his fangs, Saw reached into his jacket, grumbling under his breath. "Only you would…all right, here."

He extracted a tiny envelope, for him the size of a postage stamp, which he passed along to the grey rat. Rodenberg dropped it into his briefcase and then nodded. "Okay, now we can go."

"Not so fast, Counselor," The bear informed him, mocking his earlier tone, "Before you go, there's something I want you to pass along to The Red Pig. The ZPD knows where it is that you're taking Officer Hopps—and we expect to have her back completely unharmed—and also completely dry." He leaned forward, looming over the rat and speaking in a low snarl. "Or else, I'll get a warrant and take that little chantara boat of his apart, spar by spar."

"I understand, Lieutenant," Rodenberg responded quietly—and also without a trace of fear, his whiskers remaining as steady as shards of iron.

He turned headed for where Judy was waiting; he did not look back, or hurry.

The Montarpan was fitted with a rodent-seat and Rodenberg grumbled as he buckled himself into it. "Ahhh, I hate these stupid things; make me feel like a little kid, going out for a ride with mommy and daddy."

Once they were on the road though, his mood lightened up considerably.

"Ohhh-kay Hopps, since the ZPD already knows where we're going, there's no point in giving you the run-around; head straight for the Palm Hotel mooring slip." He seemed to take for granted that she would know where that was, and in fact, she did. "Gotta admit, Nick was right about you," he said as they rounded a corner, "You're one gutsy rabbit."

A heat rose into the base of Judy's ears at the mention of her former partner's name, but she kept her thoughts to herself. Instead she ansered, "I could say the same for you, Counselor. The Red Pig didn't, uh, do anything when you asked him if he'd be willing to meet with me?" By now, she had heard about his earlier conversation with Lieutenant Saw.

Rodenberg just fanned a paw. "Ahhh, he wasn't thrilled about it, I knew that was coming even before I laid the proposition on him—but at the same time, he wasn't gonna hurt me; I'm too valuable to him right now." He turned and flashed a toothy grin. "His insurance company's trying to stonewall him on the IRS recycling fire, and I'm the only guy he's got that can handle those stinkin' bean-counters. No me, no settlement…know what I mean?"

Judy frowned. "Should you be telling me this, Mr. Rodenberg?"

He only shrugged and waved his paw again.

"Ahhh, it's nothing Lieutenant Saw doesn't already know, so why not?" There was acid in his voice as he spoke the sun-bear's name and it did not escape his companion's notice.

"You don't like him very much, do you, Counselor?"

"You don't like him very much, do you, Counselor?"

"No, and the feeling's mutual; Saw doesn't much care for me either." The grey rat answered while working his incisors, a gesture of rodent contempt. "He's the most ambitious cop I ever met; he wants to be Chief or Attorney General someday, maybe even Mayor." He rolled his teeth a second time, but much more thoughtfully than before, "That being said, I respect the guy; he's almost as much of a straight shooter as you are. Much as he'd love to put away The Red Pig and Mr. Big for good, he absolutely won't play dirty to make it happen. In all the time I've known him, he's never once tried to withhold evidence or fib on a police-report—and the same rule applies to everybody working under him." He grimaced and slapped himself on the shoulder. "And you better believe there're cops out there willing to frame a guy; I should know, I got the jailhouse scars to prove it!"

Judy's only response was a soft, "Mmmm." Keeping her eyes on the road, she felt her own jaw tightening. "After all these years, he's still carrying some bitterness over his wrongful conviction."

About more than just that, actually; without warning, the rat's voice became an angry hiss.

"But honest cop or not, Cole Slaw STILL goes too far sometimes." He spat out the sun bear's underworld nickname like a mouthful of lye, "Rousting Fru-Fru and her husband, right in the middle of a lunch date; that was WAY out of line!"

Judy took a short breath and swallowed. While she agreed with Rodenberg about Fru's arrest, she nonetheless felt compelled to point something out to him.

"Excuse me Counselor, but that was Captain Visent's call, not his."

Her passenger remained unmoved, looking stonily up at her, dark eyes frosted with disdain.

"Yeah?" He reached up to touch his Kippah Cap, "Well, where I come from, 'just following orders,' doesn't cut it as an excuse." His whiskers bobbed and she heard his teeth click. "And by the way Hopps, NOBODY told that bear the pinch had to go down in public."

An awkward silence filled the SUV, finally broken when Rodenberg coughed and cleared his throat.

"Okay, now listen up; before you meet with Rocco Peccari, there're a few things you need to know about him. First of all, never, ever bow down to that javelina. Show him respect, but don't show him fear, because he'll play on it and try to break you." His whiskers twitched for a second. "In fact, if I know him, he's probably gonna try to intimidate you right out of Jump Street."

Judy turned to glance at him. "How do you mean, Counselor?"

He lifted a pair of fingers. "Here's how I think it'll happen; when Peccari sees you, he's gonna pretend to recognize you and get mad that the bunny who busted 'his' jewelry story is daring to show her face in his presence. He might even bring up that kiss between you and your partner." Judy felt her ears stiffen, but said nothing. "Just remember," the rat went on, "it's all an act; he pulls that made-to-order outrage shtick on everybody meeting him for the first time."

"Right," Judy nodded over the steering wheel, trying not to think of 'that kiss'.

Rodenberg just continued with his briefing.

"At the same time, don't let yourself become overly aggressive, and for God's sake don't threaten him."

"I wouldn't do that anyway, Counselor," she answered, glancing briefly in his direction once again. "I'm sure you heard about what happened the first time I met Mr. Big."

He just waved her off.

"Ahhhh everybody's gotta learn the hard way, once in a while." He turned and looked straight at her. "But more than anything else, you need to make it abundantly clear—at all times—that this meeting has been sanctioned not only by the Big Shrew, but also by the ZPD. Make sure the Red Pig understands that THIS time it's an officially sanctioned sit-down."

Yet again, Judy was obliged to keep her feelings to herself.

"So he knows I went to see Mr. Big without giving notice." It was hardly surprising but still disconcerting. Sweet cheez n' crackers if this was what Vernon J. Rodenberg was like in a regular conversation, just imagine having to face him as a hostile witness.

"And one last thing," the rat was saying, "Rocco Peccari never refers to Mr. Big by name; it's always 'The Shrimp.' Don't try to correct him when he does, and if he goes off on a rant about 'that little whatever', just sit back and let it pass. In fact, that'll actually be a good thing. I've always found him to be a lot easier to talk to after he's blown off some steam."

"Got it," Judy nodded. This was all very valuable but there was another matter that they needed to discuss…or rather, one that she wanted to get out of the way. "Mr. Rodenberg, before I forget… On our way to meet you, Lieutenant Saw told me that you'd been promised a favor in return for arranging this meeting; what is that you want?"

He just waved his paw again.

"First thing's first; let's see how this sit-down works out. If it's good, we'll talk about it afterwards."

Judy raised an ear and an eyebrow. What, now? The meeting was set; Rodenberg had fulfilled his part of the bargain. Why the heck was he holding off on collecting what he was owed?

He must have read the question in her face because he winked and raised a finger. "Saw told me that I get my quid-pro-quo only if I'm successful…and if you knew him as well as I do, you'd know he didn't mean successful as in successfully setting up this meeting. Unless HE gets something out of it, something that'll help prevent this gang-war from happening, I don't get zip. It's how that bear rolls—whoap, there she is."

The Red Pig's yacht was hard to miss; it literally dwarfed every other vessel tied up to the Palm Hotel quay, a hippo riding herd on a gaggle of otters. Sleek and ultramodern, she boasted three decks and a flying bridge, plus a curiously raked front prow, sloping backwards rather than forwards. Done up in dark silver with an off-white trim, she had a slightly sinister air about her that dovetailed perfectly with her owner's reputation.

For all that…something seemed conspicuous by its absence. It wasn't until she'd found a parking space and killed the engine that Judy realized what it was.

"Hey, there's no name on that boat," she said, pointing to the vessel's stern.

"Peccari never puts names on anything," Vern Rodenberg dryly informed her, "And anyway, that yacht's not actually his...not on paper anyway; helps keep the tax-mammal off his..." He stopped, aiming a finger over her shoulder. "Heads up; we got company coming."

Judy turned and saw a pair of wild boar approaching; dark suits and even darker glasses. As they came closer she was able to see the ends of their tusks had been capped with blades rendered in serrated chromium-steel; Razorbacks.

Strolling up to the SUV on hard, blocky heels, one of them rapped on the doe-bunny's window and made a rolling motion with his hoof.

She eased it down and waited.

"You Hopps?" the first boar asked her in a guttural, throaty voice. He had a jagged scar splitting his snout and an ear that looked like someone had worked it over with a ticket-punch; the legacy of a near-miss with a shotgun, the doe-bunny surmised.

"Yes, that's me." she answered, fighting to keep her voice on an even keel. Dangit, she was already starting to feel apprehensive and she hadn't even boarded the boat yet. What the heck was going to happen when she met The Red Pig face-to-face?

"Awrite, let's go." the scarred boar grunted, jacking a thumb in the direction of the yacht behind him. Before Judy could comply, Vern Rodenberg bounded across her lap and hopped up on the Montarpan's window-sill.

"Before you take off, Mungo…I have a message to pass along from Lieutenant Saw."

The pig's face instantly darkened. Even behind his sunglasses, the blaze in his eyes was impossible to miss.

"Cole Slaw? What the stink does that jerk want?"

"He said to tell you that he knows where this meeting is taking place," the grey rat informed him matter-of-factly, "And that also he expects Officers Hopps back, unharmed and dry; his words not mine." He had omitted the threat of what would happen otherwise, Judy couldn't help but notice.

The pig regarded him crossly for a second then turned on his heel, beckoning for her to follow. "Come on."

She got out of the SUV and hopped after him.

"You're gonna have to be searched before you meet the boss," Mungo grunted, glancing over shoulder. "You got a problem with that?" It was a challenge, not a question.

"Nope…standard procedure, I'd have thought" Judy answered noncommittally, although in truth, she was anything but indifferent to the prospect. Judging by the tone of the boar's voice, it was going to be more than just a cursory inspection—MUCH more. "The things I do for the ZPD," she lamented silently.

One thing you had to give the Red Pig, he knew how to run a tight ship. No sooner did Judy's feet touch the deck than the gangplank was withdrawn and she heard and felt the engines thrumming to life. A second later, there came a slight, sideways lurch as the boat eased away from the dock.

"All right, over here," Mungo directed her to spot beside the swimming pool where two more Razorbacks were waiting. While the first one swept her with a metal-detector wand, the other one moved his nose over and around her, sniffing closely and deeply. Judy bore the indignity stoically, distracting herself with the reminder that they were searching for listening devices rather than weapons.

"As IF…"

Finally, satisfied that their visitor was free of bugs, they stepped back and gave a thumbs-up to Mungo, who pointed behind her to the main cabin door.

"Through there and up the stairs; he's waiting for yas in the upper salon."

To her surprise the pig didn't follow her, and the one guarding the foot of the staircase only sniffed at her as she passed. His indifference only added to the sensation that she was ascending the stairway to the gallows.

At the top of the steps, however…

If there was anything Judy Hopps had learned in the course of her career with the ZPD, it was to expect the unexpected.

Not this time; Rocco 'The Red Pig' Peccari turned out to be exactly the way she'd always pictured him—short, squat, and slightly dumpy, but at the same time thickly muscled and almost radiating power. The enclosure in which he was waiting was light, fresh, and tastefully furnished; fine wood and even finer fabrics. Yet, by his very presence, the Sahara Square mob boss seemed to give everything an air of darkness and menace.

He was dressed for the occasion in a pair of snow-white Bearmuda shorts, with a matching polo shirt and a Pawnama hat with a pair of wrap-around sunglasses perched atop the brim. Around his thick, bristled neck, he wore a gold chain with a heavy, gold medallion and on his left wrist he sported a wide-banded gold watch. The most interesting item of jewelry however was the ring adorning the little finger of his other hoof, also in gold and set with a diamond the size of a table-grape.

…A lavender diamond! Was that his way of sending a message, the doe-bunny had to wonder; 'here's what I think of you and your stinkin' blood-diamond bust!'

She swiftly decided that yes, it was—and that this stone was almost certainly of the manufactured variety. In other words, it was perfectly legal; in your FACE, coppers!

At the moment, Peccari was seated in a lounge chair, flanked by two of his bodyguards. Sipping through a straw, from a glass decorated with a miniature umbrella, he seemed completely unaware of his visitor's presence.

Then his eyes flicked upwards, finding hers. First they narrowed, then they widened—and then the glass he'd been holding banged down hard on the table beside him, while his finger shot out in Judy's direction like a bolt from a crossbow.

"Here it comes," she thought, bracing herself.

"You!" The Red Pig squealed, his ears already acquiring the color from which he had attained his nickname, "You're the bunny who busted my jewelry store…and the godmother to The Shrimp's grandkid!" He sat up and rose halfway out of his seat, flecks of foam whitening the corners of his mouth. "You think the ZPD can insult me by sending you here to talk to me, huh? HUH!"

Making a mental note to thank Vern Rodenberg for his timely warning, Judy took a slow breath and put her paws on her hips.

"Don Rocco, with all due respect…"

"Save your 'Don' for The Shrimp, rabbit," He interrupted her testily. "I ain't got time for that Black Pete garbage. It's Mr. Peccari, you get the drift?"

"Fine, Mr. Peccari, then." Judy answered crisply, hiding her annoyance at such a clumsy attempt to take control of the conversation, "But again, with all due respect, I'm not here at the behest of the ZPD…or, not only the ZPD. Chief Bogo and Lieutenant Saw may have wanted me to be here, but it's Mr. Big who actually gave me the assignment." She sniffed, pausing for effect. "What he didn't give me was a choice; it's either me or nobody who delivers his proposal. He made that very clear to me when last I saw him."

She stopped, waiting. Okay-y-y, the ball was in the Red Pig's court; what would he do with it?

What he did was flip a hoof at the boar standing closest to him.

"Ahhhh, somebody get this dumb bunny a chair!"

Well, at least he was willing to hear her out; so far, so good.

The 'chair' they brought her was little more than an upgraded stool, but it was enough, she'd settle. Sitting herself down, Judy smoothed back her ears and studied her host for a second, deciding how best to proceed.

"Mr. Peccari, I'm sure you know by now why your attorney asked you to meet with me." She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "However, what I don't know is how much you're already aware of. So, in order to avoid wasting time—something I think neither one of us wants—it might be best for you to tell me what you've already heard so far about Mr. Big's proposal."

He pursed his lips, looking up and to the side for a moment. Then his eyes found hers again.

"Awrite," he said, also leaning forward. "As I unner'stand it, The Shrimp wants to propose a truce while we try to figure out who else might be the fire-bug torching our properties. That about the size of it, rabbit?"

"Yes, that's it," she told him, nodding. Good… Peccari understood the gist, if not the finer points of Mr. Big's offer.

That did not, however, mean that he was ready to buy into it; he snorted and then grunted.

"Hunh, easy for him to say, HE wasn't the last one to get firebombed." His face seemed to compress into a contemptuous sneer. "Where was The Shrimp with his stinkin' peace-pipe after his limo-stand got torched?"

Judy bit her lip to keep from sighing; this was not getting off to a good start. Looking hard for another opening, she thought she found one.

"You have a point, Mr. Peccari, or you would if Mr. Big was offering to bury the hatchet for good." She leaned forward on her elbows again. "He's not; all he's proposing is a temporary cease-fire—a truce while the two of you try to determine if there might be a third party at work here." She racked her brain for a second. "Look, I'm just a dumb bunny from The Burrow…but even I know that in La Cosa Nostra, payback is payback no matter when it happens; tomorrow or ten years from now. Whatever issues you might have with Mr. Big, you don't have to get even with him right this very second; you can afford to wait and see if it's someone else that's been setting fire to your properties."

Peccari grunted again, but this time with what might have been a grudging air of respect. Now, she was speaking his language.

"Mmmm, ohh-kayy," he said, "Did The Shrimp have any idea who that uh, third party might be?" He seemed genuinely intrigued. Unfortunately for Judy, she didn't have an answer for him.

"No one who's still with us," she admitted. "The only animal he could think of was James 'The Mister' McCrodon."

"Yeah-h-h, thaaat's something The Mister would have done," the Red Pig drawled in agreement. His voice was steady, but…had he actually shuddered at the mention of that name? Judy couldn't be sure, but one of the bodyguards had definitely crossed himself when he heard it. Hol-lee watercress, what kind of a monster had James McCrodon been that his name could strike fear into the heart of these pigs—three years after his death?

Well, maybe that was so, but Peccari had already recovered from whatever dread he'd been experiencing.

"'Cept, as you just pointed out, that sea-mink ain't around no more—good, stinkin' riddance—an' I can't think of nobody else that'd be crazy enough to pull a stunt like that. So…what else you got, rabbit?"

What she had was a change of tack.

"Mr. Peccari, you may not have believed Mr. Big when he said that he didn't burn down any of your properties…"

"Dang, stinkin' RIGHT I didn't!" He was halfway out of his seat again and now not just his ears but his face had turned the color of a fireball candy.

"…but you KNOW you didn't burn down any of his properties," Judy went on smoothly, refusing to be deterred. It was a gamble, talking over him like that, but a chance she was willing to take.

Her ploy turned out not to be a bust—but it didn't pay off either. While the Red Pig didn't take exception, he also wasn't about to be put off course. Sitting up all the way again, he slapped his hooves on his hips.

"Awrite Hopps, I know where yer goin' with this and I'll save you the trouble. I don't just think it was two a' The Shrimp's polar-bears that torched my God-sister's flower shop, I KNOW they did it!"

"What?" Judy somehow forced herself not to reel back, stunned. How the heck could he be so certain?

The answer was quickly forthcoming. Peccari's mouth pulled back in a mirthless smirk

“Yeah that’s right.  You forgot something din’tcha, bunny?  This time, we caught those punks in the act.”  He folded his arms and sneered triumphantly, “and my guy, Vinnie the Painter, swears that one of them bears was The Shrimp’s guy, Raymond.”

Judy could only stare—and mentally kick herself for not remembering; unlike all the previous instances, the Flora and Fauna arson attack had been preceded by a close confrontation—one that had caused almost as much damage as the fire itself.

Peccari meanwhile, was on a roll, moving quickly to pre-empt what he assumed would be her next argument.

“Can it, Hopps; I can guess what else you got up your sleeve:  ‘It was dark in there…us pigs ain’t got good eyesight…yas can’t be sure…’ yadda-yadda-yadda.”  He patted the side of his snout. “Yeah, well maybe my species don’t see too good, but our noses can pick out scents real easy.  And Vinnie T says the bear who cold-cocked him didn’t just look like Raymond; he SMELLED like him, too.”

There was no response to that; Judy tried, but couldn’t find one.  As Nick had pointed out to her on several occasions, an animal’s appearance might change over time, but their scent almost never did.  Was it possible…could Mr. Big have been behind that flower-shop blaze after all?

“What, yas don’t believe me?” the Red Pig snorted, having mistaken her hesitancy for something else—or maybe he was just enjoying himself. “Wel-l-l okay, if you don’t wanna take MY word for it…”  He turned to the Razorback on his left. “Tell The Painter to get up here, pronto.”

“Sure thing, boss,” The boar-pig nodded, and then disappeared down the stairs. 

It seemed to take Vinnie ‘The Painter’ Truffalini forever to comply with his padrone’s order, but when he finally appeared, Judy understood at once the reason for the delay.  He arrived swathed in bandages and walking with a cane; she suspected he’d had to be helped up the stairs by the Razorback sent to fetch him. What was most obvious about him though, was something else entirely.  THIS was the pig she’d seen, sitting behind the wheel of the Clawninental outside the SC3 jail.  Oh yes, it was him all right; she had seen him only in silhouette, but there was no doubt at all in the doe-bunny’s mind.  This boar wasn’t just large, he was massive...and now she knew for certain that his boss intended to whack the Rafaj Brothers; maybe not now, but it was going to happen.  She would need to pass it along to Lieutenant Saw when she caught up with him. 

Peccari, in the meantime, was cocking a finger at the new arrival.

“Vinnie, tell the bunny-cop here what you told me…about that Goombear Raymond.”

The Painter was only too happy to comply, speaking a voice even more rough-cut than his boss’s—if such a thing were possible.  “I didn’t know it was him at first...when the store got hit, I mean.  I thought he looked kinda familiar, but I couldn’t be sure.  I mean, everything was happening so stinkin’ fast.”

Judy listened intently, noting that so far neither he, nor his boss had admitted to anything illegal.  And in fact, Truffalini had nothing illegal to admit to; he hadn’t broken into that flower shop with the intent of causing mayhem, he’d been LET in for the purpose of protecting it. 

But now he dropped the big one.

“When I went to that sit-down at the little guy’s place, Raymond was there and I knew,” His eyes grew cold and lifeless.  “One whiff and I knew—HE was one of the guys who torched that flower shop.”  He ground his tusks, fixing an iron gaze on the doe-bunny seated before him. “And don’t even think about gettin’ me to repeat that for the record cutie, coz it’s not happening.”

Judy's assessment of the oversized boar-pig immediately went down a notch. Did he seriously think she'd be bothered by that? Heh, good luck, big fella! By now she had been called 'cute' so many times, and by so many different perps, the word just rolled right off her back.

"But you're sure it was him, Vinnie?" The Red Pig prompted. He was practically salivating.

"Yeah Boss, I'm sure." The enforcer nodded eagerly, "I'd recognize the smell a' that fur-wash anywhere."

A moment of stillness followed, during which Peccari's eyes widened and his face lengthened—while Judy crossed her legs and sucked on her lower-lip, first to keep her foot from thumping.

…And then to keep herself from giggling.

"Fur…wash?" Peccari finally said, peering closely at the Giant Forest Pig.

"Heck, yeah!" The Painter declared, having somehow missed the shift in his boss's mood, "Can yas believe it? One a' little guy's polar bears uses jasmine scented fur wash…like some pansy schoolgirl!" He concluded with a snorting, guttural laugh.

"Fur wash," Peccari slowly repeated, staring with even greater intensity, "It…wasn't his own scent you smelled?"

Truffalini puckered his nose in disgust. "Are you kiddin' me? That stuff was so strong, I couldn't smell nothin' else, not even… Uhhh, Boss…sump'n wrong?"

Flare? Meet gas-can. The Red Pig was instantly out of his seat again, squealing like a race-tire burning rubber off the starting line.

"You big, fat, load a' STUPID, you! You said nothin' to me about fur-wash before!"

NOW the huge boar finally seemed to realize that he'd stepped in it. Backing hurriedly away from the lounge-chair, he nearly tripped over his own cane. "B-But boss…why would any polar bear wanna…?"

He should have quit while he was behind. At once, Peccari's scream became reminiscent of stripped gears.

"You boob, you sap, you brain-dead MORON! You got ANY idea how much you just embarrassed me? You pinhead, I swear, if there wasn't a COP here…!" He jumped up on his chair, pointing like the Final Judgement, aiming his finger at the stairway to the lower deck. "GET OUTTA MY SIGHT!" His entire body now seemed to have turned bright crimson, while on either side of him the bodyguards looked as if they were preparing to dive for cover. Judy, for her part, would not have been greatly surprised to see the Sahara Square mob boss spontaneously combust. Whoa, if ever a gangster had earned his reputation…

This time Vinnie 'the Painter' Truffalini got the message at once, scrambling for the stairs and quickly disappearing from view. It was amazing how fast he could move, even with his injuries, when properly motivated—although, judging by the sounds he made on the way down, he completed the last third of his descent the hard way.

When the racket from below finally ceased, Peccari threw himself backwards onto the lounge-chair, rewarding himself with a nice, long, lingering, face-hoof.

"I'm surrounded by idjits!"

Chapter 7: A Rock and a Hard Place (Cont'd...Part 6)

Summary:

As one door closes...

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 1—A Rock and a Hard Place
(Continued… Part 6)

Judy Hopps knew better.

According to Vern Rodenberg, the Red Pig was always in at least a somewhat more reasonable state of mind after he finished blowing off steam.

Yes, BUT—the outburst she had just witnessed had served to stoke, rather than vent, the Sahara Square Mob boss's anger. She could see it in the darkening of his ears and the flecks of foam dribbling from the corners of his mouth. What made it doubly frustrating was that it was all due to her presence. 'If there wasn't a cop here,' he'd said to 'The Painter,' and if there hadn't been he might have felt free to 'get it out of his system.' As it was, he'd been obliged to keep a large measure of his fury corked and bottled.

Still…wasn't that better than watching someone get whacked, even a thug like Vinnie Truffalini? Okay, fine...but now where the heck was she supposed to go from here?

The answer came to Judy almost at once; her best course of action right now would be—no course at all; just sit back and let Peccari start talking when he was ready. And so she remained stock still, waiting...silently waiting.

She didn't have to wait for very long…and when the Red Pig finally spoke again, it was no surprise that he came out of his corner with verbal dukes flying.

"Okay, so maybe Vinnie DIDN'T smell that guy Raymond, but my God-Sister Marie got a look at him too, and that was outside and in broad daylight!"

"Then why didn't she say so when the ZPD interviewed her?" Judy asked him, raising an ear. (She already knew, but was going to make him say it; she was rapidly beginning to loathe this angst-fueled javelina.)

Peccari's response was predictable—and also drenched in sarcasm.

"Hah, like Marie would ever tell YOU that! Unlike another family I could name, mine don't snitch!"

Biting her lip, Judy thought and thought hard. However unwittingly, the Red Pig had just touched upon his real issue with Mr. Big. She would get to that in a minute, but right now she had a tightrope to traverse.

Any policemammal will tell you that as reliable sources of evidence go, witness testimony stands at the foot of the heap. It was a fact the doe-bunny knew all too well, and from fursonal experience. One time, in the wake of an Outback Island bank robbery, she'd watched ten different animals give ten different descriptions of the suspects. (They hadn't even been able to agree on the perps' species.)

And those folks had been unbiased witnesses—something that Marie Tichor most definitely was not. She'd been nursing a grudge against Mr. Big since long before her husband's flower-shop had burned. Add to that the fact that Vinnie Truffalini was her flesh and blood brother and Judy would have bet a month's salary on it; Marie had decided it was Raymond she'd seen only after discussing the matter with her sibling.

Bottom line: She'd seen one of Mr. Big's polar bears fleeing the crime scene because that was who she'd WANTED to see.

Unfortunately, that was something Judy didn't dare point out to the Red Pig—not when he was already this close to the boiling point. Putting her thinking cap into overdrive, she remembered something else.

"Mr. Peccari, when I met with Mr. Big the other day he told me that Raymond has an alibi for the morning of the Flora and Fauna fire; he even checked it out, just to make sure."

That sent her host flying straight out of his chair again, not just angry but also incredulous.

"What, you expect me to believe what THE SHRIMP told you?"

"No," Judy responded coolly, "But if the evidence was there for him to find, it's there for you to find too." He only glowered at her, but that was enough; she moved quickly into the opening he'd left her. "Forgive me for stating the obvious. Mr. Peccari, but if there is a third party at work here…well, it goes without saying that they'd want you and Mr. Big to blame each other for those fires." It sounded like a pretty reasonable argument to her, but it sank like a sash-weight, almost at once.

"So...what happened?" The Red Pig scoffed, snorting loudly. "Someone just put an ad on Stagslist, 'Firebugs wanted, must be stinkin' polar bears?' Gimme a break awready!"

Judy blinked like a semaphore and stifled a groan. Put that way, it did sound absurd; if the animals that burned down Flora and Fauna hadn't been with Mr. Big, then where the heck HAD they come from? Even James 'The Mister' McCrodon couldn't have rounded up a pair of polar bear arsonists on such short notice.

On the other paw…

"That may be, Mr. Peccari, but the fact remains that the vast majority of polar bears living here in Zootopia have nothing to do with either Mr. Big or the Tundratown Mob. In any event, doesn't it behoove you to at least check Raymond's alibi for yourself? As I pointed out earlier, you have nothing to lose…by that or by agreeing to a cease fire. Time is on your side, remember? And whatever else you may think of Mr. Big, you know you can trust him to keep his word."

"Like HECK I can!" the Red Pig squealed, slamming a fist on the table beside him, and sending his drinking glass tumbling to the deck. This time his words carried more bitterness than anything else. "If the Shrimp can't be trusted even to follow the law of Omerta, then as far as I'm concerned, he can't be trusted, period!"

"Since when have you ever cared for the rules of Cosa Nostra?" Judy shot back, snappishly. Oops, now SHE was the one letting her anger off the leash. But dangit if this animal wasn't the most—all right, the most pigheaded individual she'd ever encountered. "Aren't YOU the one who's always saying those rules are a waste of time?"

"Not THAT one!" Peccari practically exploded out of his chair, voice rising from beyond a scream to nearly a roar. But then, surprisingly, he sat himself down again, speaking in a firm but quiet tone. "Okay, yeah, that ring-kissing, Don-whatever, pride-and-honor stuff is way past its expiration date—I'll give ya that—but NOT the rule of Omerta. That one never goes outta style; without it, there would be no Cosa Nostra. Mr. Big woulda said the same thing to you once." His face darkened and he turned and spat, "before that punk son-in-law of his gave up my jewelry store to the coppers." He seemed to have forgotten there was a police officer sitting opposite him.

No, that wasn't quite true, Judy decided. Fru-Fru might have forgotten it, the last time they'd talked, but the Red Pig simply didn't care.

And now they had traced the river of acrimony to its headwaters. But that was fine with Judy; she was ready for this, (she hoped.)

"Mr. Peccari…WAS that rule broken? Doesn't it apply only if you knowingly give up a mob-connected individual or business? Tad had no idea you were involved with the Rafaj Brothers when he bought that ring."

"Maybe not when he bought it," the Red Pig's snort was so loud it sounded like a lawnmower that refused to start. "But he knew later on…when he hadda take it back to have it resized. That's the REAL reason he went somewhere else to get the job done."

Judy felt her gut tighten. "He doesn't know that, not for sure; he just can't think of any other reason why Tad would have taken it somewhere else."

Maybe HE couldn't—but she could.

"Actually, Mr. Peccari, he took it somewhere else because Fru-Fru made him do it."

Nice try, but no dice; the javelina only wagged a triumphant finger.

"Right, that's HOW he found out I had a piece of that place—from her."

Taking a long, slow breath Judy counted to three. Ahhhh, was there any way to get through that thick hide of his?

"All right, but even if Tad did know you were a silent partner in that jewelry store, he's only a regular guy not a wiseguy. The rule of…" What the HECK?

Peccari had thrown back his head and was clutching his sides, laughing so hard it seemed as if he was going to shake loose all the bolts from his lounge-chair. Sweet- cheez n' crackers, what the heck had she just said?

It seemed like hours before he was able to speak again. And even then, it was only between gasps.

"Mr Big…" *Snork!* "...told you that?" *Snerk!*"

Judy felt her ears pull backwards.

"No, it was Fru-Fru…and I've always known," She said this and then added silently, "Mind letting me in on the joke?"

It took only a short moment for her wish to be granted. After another burst of guffaws, the Red Pig crooked a finger at his bodyguards.

"Kayo, why don't you and Jammer go downstairs for a minute?"

The smaller one objected immediately. "Boss, I don't think that's…"

"What, a bunny's gonna hurt me?" Peccari had jumped on his chair again, pointing towards the stairs with both index fingers, a gunfighter with a pair of six-shooters. "Go on, beat it. I'll call ya if I need ya."

Casting sidelong glances at Judy, the two enforcers slunk off towards the stairs and dropped quietly out of sight.

"And don't be listenin' in down there," the Red Pig called after them—and when he turned back to Judy he was…what the heck, what was he grinning for?

"Tell me something Hopps—that's your name right? Tell me Hopps, do ya like fairy tales? Well, that's good, coz I got a doozy for ya." (She had actually given him no indication.)

"Once upon a time," Peccari began, settling back in his chair and weaving the story with his fingers, "Once upon a time there was this robber-baron king who had this bee-YOO-diful daughter. The king loved his little girl very, very much. So much did he love her that he decreed she could marry anybody she wanted…but with one little term o' service. She could not marry a bandit, especially a member of her dad's gang; it hadda be an honest guy. Other than that, have at it."

Judy only stared, feeling her nose twitch and her foot trying to thump; a sour feeling was unwinding in her stomach.

She knew where he was going with this—and she didn't WANT to know.

But there would be no stopping it; Peccari was as relentless as a juggernaut in the telling of his tale.

"Then one day, the bandit princess met this handsome young builder an' the two of them fell head-over-heels for each other. An' so they went to the robber baron king, to ask for his permission to wed." He clasped his hooves together, smiling beatifically and gazing up at the ceiling. "An' oh-happy-day, the king gave the young couple his blessing, 'Yes my child you may wed this animal, if that's what you want.' An' so, they was married and lived happily ever after."

Watching helplessly, Judy could only grit her teeth and hold her breath. No way could that be the end of the story—and it wasn't. At once all the smarminess flew from the Red Pig's face, leaving behind only a seething contempt.

"Except what Daddy didn't tell his little girl was that the guy she'd married WAS a bandit...and not only a bandit, one of his guys. He woulda said so…but when he saw how much they loved each other, he couldn't bring himself to tell her the truth." He sat up and leaned forward. "Why, you ask? Because then he would have had to axe their plans to get married, and it woulda broken his daughter's heart." The sniff that followed may have been intended as sympathetic, but it came out as scornful instead. "An' so the princess married her beau, never knowing what he really was." His voice lowered to a murmur and slowed nearly to a crawl, "But daddy knew." And then it dropped to almost a whisper as he tapped himself on the chest, "An' I know!"

He sat back, with his arms folded, patting an elbow and waiting.

…for about half a second; Judy instantly jumped in with both feet.

"No way; I've met Tad Dennison…!"

It was as far as she got before another snorting laugh cut her off.

"Tad Dennison…I wanna die every time I hear that name." Peccari sat up even more sharply, elbows on his knees. "Sorry bunny, but no kewpie doll. His real name's Taddeo Di Nizza—and he ain't just Cosa Nostra, he's second generation Cosa Nostra. His pop only came here to Zootopia coz he was about to be indicted back in the old country and didn't wanna die in the can—bad ticker."

"That's impossible!" Judy snapped, fighting back the tears. It couldn't be true; no of course it wasn't. This was a mob boss she was talking to; mobsters lie all the time, don't they? "Like I said, I've MET Tad, or Taddeo, or whatever you want to call him; he talks like a college professor, not a wiseguy."

"Yeah, I know," the tone of Peccari's voice had become almost reasonable. "But do you wanna know something?" he pointed to the bulkhead on his left. "Take a look at that picture over there."

It wasn't hard to spot; it was the only thing there on that wall, a framed, black-and-white photograph of a javelina in a pinstriped suit, not a single bristle out of place; a vintage photo, by the look of it.

"That," the Red Pig intoned almost solemnly, "Was my great, great uncle Ferdinand Peccari, the Hell-Boar of Walrus Street they called him." He turned and winked. "Don't let the name fool ya though; he was one of the good guys, a government lawyer, the scourge of the dirty bankers." His voice lowered once again to a near murmur, "the real crooks." Swept away by the memory, he seemed to be talking mostly to himself. But then he shrugged it off and zeroed in on Judy once again. "When he emigrated from the old country as a piglet, Uncle Ferdinand didn't even speak the language. By the time he graduated law school, he talked more ivy-covered than your Tad DENNISON ever could. I know; I heard the recordings." He snorted again, and then started banging his hoof on the arm of his lounge-chair, hammering in time with every point that he made. "So don't tell me it ain't possible, rabbit. The Shrimp's son-in-law IS Costa Nostra, the rule of Omerta DOES apply to him, an' he IS a dirty snitch!"

Judy tried to answer, but the Red Pig was only just warming up.

"Ya know something, Hopps? If Taddeo hadn't been mobbed up, I coulda lived with what he did. Those punk jackals deserve everything they get, trying to run blood diamonds behind my back. I hope the city locks 'em up until Dawn Bellwether gets re-elected mayor."

"They why…?" the doe-bunny cried out in exasperation, somehow managing to get a word in edgewise. Peccari was instantly standing on his chair again—and now the storm broke.

"Don't you get it, ya idjit rabbit? It ain't the snitching that hacks me off; it's the stinkin' HYPOCRISY!" He stabbed a finger at a corner of the cabin, presumably in the direction of Tundratown, "For as long as I've known him, The Shrimp's been lecturing me and my guys on the rules of Cosa Nostra, 'don't do this', 'don't do that,' 'don't do the other.'" He snorted and spat on the floor again, and then threw up his hooves, his voice once more becoming that ragged scream. "But let HIS precious sonny-in-law break the most important rule of ALL and it's, 'Ahhhh, Fuggedaboutit!'"

He dropped back into his seat again, no longer screaming but still smoldering.

"Well, I ain't gonna forget about it, see? This time The Shrimp went too far."

Finally, he seemed to have spent himself. Taking another long, slow breath, Judy waited until she was certain he'd finished, and then spoke quietly.

"All right Mr. Peccari, what is it that you want?"

The question seemed to instantly revive him.

"What I want," he grunted, "Is for you to get the heck off my boat."

Judy stared in disbelief; did he really just tell her to…?

"Wh-What?"

"You heard me," the Red Pig informed her coldly, "You delivered the Shrimp's message, now take a hike." Without waiting for a response, he lifted his snout and called over her shoulder. "Jammer...Kayo! Get back up here."

The two bodyguards appeared almost at once.

"Yeah, Boss?"

He pointed to the stairway.

"Put this dumb bunny here in the Zodyak an' take her back to the dock; I've had enough a' this."

"All right, let's go," said the larger one, grabbing her by the arm and hauling her to her feet. She let him, but then immediately shook him off.

""You keep your sticky hooves off of me, jerk." she hissed, brushing herself where he'd touched her. And then she turned on the Red Pig. "As for you Peccari, I delivered Mr. Big's message; now here's one from the ZPD." She thrust a finger in his direction, "Even if no civilians get hurt, it'll go bad enough for you if you choose to retaliate for the Flora and Fauna fire—but if that does happen, if any innocents DO get caught in the middle," she tapped herself with a pair of fingers, "especially if it's another police officer—then you're going to find yourself at war not only with Mr. Big, but with US as well." Slapping her paws on her hips, she leaned forward, showing her incisors. "And you know what?" she added quietly, "I don't think even you can handle us both at once,"

Whoa, who would have thought that a javelina's eyes could get so big? At once Rocco Peccari's peepers expanded to the size of tangerines while his ears went from crimson to almost purple. For a moment, he was too stunned to speak. The same could not be said for Judy's inner voice however, which at the moment was giving a fine impression of a wailing banshee, "What are you DOING, you dumb bunny? You were told NOT to threaten him!"

"Relax, I got this," she answered back. Or somebody answered back; it couldn't have been her who'd said that; no, not ME!

It took The Red Pig all of two and a half heartbeats to recover from his shock. And then he all but blasted out his chair with tusks clashing. Bits of spittle flew from the corners of his mouth as he stalked towards Judy, answering her finger with a quivering one of his own.

"You think…you can come here…on MY boat…and talk to ME…!"

That was all he managed before the doe-bunny threw down her trump card

"Lieutenant Saw knows where I am!" she snapped, stopping Peccari in mid stride, "And he wants me back safe and dry." Pointing at the stairs behind her, she sneered, "Safe and dry…or your pleasure barge goes bye-bye! Sweet cheez n' crackers, did that come out of ME?"

The Red-Pig seemed to be wondering the same thing, staring goggle-eyed once more at the bunny cop. Judy would later liken his appearance to a fire-hydrant on the verge of blowing its gaskets.

And then he let loose his loudest scream yet.

"GET…HER…OUTTA HERE!"

At once, the bodyguards closed in on her, but this time, she was ready.

"Don't touch me; I can find my own way." (She actually had no idea where the Zodyak was berthed.) And with that she turned and marched back down the stairs, all dignity, with the pair of Razorbacks following close at her heels.

Locating the yacht's service boat turned out to be a slam dunk; the moment Judy returned to the after-deck, there it was, mounted to a pair of davits hanging over the rear transom; elephant gray in color, sleek and stubby, all at the same time. As she came closer, Judy saw that another pig was already standing at the control console. It made her wonder if Peccari hadn't planned all along to cut their meeting short. Mmmm-maybe; it certainly fit in with everything else she'd seen of him so far.

"C'mon cutie, get a move on; what're you waitin' for, a sign from heaven?"

It was the boar behind the Zodyak's wheel, grizzled and gruff, wearing a Greek Fishermammal's cap and a tropical shirt that made the one Nick Wilde favored look like Goth wear. It was clear though that he was less irked with her than afraid of what his boss might do if he didn't get this blankety-blank bunny off his yacht right now!

Still…he had said the 'C' word. And so, instead of climbing into the tender, Judy leaped over the transom in a high arc, landing squarely in front of the control console and causing the craft to rock violently on its moorings—nearly pitching the pilot over the side and into the drink.

"HEY!"

"Don't call me cute," Judy informed him curtly, seating herself on the nearest cushion. The grizzled pig only glared at her for a second and then whirled his hoof in the air, the signal to lower away.

The ride back to the quay took surprisingly less time than Judy would have expected. Either this Zodyak was faster than it looked or the Red Pig's yacht hadn't traveled all that far after casting off from the Palm Hotel mooring dock; probably a bit of both.

Still, it gave her some time for reflection.

Had she blown it? No, that wasn't how it felt, not at all; it was more as if she'd been wasting her time all along. Peccari had never intended to accept Mr. Big's offer of a truce—and the fact that he'd kept his yacht so close to shore while they'd been talking lent some serious weight to the notion. Judy was more convinced than ever now that he'd planned all along to terminate the meeting prematurely.

But then something else dawned on her; he hadn't really rejected Mr. Big's offer either; he'd never said an actual 'no' to the arctic shrew's proposal, he hadn't really said anything at all. What was this, more jockeying for position, another move in their ongoing game of Cosa Nostra chess? Ahhh, there was so much she didn't understan…

"'Kay, we're here…out!"

Dropping quickly out of her reverie, Judy saw that the Zodyak had eased up next to a floating dock at the foot of the Palm Hotel pier.

Without a word she hopped out of the boat and onto the deck, leaping up the stairs and taking them five at a time.

She knew what was coming; Lieutenant Saw or no Lieutenant Saw that pig at the Zodyak's helm had payback on his mind for nearly getting dunked. Sure enough, gunning the motor, he swirled the launch in a fast doughnut, drenching the dock in an oil-sheened wave.

Close—but no carrot. By then Judy was already near the top of the stairs, well out of range of the filthy water. Coming level with the pier, the first thing she saw was Vern Rodenberg, parked on the hood of the Montarpan, laying back against the windshield with his jacket off and his paws laced behind his head. At the doe-bunny's approach, he stood and buffed his paws over his muzzle, as rats are known to do.

"Hmmmm, judging by that little display, I'd say things did not go smoothly." He was pointing with nose at the stairs leading down to the floating-dock.

"No," Judy informed him crisply, "they didn't go at all."

"Ahhhh, too bad," the grey rat shook his head, sounding genuinely sympathetic, "But for what it's worth, Hopps, you did the right thing."

"Thanks," she responded, perhaps a little more dryly than she'd intended.

Rodenberg only nodded and then slipped on his jacket and sat down again, sliding down the hood of the vehicle and dropping onto the ground below. "Well," he said, straightening up again, "like they say in the movies, 'let's get outta here.'"

It was the best suggestion Judy had heard all day.

The rat was mercifully silent during the drive back to ZTP Airport. That was both good and bad; good, because the doe-bunny was in no mood to discuss the favor owed him by the ZPD. The bad came from the fact that she'd always hate, hate, hated the tension of waiting for the other foot to thump.

When they got to the airport parking lot however, something happened. Judy was just about to turn onto Red Lot C, where Rodenberg had left his car, when the grey rat suddenly pointed straight ahead. "Keep going, go to Red Lot D."

Judy turned with her nose twitching, "Wha…? That's the limo lot."

"Don't argue, just do it." Her passenger's voice was a barked command—and also exactly the wrong way to talk to this rabbit. If bunnies had bristles, hers would have risen in defiance.

"I don't think so, Mr. Ro…"

His manner instantly changed; imperious to earnest in less than a second.

"Hopps, you can either trust me now, or wish you'd trusted me later. What's it gonna be?" His eyes were a pair of glistening black marbles.

Judy bypassed Lot C and continued on to Lot D.

Taking the ticket from the dispenser, she regarded Rodenberg curiously again. "It's covered," was all he said, and then pointed through the driver's-side window. "All right, go to space 29….but don't go the short way, drive around the outside of the lot."

Judy sighed and complied with his instructions. Skirting the perimeter of the limo lot, she understood, at least in part, why he had brought her to this particular place. Nearly all of the vehicles here were either black or white and most of them were in SUV configuration. Singling out her Montarpan in this sea of sameness would be like trying to pick out one, solitary penguin from a flock of hundreds. Had that been part of the plan all along? What the heck WAS the plan?

"Over there, near that line of trees, see it?" Rodenberg was pointing again.

Judy squinted through the windshield, "The one next to the light-pole?"

"Yeah."

Easing the SUV into the designated space, Judy cut the engine and looked at her passenger again.

"Ohhh-kayyy, now what?"

"Now, will you crack my door please?" Rodenberg asked her. He was already unbuckling himself from the rodent-seat.

Judy reached over and pulled the handle. "All right, but what…?"

"I can't be here," was all he said, and then jumped down to the floor and skittered out through the passenger door, landing in a three point stance. At once, the doe-bunny spotted something

"Wait, you forgot your briefcase." She said, picking it up with a thumb and forefinger, she held it out in the rat-attorney's direction.

He only waved a bony paw.

"Meet me back at my car when you're done here; you can return it to me then." Without waiting for a reply he dropped to all fours and went scurrying away beneath the nearest limousine—in the direction of Lot C, the doe-bunny couldn't help but no…

A shadow fell across her from behind, and she turned, startled.

"Whoa, where the heck did HE come from?"

Someone was standing at the Montarpan's driver's side window, a wild boar; jet-black fur, a natty suit and thin almost to the point of being gaunt.

And then there was that rolling motion with the hoof again—and so Judy lowered her window; this time with a lot more trepidation than before.

"Yes?" she asked, putting on her best brave face.

"You Hopps?" the black pig asked her, hunkering down to bring his face level with hers.

"Mmm, yeah, that's me," Judy answered him, still trying to keep her cool.

By way of response, he nodded at the passenger door.

"My name's Porcini, Joe Porcini. Open up; we need to talk."

At the disclosure of this name, the doe bunny relaxed a little. Joey 'The Shadow' Porcini, the Red Pig's consigliere, another mobster with an appropriate nickname; she'd been wondering why she hadn't seen him on the yacht.

Only…what the heck was he doing here?

"C'mon, c'mon, open the stinkin' door!" He was glancing around, beginning to sound anxious and frustrated. "C'mon, you're not in any danger, bunny—I am. If the Red Pig ever finds out about this, he'll have me whacked before sundown; open UP!"

Judy unlocked the passenger door again and waited, wondering how Porcini intended to fit himself into such a small space. She needn't have concerned herself. Thin as he was, it was snug, but not an especially cramped fit for him, (although he did have to get rid of the rodent-seat first.)

She decided at once to dispense with any pleasantries.

"All right Mr. Porcini, what do you want?"

He shifted in his seat, seeming not to have heard her; or maybe he had.

"There's a lot my boss didn't tell you, bunny, a lot that he couldn't tell you—but it's stuff you need to know—that the ZPD needs to know if we're not gonna see a gang war in this town."

"Uh-huh," Judy nodded, a little pleased but still wary. That was hardly an adequate explanation, "Only first you need to tell me why you're doing this." and then to herself, she added, "Kay, here comes the hemming and hawing,"

But the black pig answered with no hesitation whatsoever.

"Because…I think you're right, Hopps." He leaned towards her as best he could in the tight space. "I don't think it was Mr. Big that had the boss's properties torched. In fact, I'm about 90% certain that the Flora and Fauna job wasn't carried out on his orders. That one, at least, had someone else pulling the strings."

Judy clenched her fist to hide her excitement; had she really just heard what she thought she'd heard? Her former partner had been right all along; she almost wished he was here...almost. "Easy, easy…draw this pig out." She told herself. "And what makes you think so?" she asked him, trying to sound skeptical. Whatever it was it had nothing to do with the conversation she'd just had with the Red Pig; of that much she was more than certain.

Porcini checked the mirrors before answering her, "Something that happened during the sit-down at the Shrew's place; not what was said, but what wasn't said."

"Huh?" Judy's nose was twitching and if it hadn't been resting on the gas pedal, her foot would have been thumping.

"What I'm about to tell you ain't anything the ZPD don't already know," the black pig spoke loudly, as if someone might be listening in from outside, "so I'm NOT being a snitch over here, We had an entire crew of Razorbacks waiting for Mr. Big's goons inside that flower shop. It shoulda been a slaughter…and it was, except we were the ones who got our tails kicked. You saw Vinnie the Painter on the boss's boat, right? None of the other guys in that crew came off much better and a couple of 'em came off a lot worse. We got one guy that's a basket case and is probably gonna stay that way for the rest of his life." He held up a pair of quivering fingers. "And just two polar bears did that; only TWO of 'em!"

Drumming her fingers on her knee, Judy pondered for a second. Everything he'd said was true; ZPD forensics had confirmed it several times over.

And yet…up until this moment, no one had said a word to her about it, not Fru-Fru, not Mr. Big, not Chief Bogo, not Lt. Saw, not Vernon Rodenberg, not even the Red Pig himself. It was as if the subject was taboo, not just the elephant in the room, but a full-grown mastodon!

"All right, but I'm not quite sure I understand the significance." Judy informed him with a forced shrug. She actually had a vague idea, but wanted to hear it from him.

"Because," Porcini was leaning towards her again, pointing at himself with a pair of fingers. "If Mr. Big has that kind of firepower to throw at us, then why hasn't he used it—or at least threatened to use it? That's what I thought for sure was gonna happen when I went to that sit-down, an instant replay of everything that went down inside of Flora and Fauna, followed by a warning. 'Back off right NOW or that's only a sample of what we got in store for you!'"

"But that's not what happened, I take it?" Judy asked, hiding her excitement yet again.

"What are you kiddin' me?" the black boar was staring in disbelief. "Big never even mentioned it—and then when I tried to bring it up, he got mad and accused me of 'spinning fairy tales.' Next thing I know, we're all screaming at each other."

"So THAT'S what started it," Judy thought but didn't say. Instead she said, "And was that when Vinnie 'The Painter' accused Raymond of having been one of the bears that set the fire?

Porcini's look was half pained, half amused. "Yeah, that's right; I never shoulda brought him with me, except the boss insisted. That's what really set things off."

That was also what made Judy decide it was time to lay down one of her aces. But first she needed to soften this boar up a little.

"I guess what you heard about what nearly happened to him on the Red Pig's yacht just now," she said.

"Yeah," the black boar grunted in rueful humor, "Vinnie's lucky he didn't get thrown in the drink; probably woulda if he wasn't too hurt to swim." He shook his head again, "The boss really should have known better than to send him to that meeting; the poor guy's so pumped full of painkillers right now, he hardly knows what planet he's on."

Judy smiled, nodded knowingly—and then lowered the boom, leaning suddenly in his directions with a narrow gaze.

"Except what really set things off, Mr. Porcini, was when YOU threatened Mr. Big's daughter."

His squeal was almost loud enough to crack the windshield.

"Wha…? I NEVER threatened her; the Red Pig'd skin me alive if I did a stupid thing like that!" He was thumping himself in the chest genuinely outraged.

"Then what the heck did you say?" Judy was folding her arms, pretending not to buy it. "If I hadn't heard it from Fru-Fru, I would never have believed her father could lose it like that."

Porcini groaned, shut his eyes and shook all over for a second. "Ahhh, how do I ever get into these things? All I said was, 'You can't keep Tad being a made guy a secret from your kid forever'—and the little idiot took it as a threat that I was gonna let her know." He sat back in his seat, nodding tightly, almost to himself. "But that was when I knew for sure; there could be only one reason Mr. Big wouldn't bring up those 'super-bears' when he was that mad. And that was coz he didn't have any; whoever those guys in that flower shop were, they hadn't been with him."

"Did you mention any of this to the Red Pig?" Judy asked him; another dumb-bunny question that couldn't be avoided.

The black boar's expression was a mixture of bitter and sour.

"Yeah, and now you know why he left me behind on the dock just now,"

"Didn't want to hear it, huh?" Judy asked him with a knowing shrug. Yep, that sounded like the Rocco Peccari she'd just met.

"Pretty much," Porcini nodded, grimly, "That's how he is sometimes. But look…I said there was a lot he didn't tell you. F'rinstance, what he said about Fru-Fru's hubby being a wiseguy? Yeah, that's true but it's only part of the story. Tad Dennison never wanted into the life. He only agreed to be made in order to please his dad; it was the old guy's dying wish. Other than that, even though he's technically part of the Tundratown mob, he's clean as a whistle; that aircraft company he works for? It's strictly legit, and so is everything else he does. He's planning to start his own outfit and won't take a penny from his father-in-law to make it happen." His face crinkled for a second, "Though I think that's mostly coz Fru-Fru would bust in his head if he did." Judy nearly responded with a laugh, but then pulled up short. The black boar's expression had just turned almost deathly serious. "Believe me, if that wasn't the case, Mr. Big would never have let her anywhere near that guy, whatever her feelings for him."

"I see," Judy nodded, although it was hard for her to understand anything right now; her brain felt like it was riding a runaway merry-go-round. Dangit, trying to get a handle on La Cosa Nostra was like trying to catch eels blindfolded; just when you think you've got a grip on one, it slips away from you. "But if that's the case, then why is the Red Pig making such a big deal out of it?"

"He wouldn't be, if his properties weren't getting burned down," Porcini explained, slipping another piece of the puzzle into place. "But they are, and so he's desperate to look like the innocent party here, a guy with every right to have Mr. Big's properties torched—even if he didn't give the order."

"All right, but WHY, Consigliere?" By now, Judy was thoroughly exasperated. This conversation was a bigger waste of time than the interview on the yacht had been.

Porcini answered her in an almost funereal tone.

"Because of the reason I'll get whacked if the Red Pig ever finds out I was talking to you." Checking the mirrors again, he leaned in close, holding a hoof against the side of his face as though to shield his mouth from any lip-readers that might be watching. "Mr. Big isn't the only wiseguy trying to get out of the rackets here; so is my boss."

"WHAT?" Judy reeled back so suddenly, she felt her head bang the glass of the driver's side window.

"Yeah that's right," the black boar told her, pursing his lips and nodding. "Not for anything like the same reason as The Big Shrew you unnerstan', but yeah, he's trying to pull the plug." He took in a small, snorting breath. "Look Hopps, you know what 'an offer you can't refuse is', right?"

She was tempted to come back with something sarcastic, but managed to keep her voice on at least a semi-even keel. "Yes, I've seen the movie."

Porcini held up that pair of fingers again.

"Yeah, well it so happens there's actually two different kinds; the one where you're dead if you turn it down, and the one where you're an idiot if you say no."

"And which kind is this?" Judy asked; she had already regained most of her composure.

"All of the above," the black pig snuffled, scratching behind an ear. And then his head tilted upwards by a few degrees. "Y'ever hear of a guy named Sheldon Camelson?"

The name was vaguely familiar, but the doe-bunny couldn't quite place it.

"Mmmm, no…I don't really know that name."

"He's a big time casino-operator out of Macaow," Porcini informed her, "and I mean big as in huge. He has joints in the Baahamas, Singapaw, Vegoats, Ewerope, you name it...and a pair a' cruise-ships on top of it; he's got tons of money and also some serious political connections. He owns a yacht that makes the one the boss has look like a bathtub toy. That was where I met the guy, and I hadda wait until he was done talking to the South Afurican Foreign Minister before I could see him." He paused for effect, perhaps two or three seconds, and then dropped it, "And now he's making a play to add the Palm Hotel Casino to his collection."

Judy's head nearly banged against the glass again.

"Oh, sweet cheez' and crackers, and what the HECK?"

Notes:

Owing to some health issues, it's been longer than usual since my last post. However, they've been dealt with and I should be back on track now.

Chapter 8: A Rock and a Hard Place (Cont'd...Part 7)

Summary:

Nick interviews the Rafaj Brothers...and ends up with more questions than answers.

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 1—A Rock and a Hard Place
(Continued… Part 7)

In nature, there is always a price to pay. Whatever gift she gives; whatever blessing she bestows; they always come with terms and conditions.

For example, turn out the lights in any room and you'll see the species possessed of excellent night vision, (I,e. foxes,) taking longer to adjustment to the darkness than the animals not so visually endowed, (I.e, a bunny.)

And 'lights out' was coming up very shortly for Nicholas Piberius Wilde.

Fortunately, he was ready; when the sign he was looking for came into view—Exit 129, Nocturnal District, 2 ½ Miles—he immediately pulled out a pair of red-tinted sunglasses and snapped them open with flourish. It was a hack he'd originally picked up from Finnick, an old submariner's gimmick...used to get a jump on the transition when climbing topside for a nighttime torpedo run.

Fixing the shades into place on his muzzle, Nick started to whistle; an off-key version of 'Darkness, Darkness'—an obscure tune whose history he couldn't quite recall at the moment. Ah well, no matter; the song fit quite nicely into his current state of affairs. Mmmm dang, but it was good to be back in action again, better than he could ever have imagined.

He was seated behind the wheel of Little Sparky, one of three electrically-powered cruisers operating out of Precinct-1—and the only one small enough to accommodate a fox. Even so, the machine wasn't quite Nick's size; he'd had to sit on a cushion to see where he was going. That was bad enough; what was worse was having to crank the seat up nearly all the way to the dashboard in order to reach the pedals. It was a cumbersome arrangement, but also entirely necessary. In an underground zone like the Nocturnal District, exhaust fumes have nowhere to go but into the lungs of the local residents. And so, except for a few emergency service vehicles, only hybrids or electrics were permitted to operate down there. Everyone else had to park their cars as soon as they entered the district and switch over to either public transport or a short-term rental—rentals that, luckily, were readily available at a nominal cost.

Rolling through the Riverside neighborhood on the Z-205, Nick was fully aware of whom he had to thank for his current assignment. He dearly wished that he could thank her in furson, but that, of course, was a non-starter; he couldn't even speak to her over the phone right now, another unpleasant but necessary arrangement.

And that wasn't the only thing the fox had kept to himself on this fine Zootopia morning.

Upon learning that the Rafaj Brothers had been transferred to the Precinct 7 jail, he'd been a mite less impressed by The Chief's reasoning than a certain bunny-cop. No, the Red Pig wouldn't send any of HIS soldiers into the Nocturnal District—but with the kind of money he had to burn, it wouldn't be necessary. He could easily hire a couple of independent guns to do the job, animals that would be perfectly at home in the darkness of Zootpia's nocturnal zone—and also completely inconspicuous. (There are only about a zillion aggressive species that operate mostly at night.)

Nick had said nothing of this to Chief Bogo however. After finally getting called back to duty, he wasn't about to risk blowing the deal now. And so, for once, he'd managed to keep his fox-trap shut.

Okay, there was the exit, a ramp descending into the maw of a downward-sloping tunnel. He put on his signal and eased the cruiser over into the right lane.

The sunshades he was wearing turned out to be almost unnecessary—almost. Little Sparky wasn't plunged into an immediate darkness; the lights in the tunnel faded gradually, each one being just a little bit dimmer than the one preceding it. Emerging from the viaduct, Nick stowed the glasses, able to see almost perfectly in the eternal twilight of Zootopia's underground zone.

None of the animals who lived here ever referred to the Nocturnal District by its given name; to the older residents it was Nocturnia, while the younger generation, with their ever-present taste for the slightly macabre, knew it as Darktown.

It was something of a bedroom community; more than a few of the locals worked the night shift in one of the districts up above, and then returned here to rest during daylight hours.

Turning left onto Cereus Parkway, Nick skirted the shore of Lake Purrsephone, the almost perpetually placid underground reservoir that bisected the district's east side. Whenever he came near to the shoreline, the water swirled with a galaxy of blue sparkles; the light of more than a billion noctiluca organisms, disturbed into bioluminescence by the passing of the cruiser. It was something the fox had never gotten used to; not the infinite glowing pinpricks, but the fact that the air down here was always as still as a contemplative thought. There was there was almost never any wind to be had in this place.

About that lighting, though:

At no time, and in no place, did Zootopia's Nocturnal District descend into complete darkness; the ambient light at any given moment could best be likened to a playhouse, after the lights dim. In times past, such illumination as existed down here had been supplied mostly by bioluminescence. To a degree, it still was, but with several added improvements, courtesy of the wonders of modern science.

The acronym for the technology was EABIL which stood for Enhanced Artificial BIo-Luminescence. As the name implied, it consisted of a synthetic bioluminescent organism which, with the addition of a low voltage current, could be 'stimulated' into producing a greater and more reliable light than its naturally occurring cousins. Already the technology was beginning to find its way upstairs, and into the greater Zootopia Metro area; it was especially popular with movie theaters and upscale restaurants. There was even talk of installing it in Animalia.

Of the several firms down here dealing in EABIL technology, the biggest and oldest was the Foxfire Corporation.

Foxfire…

That name never failed to slightly irritate Nick Wilde whenever he heard it. The title notwithstanding, there wasn't a single member of his species sitting on the company's board of directors. In fact, if you were a fox, it was difficult even to get a job there.

Annnd, speak of the Devil, there up ahead on the left he could see the intersecting domes of Foxfire's main manufacturing plant. Right next door were the sprawling hexagonal pyramids of Banano LLC. It was a strategic placement to say the least; EABIL was, after all, an offshoot of nanotechnology.

And that was the other thing about the Nocturnal District; it was also Zootopia's high-tech zone. Visiting tourists never failed to be surprised by the news when they heard it—although they shouldn't have been. An underground location is ideal for any business requiring temperature control. It was why the up-and-coming firm of Impawssible Meats was also based down here.

Ahhh, Impawssible; now there was a Cinderelka story for you. Founded two years previously by a nearly penniless Asian black rat, within six months the plant-based meat company had taken Zootopia's predator community by storm. Nick himself was enamored of their products, and so were most of the other preds he knew; Wolford and Grizzoli ate practically nothing else these days.

Founded by a rat…

It brought up another paradox of the Nocturnal District. Many of the animals living here belonged to species the average mammal would never think of as nocturnal. For instance, how many folks know that hippopotami are active mostly at night? Rivers are where they go to rest and dodge the heat during daylight hours; after dark is when they leave the water to feed. It was for this reason that there were more than a few hippos living down here—including Deputy Police Chief Isobel Hedjet, the officer in charge of ZPD Precinct 7; Nick had an appointment coming up with her very shortly.

Not to say there weren't plenty of species down here one would expect to come out only at night. And unsurprisingly, a great many of them hailed from regions with sweltering daytime temperatures; perhaps two thirds of the animals living here were either desert or jungle species. There were binturongs, jerboas, sugar gliders, kangaroo rats, kinkajous, fennec-foxes, (Finnick had been born here,) and the animals now flying over the fox's head in a what seemed like a never-ending aerial procession, the largest concentration of bats in the city of Zootopia.

Nick knew enough about their species to know that the seemingly aimless river of beating wings overhead was anything but random. The traffic patterns up above were as intricate and well defined as anything down here on the parkway.

Another thing he knew was that when it comes to being stereotyped, a fox has nothing on a bat. For instance, conventional wisdom has it that all bats are more-or-less the same size as rats. In fact they range in proportion from larger than a kit-fox to nearly as small as a shrew. But even that's not the biggest prejudice their species has to face; certainly not the most wounding.

Most bats, the majority of them, feed on insects, while the larger 'fox-bats' dine on fruit. At least one species of bat uses its echo-locating abilities to catch and eat fish; there are even bats that subsist largely on plant nectar. Of the thousands upon thousands of species of Chiropterans, there is one—exactly one—that feeds on blood. Yet, how many times had Nick seen it? A bat flying overhead and the animal next to him clutching almost instinctively at their throat; it was almost enough to make him fox-scream. Even if the animal up above HAD been a vampire bat, they never fed that way.

Passing directly beneath the stream of beating wings, Nick found himself immersed in a babel of what seemed like a million high-pitched conversations, inaudible to most mammals, but not to a fox's finely-tuned ears. And then, as he came out from underneath the throng, the chittering voices vanished quickly as they had come.

Approaching a traffic circle, he angled around to the right and turned onto Eclipse Boulevard, heading into the heart of the Nocturnal Zone.

Nocturnia, or Darktown if you prefer, was Zootopia's fourth largest district, after Savanna Central, The Rainforest District, and Tundratown. Shaped roughly like a crescent cookie, it extended from the edge of the Palm Hotel to the Vine Country neighborhood. With the possible exception of Old Growth City, it was easily the most 'organic' of the city's ecosystems. The district's engineers had made ingenious use of the district's myriad stalactites and stalagmites. Reinforcing and extending them, they had transformed them into floor-to ceiling pillars, and then filled in the space between with geodetic construction. In terms of square feet occupied, some of the biggest buildings in Zootopia were down here. (Until the completion of the Oswald Tower, the Nocturnal District's Luna Complex had been THE largest structure in the city.)

Turning left onto Cricket's-Chirp Street, Nick spotted his destination directly upahead, the squat, ugly, wedding-cake of ZPD Precinct-7. Curiously, the main entrance was almost a carbon copy of the one fronting Precinct-1, (except rendered in black granite rather than limestone.)

"Now let's see," the fox thoughtfully stroked his chin, "The police vehicle entrance should beeeee…ah, there it is."

Presenting his badge at the reception desk, he was immediately directed to Chief Hedjet's office. Unlike Chief Bogo, her private sanctum was located downstairs rather than upstairs—and while her office was somewhat smaller than his; her personality was anything but. Bouncy and bluff, she shared the big Cape buffalo's straightforward manner...but not his perpetual grouchiness; this hippo had a sense of humor.

"Kissing a bunny..." she sighed, after she and Nick had exchanged greetings, "Ahhh, the things we do to keep this city safe, huh? Still…it's better than having one of my species all over your tail."

"Yep that was the choice," the red fox answered, deciding instantly that he liked this hippo. "I understand you've got...what's his name again? Oh yes, you've got Rashid down here too, right?" He was referring to another hippo, the Rafaj Brothers' former security guard, currently awaiting trial for assaulting a police officer—and, unlike a certain young silver-fox; HE had attacked with malice aforethought.

That thought quickly triggered another one, a sharp rebuke from Nick Wilde's inner voice. "Forget about that kid and stay focused on the Rafaj Brothers!"

If the hippo had caught his change of expression she didn't show it. Instead, she cocked a fat thumb at the door.

"Yeah, we've got him locked up over in the booby-hatch," (ZPD slang for the city's psych-ward jail, also located down here.) There was a measure of contempt in her voice, and Nick understood why almost immediately. She didn't like it when another hippo gave her species a bad name. The fox could relate; he felt the same way about miscreant members of his species—such as…"Heyyy, what did I just say? FORGET about that kid right now!"

Nick threw the thought back in its box and shut the padlock; that was a subject for another time and place.

"What about his bosses, the Rafaj Brothers," he said, "Heard anything interesting from them yet?"

Chief Hedjet slowly shook her head. For some reason, it ushered another thought into Nick's psyche. While she wasn't quite as big as Rashid, in a stand-up fight between them, you wouldn't want to bet on the bull hippo. Her lighter bulk notwithstanding, this lady looked like she had some serious muscle—and the moves to go with it.

"Not a peep," she said, "but then, they haven't been here that long, and their lawyer showed up right after they did; so far he's managed to keep a lid on things." She folded her arms and snorted, "Don't get any mistaken ideas though; now that it's out in the open that they're tangled up with The Red Pig, those boys can't wait to talk."

"Way to go, Carrots!" The thought bloomed in Nick's head before he was able to bite it off. "Aghhh….Grrrr! Where the heck did THAT come from?" Sheesh, his brain had a mind of its own this morning.

To cover himself, he said quickly. "From the tone of your voice, I get the feeling that Rocco Peccari is not one of your favorite animals."

"No, he isn't," the cow-hippo's voice had turned to ice-water, "When the Palm Hotel opened that underground annex down here last year, Peccari put the word on the street; 'this is MY territory; everyone else stay out.'"

"Whoa," Nick gasped and let out a low whistle. "I can think of a certain vampire bat who probably didn't like that very much." Holy foxtrot, no wonder the Red Pig was on her jerk-list.

"You're right, he didn't," his host snorted—but then, surprisingly, she shrugged and said, "But then all of a sudden, just like that, Peccari backed off and went sour grapes on the place. 'Ahhh, I didn't really want that joint anyway.' Nobody in the precinct could figure out why he did that…until we heard about his troubles with Mr. Big." A crooked smile snaked across her muzzle. "After that, it was a no-brainer; the Red Pig's one crazy stinker but even he won't take on two other crime families at once."

"You got that right." Nick's nod was stone cold, sober. "And right now, Carrots is going toe-to-toe with that…Dangit, STAY FOCUSED!" Clearing his throat he said, "If you don't mind, though…"

"They're in the interview room waiting for you." Chief Hedjet had caught his drift immediately, "I'll have someone take you there right away."

The 'interview room' was actually a geodetic hemisphere, one of several lined up inside a larger structure resembling a freight warehouse. It reminded Nick of a radar dome except that it was dotted with triangles, rendered in translucent glass.

Entering the enclosure, Nick noted that the walls were lined with egg-carton foam to help prevent any sound from escaping. Glancing upwards for a second, he saw a pair of trapeze-perches hanging from the ceiling, presumably intended for the questioning of any bats pulled in for lawbreaking. The lighting was bright but not harsh.

The bulk of the fox's attention however was reserved for the pair of jackals seated at a table in front of him, this time done up in orange jumpsuits. They had a donkey of some kind sitting on their right—presumably their attorney—annnd what was his name again? Oh yeah…Arsia, Frank Arsia, and his actual species was kulan.

At the sight of their interrogator, the jackals' faces tilted sideways in the classic canine expression of surprise and curiosity. Apparently, they hadn't been informed of the fursonell change.

"Where is the rabbit?" the one on the left asked—and dangit, which brother was he? With both of them clad in the same shapeless coveralls, it was difficult to tell them apart. Oh well, a quick sniff would solve that problem. Lifting his muzzle, Nick drew in a short breath. Ismael—it was Ismael who'd asked him the question.

"She's…busy," he answered, pulling up a chair and seating himself.

"Hmmm," a grin that Nick didn't like very much unzipped itself around the other jackal's muzzle. And then Ahmed turned and winked at his brother. "Well then, I guess we shall just have to settle for the fox that KISSED her," He said this and was rewarded with an uproarious burst of laughter from his younger sibling; even their lawyer couldn't resist smiling a little.

Nick, for his part, wasn't smiling—but only because he was forcing himself to stay serious. If the elder jackal had thought to rattle him with that remark, he had sorely erred in his judgement. In point of fact, the fox had been hoping to get the subject of 'that kiss' out of the way as quickly as possible…and now Ahmed had just provided him with a nearly perfect opening.

"Don't remind me," he groaned, removing a voice recorder from his belt pack and dropping it sullenly on the table, as if it was a losing poker hand. "I've taken soooo much heat for that."

That was enough to mellow things out a little—but not to change the subject.

"It's your own fault you know, calling the bunny who was supposedly your betrothed 'Carrots'," Ismael flipped a paw, and studied him for a second, no longer sneering but merely curious. "Not very sly for a fox, I must tell you; what on earth were you thinking?"

"What can I say, I've always called her by that name," Nick shrugged so hard his shoulders seemed to rise above his cheeks, "And she's so used to it that it doesn't bother her anymore." He regarded the brothers with his own head tilting sideways. "You know how it is; everyone has a nickname for a friend that they wouldn't dare use on anyone else."

"This is true," Ahmed responded, with a nod that was almost a bow.

Leaning back in his chair, Nick stifled another smile. Ahhh, things were getting off to an excellent start here; first rule of a good interrogation, establish a rapport with your subject.

But then Mr. Arsia, the brothers' attorney, snuffled and cleared his nostrils.

"Might we get down to business, then?" His words were both clipped and precise; he had guessed what the fox was up to.

"Yes, of course," Nick answered with equal formality, reaching out and pressing a button on the voice recorder. "This interview is taking place at the ZPD Precinct 7 detention facility, at 09:47 AM…"

From there he led the jackals and their lawyer through the usual litany; "State your names for the record." "Do you understand the charges against you?" "If you have freely agreed to cooperate with the Zootopia Police Department in this matter, please say so now." By the time he had finished, everyone in the room was feeling bored and listless—including him; such drudgery!

Well, he wouldn't be bored for very much longer. With the formalities finally out of the way, Nick was free to dive straight into the heart of the matter—which he did.

"All right let's begin with that lavender diamond you sold to my part…errr, my former partner and me. Where exactly did you get it?"

He thoroughly expected the question to be greeted with a nervous response; a squeaking of chair legs, a tug at a collar, a glance exchanged between the two brothers, and then one directed at Mr. Arsia.

Instead Ahmed only waved an airy paw.

"Ahhh that one…we received that stone by way of The Company."

"The cartel headed by James 'The Mister' McCrodon," his brother Ismael added needlessly.

"Ah I see." Nick fished out a pad and jotted a quick notation, surprised not at all by the jackals' indifference. Of course they weren't bothered; after all, they had no reason to fear The Mister's retribution. That was one mob boss who wouldn't be taking revenge on them—or anyone else—ever again. For a moment, the fox considered skipping over the subject…until something told him that if he did, it would come back to bite him later. He could already imagine the angry summons to Chief Bogo's office if he missed an important detail. Noooo, it was better to leave no stone unturned. Looking up again, he waited with his pen hovering over the notepad. "And…when did you receive the shipment containing that diamond?"

Before either jackal could respond, their attorney intervened, (speaking up for only the second time since they'd started, Nick couldn't help but note.)

"I fail to see how this is relevant, Officer Wilde. The Mister's been dead for three years now and his organization is all but wiped out. Only two members of The Company are still alive, and both of them are in prison. Is there any point to this?" It was a pointed question…or it would have been if Mr. Arsia hadn't asked it in the dull, droning voice of a bureaucrat reciting statistics.

Hmmm, Nick wondered, was he still angry with his clients for not telling him about their connection to the Red Pig? Yes, possibly…and it might be something he could use later.

But, for now, "I'm simply being thorough, Counselor," he said, assuming the same poor-humble-fox fursona he'd used on Jerry Jumbeaux. "You'd be too, if you had my Chief for a boss." And then, pivoting to the Rafaj brothers he said, "Correct me if I'm wrong but if you received that stone from The Company, it must have arrived with one of your earliest shipments of blood diamonds; is that right?"

"Yes, that's correct," Ahmed responded, before his lawyer could speak up again. "It was, in fact, part of the very first shipment we received."

"Which was also the last shipment we ever had from The Company," his brother chimed in sardonically.

Nick said nothing to this; his only response was the scratch of his pen on the pad. However the note he'd just written ended with the underlined words, 'Get back to this later!'

Which he would, but right now, "All right, approximately when did you receive that first shipment?" Once again, he expected a vague response. After all, who can remember a detail like that from what must have been a long time ago…and right off the top of their head?

Once again the Rafaj Brothers surprised him.

"Three years ago, the fifteenth of April." It was Ahmed speaking.

Nick scrutinized him with a sharpened gaze. "You seem very certain of that date."

The response to this was a squeak for the jackal's chair legs as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. And then he sagged a little, letting out a weary sigh.

"How could I not be certain? It was the day after our mother's funeral."

Both brothers bowed their heads, while Nick jotted a fast notation, underlining it twice. 'Rafaj Bros—Mother's funeral—verify date!'

By rights, he should move on to something else now. As the jackals' attorney had already pointed out, the Mister was dead, long live the kingpin who'd supplanted him; that was the name the ZPD wanted, not his.

Yes, except…

Every single one of Nick's vulpine instincts was telling him he needed to continue with this line of questioning, that if he didn't, he'd miss something important. And then there was that expression Ismael was wearing. His features appeared to be set in marble—except for the eyes, which kept flicking upwards and to the left. It was a look the fox knew almost intimately; the face of a suspect who's hoping that you WON'T ask a certain question. Fine, except what was the question the younger Rafaj brother didn't want to hear?

Well, there was only one way to find out—and that was to keep on probing.

Nick decided to start with something easy...or rather, a set-up masquerading as an easy question.

"Three years, that's a lonnnng time to unload one, single diamond," he noted, creasing his brow and flicking an ear, "Or…is it? Correct me if I'm wrong here."

"No, you're quite right," Ismael's mouth rippled in a half-snarl. "After it became illegal even to own a lavender diamond, the bottom fell out of the market."

"We knew the demand for them would come back eventually," his brother added, looking equally disgruntled, "and that when it did, they would be more valuable than ever. But for the moment, all we could do was put them in the vault and bide our time."

Once again, Nick had to stifle a smirk; his gambit had worked almost perfectly. Ismael had said 'them,' not 'it.' There'd been more than one lavender diamond that he and his brother had been obliged to put away for later—and the red fox knew without asking what had happened to that other stone. For the moment, he would keep that ace in reserve.

"And…how much did you pay for that first shipment of blood diamonds?"

The two brothers regarded each other skittishly before answering. This wasn't 'the question,' they'd been hoping that he wouldn't ask, but he was definitely getting close.

Finally, Ahmed cleared his throat.

"I-I-I don't remember the exact amount…but it was something on the order of errrrr, two hundred thousand dollars."

Nick yipped and almost fell out of his chair, (while the jackals' attorney let out a bray of surprise.)

"That much?" the red fox gasped, staring goggle-eyed at the pair, "You accepted a first shipment of conflict diamonds worth THAT much money?"

"What can I say to you?" Ahmed's paws flipped upwards, in an expression of helplessness. "We were dealing with 'The Mister.' He was always the sort to—er, how does one say it?—to either 'go big or go home.'"

It was an enigmatic response at best; even so, the fox understood him. But still—where the heck…?

"Where the HECK did you manage to find that kind of cash?" Nick could feel an ear flicking while the other one was standing straight up. "You didn't go to the Red Pig again, I hope." It was highly improbable; that would have made the Sahara Square mob boss an accomplice in their blood-diamond business—an unwitting accomplice to be sure, but still an accomplice. After that, it would have been only a matter of time before he discovered what they'd used his money for.

And when THAT happened…!

"Of course not!" Ismael snapped, his tail frizzing indignantly, "Do you take us for fools, fox?"

Nick was tempted to remind the jackal that he had already taken both him and his brother for fools…but he wisely chose to ignore the gibe. "All right, but where did you get that money?" No way would even an upscale jeweler have that kind of cash readily available, (and arms dealers never accepted anything but the cold, hard stuff as payment for blood diamonds.)

The response was that 'please-don't-let-him-ask-it' expression again—but this time on the faces of both brothers. He was definitely within shouting distance of whatever secret they were hoping to keep from him.

It was Ahmed who finally responded.

"We…had some of it available, but…the rest we got...eh, from our mother."

"It's not what it sounds like!" his brother Ismael blurted, leaping halfway out of his chair. "She took out a mortgage on her house—which we still had to pay off after she died."

Nick almost smirked at the jackal's anxiety. Fat! Chance! Whatever else he and his brother might be capable of, murder was definitely not on their playlist. But had he at last hit the mark? No, not yet, not quite.

A mortgage-loan, though…the money would have either been transferred electronically or paid by check, most likely the former option. But in either case, it would have been necessary to…

"Okay, but then you would have needed to convert the money into cash. How did you accomplish that?"

Bang! Ahmed and Ismael swallowed hard and looked at each other with tightening expressions. Nick could almost read their minds, "Dirty, double-dealing, blankety-blank fox…may ALL his species burn in perdition!" He had finally asked them the question.

"Well?" He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, focusing his gaze on their attorney, rather than the jackals themselves.

"Answer his question please," Arsia told them, curtly.

Ahmed winced as if he'd just been told, 'I'm sorry, it's malignant,' and then launched into a rambling discourse. "You must understand, our mother had just died and time was short. We had to…"

"Answer the question!" the kulan repeated, this time with an assertive note in his voice. Whoa, he really was still mad at them over The Red Pig.

Gooood…

Clasping his paws and wringing them, Ahmed looked in every direction but Nick's. "We…had to...transfer the money to our bank account and..." he coughed, "and draw it from there."

'O-M Goodnight, Irene!' The fox jotted the words almost without realizing it. Whoa, no wonder they'd been hoping he wouldn't ask it; Ahmed had just given the ZPD probable cause to examine his jewelry shop's bank records, something that could possibly tie him and his brother to the Red Pig de jure as well as de facto.

He was not about to bring that up right now, though. And besides…welcome to Amateur Night in Podunk!

"Do you have ANY idea how dangerous that was?" Nick's face was a mixture of scorn and disbelief. "When banks dispense cash in amounts of more than 50K, they almost always issue the money in bills with sequential serial numbers."

…which would have made it traceable, and that was something guaranteed to arouse the fury of any illegal arms trader. AND the Rafaj Brothers hadn't been dealing with 'just another weapons dealer,' their customer had been none other than the dreaded James 'The Mister' McCrodon. Holy foxtrot, how the heck had this pair of rubes gotten away with it?

The two jackals winced again, and then Ahmed's expression turned almost mournful. "Yes…we know that now, but we didn't know it then."

"Not that it mattered," Ismael observed; more sanguine than his brother, "by the time we finally retrieved the diamonds, The Mister was in no position to complain."

"In other words, he was dead," Nick thought, but didn't say. It wasn't surprising; Ismael had already hinted that the exchange had taken place right before the sea-mink mobster's demise. Nonetheless, he felt his ears pricking up again. He had no idea why, but his instincts were practically screaming that the younger jackal had just let something VERY important slip. Wait a minute; had he just said…?

"'Finally' retrieved the diamonds: what do you mean, 'finally'?"

Ismael's face was smeared with disgust.

"The courier, whoever he was, arrived late, very late. I went back to the drop several times after leaving the money. But every time I checked, it was still there—and no diamonds. And then…then there was the memorial service for our mother and I was unable to go back again until the next day."

"Hm, so you used a dead drop?" Nick asked him, the last two words echoing in his head, 'dead-drop', 'dead…drop'.

Dangit, why was that important?

"Yes, that's right," It was Ahmed again. "The Mister insisted, or else he would not do business with us."

"But eventually you did find the diamonds?" Nick had his pen poised over the note-pad once again.

"Yes," Ismael nodded, "Though it was quite the surprise when I did."

"A surprise…how?" Yet again, Nick's ears were standing at attention.

"It was early the next morning," Ahmed explained. "We had just seen it on the news, the story about the police raid on…eh, whatever the name was, of that night-club in Zoo York." He waved a paw. "Eh, no matter, but one look at that burning building and we knew; there was no chance The Mister, or any of his gang, could have gotten out of there alive."

"Which he didn't," Ismael interjected.

"Yes," Ahmed nodded, "And so...well, we assumed then that the deal was dead," he lifted a paw as if trying to balance a tray on his fingertips, "But when I sent my brother to retrieve the money, he came back with the diamonds instead."

"I see," Nick scribbled a note and then looked up, "And…where was this dead-drop located again?"

"In Zootopia Central Train Station," Ismael's response was both curt and brittle; he was rapidly tiring of this subject. And his answer was completely unsurprising, Zootopia Central was a natural location for a dead-drop—or it had been before the new CCTV cameras were installed. In any case, it was time to wrap up this line of questioning. He jotted another note and then looked up.

"All right, just one more question before we move on. Which bank issued you the money for that payoff?"

This answer, too, came as no surprise, "Tundratown Savings Bank," the one financial institution beyond the Red Pig's reach.

"Right," Nick flipped the page on his notepad and kept his promise, shifting the discussion to more current affairs.

What followed next was a scenario the fox had witnessed many times before; the suspect who can't wait to start talking—until he finds himself face-to face with his inquisitors—at which point he turns into a clam. For the next ten minutes, that was how it went with the Rafaj Brothers; trying to interview the pair was like trying to extract an elephant's tusks with a pair of tweezers. Every question Nick put to them was greeted with a vague response, punctuated by either a shrug or an uncertain expression. The reason for the jackals' reticence wasn't hard for him to fathom; he wasn't asking about dead guys now. The brothers' current suppliers of blood diamonds were animals very much capable of bringing the pain to anyone foolish enough to cross them.

And Ahmed and Ismael already had one mob-boss gunning for them.

"Okay-y-y," Nick thought, squelching his frustration, "I tried to go easy on you; now, no more Mr. NICE fox."

And without warning, he laid down the ace he'd been holding.

"Oh, sorry—there's something I forgot to ask you earlier." He was clasping his paws and looking almost penitent, "When you sold that other lavender diamond to Mr. Big's son-in-law, did you know who he was?"

The result was as if a hurricane wind had just blasted through the interview room, both brothers nearly pitched over backwards. So…they knew. Maybe they hadn't known who Tad Dennison was when they'd SOLD him that illegal diamond—but you better believe they knew now. And that was Nick's cue to pull out his other hole card. He turned to the jackals' attorney, speaking quickly.

"Sorry Counselor, but I have to ask. My former partner managed to speak with Mr. Big recently and he's VERY angry about that blood diamond. Were you aware that when the ZPD arrested his son-in-law, they took his daughter into custody as well?"

No, Mr. Arsia hadn't been aware of that fact, but he was sure as heck aware of The Big Shrew's feelings for his one-and-only child. He brayed in horror and then started to shiver, probably imagining himself being 'iced.' Nick could have told him that he had nothing to worry about; the ice pit no longer existed and in any case, Mr. Big was nothing like his Sahara Square rival. HE would never take out his anger at the Rafaj Brothers on their attorney. The fox could have said that—but why should he? His words so far were having exactly the desired effect. Arsia's ears slammed backwards and he rounded heatedly on his clients.

"I would, going forward, most STRONGLY urge you to provide full and complete answers to Officer Wilde's inquiries."

'…Or else I quit;' the kulan never actually said the words, but Nick could almost see them, forming in the air. Okay-y-y he had given the jackals a short, sharp, shock, and gotten their lawyer to all but switch sides. Now he needed to put them at ease again. His next question was a slow-pitch softball.

"The prevailing wisdom around the ZPD is that you only started dealing in blood diamonds because you wanted to pay off your debt to the Red Pig and get free of him. Is that so?"

"YES!" both brothers cried in unison, grabbing at the question like a drowning mammal at a straw.

"We had to pay him every week, regardless of whether our business was good or bad," Ahmed looked almost as if he was going to burst into tears, "he would have ruined us eventually."

And then, bless his heart, Ismael provided Nick with the opening he'd been hoping for, ever since he'd sat down at this table.

"We would never have gone to the Red Pig in the first place, except not a single bank in the city Zootopia was willing to lend us the money to open our doors."

"Not one!" his brother echoed bitterly. He turned as if to spit on the floor, but thought better of it when the fox across the table growled a warning.

"None of them said it was because of our species...but we knew." Ismael spoke rapidly, covering for him

For a long, awkward moment, silence reigned in the interview chamber—and then Nick nodded gravely, looking slightly embarrassed.

"I…understand," he finally said, "My late father had dreams of opening a tailor shop—but he couldn't get a bank to underwrite him either."

The upshot of this revelation was everything a hustling fox could have hoped for, surprised looks on the faces of Ahmed and Ismael, followed by an exchange of knowing nods. When they turned to face him again, their expressions were wholly sympathetic.

Frank Arsia's expression showed that once again, he knew exactly what Nick was doing. But after hearing the story of that other lavender diamond and who his clients had sold it to, he wasn't about to intervene a second time; instead he folded his arms and sat back to enjoy the show.

"Did your father…ever consider going to…" Ahmed ventured cautiously, "well, not the Red Pig, but did he ever…?"

"I don't know." Nick cut him off with a shrug and a head-shake, "He passed before it got to that point."

That, needless to say, was only a half-truth; John Wilde wouldn't have borrowed from a loan-shark if the future of Zootopia had depended on it. Okay, it was time to get this train back on track. He picked up his pen once more.

"But…that was then and this is now," the red fox muttered softly, almost to himself. And then, clearing his throat, he looked from Ahmed to Ismael and back again. "Right now, I need to know about your current source of blood diamonds; how about it?"

Whoa, you'd never have known these were the same closemouthed jackals he'd been speaking to a moment ago; this time they opened up like a pair of floodgates.

It had taken them almost a year to find a new supplier. Actually there were two of them, one based in New Orlions, and the other in Bulltimore, Mareland, the latter being their main source of conflict gems. Like The Company, both outfits were illegal arms traders who had obtained their diamonds as payment for consignments of weaponry. Most of the stones they'd sold to the Rafaj Brother had come from Afurica with a few originating in South Amareca. "Those were always emeralds, never diamonds," Ismael explained—as if that made the slightest bit of difference.

Most of what Nick learned, however, came from the elder jackal—who turned out to be a walking treasure-trove. Ahmed al-Rafaj had an almost photographic memory when it came to dealing gemstones—legally or otherwise; he was able to recall even the minutest details. He was going to be gold on the witness stand if the ZPD—or some other agency—decided to take down either one of his blood diamond suppliers.

The interview continued for most of the day, with only a half hour break for lunch.

By the time the Rafaj brothers were taken back to their cells, Nick had a lot to consider…and not all of it was related to conflict diamonds.

As part of the pact he'd made with Ju—with his former partner, it had been agreed that one or the other would have to transfer out of Precinct-1; so, why not him, and why not here? True, foxes are a crepuscular species rather than full-on nocturnal—but other than that, he had all the necessary requirements, excellent night vision, sharp ears, and a keen sense of smell. He could work here, and he could certainly work with Chief Hedjet. He genuinely liked that hippo.

It was definitely something to consider—for another time. Right now, something else was gnawing at the fox.

The Company—that first shipment of blood diamonds the Rafaj Brothers had received; that wasn't just important, it was immediately important. Nick had no idea why but he knew. It was like that moment when you dump a picture puzzle out on the table; however impossible the task may seem, you know there's a completed picture hiding somewhere in all those pieces. That was how this felt, something was here, something he'd missed—or hadn't seen yet—but what the heck…?

These thoughts were interrupted by a buzzing at his hip. Nick groaned, having guessed who was calling, and when he looked at the screen...yep, there he was, Big Chief Buffalo Nickel in all his sulfurous glory.

"Where the Devil are you, Wilde?" Bogo demanded, as soon as the call connected, "Haven't you finished yet?"

"Oh swell, he's in one of THOSE moods," the red fox thought to himself, putting on his most tactful face. "Sorry sir, it took longer than I expected to get those two to open up."

The Chief arched an eyebrow and grunted. "Well...did they tell us what we wanted to know, then?"

"Yes, SIR," Nick answered smartly, almost beaming. "I've got the names of both their blood-diamond suppliers, together with all the juicy details." There, that should satisfy him.

No, it didn't; Bogo snorted so hard, if fogged up his phone-cam lens. "Right then, what are you waiting for? Get back here and make your report!"

He disconnected without another word. And as Nick slipped the cell-phone back in its holster, a transfer to the Nocturnal District was looking even better than it had a minute ago.

Chapter 9: A Rock and a Hard Place (Cont'd...Part 8)

Summary:

As one meeting ends, another begins

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 1—A Rock and a Hard Place
(Continued… Part 8)

If the answers Nick was receiving were merely surprising, the ones that Judy was getting were downright astonishing. A casino mogul was planning to buy out the Palm Hotel?

Sweet!

Cheez!

N' Crackers!

How the heck had that managed to slip underneath the ZPD's radar? Lt. Saw would have absolutely brought it up with her if he had known.

And that wasn't even close to being the doe-bunny's biggest question, a query made that much more difficult by sensation of a burning ball, inching its way down her throat.

"Wh-What does that mean for the Red Pig?"

The corners of Joe Porcini's mouth turned in opposite directions; so did his eyebrows.

"What it means," he told her, poker-faced, "is the chance of a stinkin' lifetime."

"WHAT?" Judy gasped so hard, the windshield fogged up for a second.

A hint of amusement brushed the black boar's narrow snout. Serious situation or not, he was thoroughly enjoying her discomfort; a stark reminder that this pig was not her friend; he was a mobster, a criminal.

"Yeah, that's right," he said, "You know what's every wiseguy's dream, Hopps?" It was a rhetorical question and she kept her silence, waiting for Porcini to answer it himself.. "It's the big score," he finally said, "The payoff that'll allow you to retire from 'the life' once and for all." And with that, the irony fell from his face, leaving behind a pair of eyes like black-iron bearings, "And you know what's the dream of every BOSS? To get out of the rackets and go 100% legit; do you see where I'm taking this?"

Judy didn't, not quite...but she nodded just the same, hoping the black pig wouldn't notice her twitching nose. Perhaps he did, but if so, he chose to ignore it.

"As the ZPD already knows, the Sahara Square Outfit controls every business that services the Palm Hotel and Casino." He had raised his voice again, presumably on the off-chance that someone was listening in on their discussion. "And, needless to say, a mammal of Sheldon Camelson's stature isn't going to find that arrangement …Mmmm, lessay he won't find it agreeable."

"No kidding Basil of Baker Street!" Judy thought but did not say. Cheez n' crikey, Porcini called this the chance of a lifetime? It sounded more like the Red Pig's worst nightmare to her.

But then the whip-thin boar laid his elbows on his knees and leaned towards her; the doe bunny's confusion had not escaped his notice.

"Yeah, I know what you're thinkin'. And yeah, he could force us out. Believe me…he's got the clout to make that happen." He nodded briefly over a shoulder, as if Camelson himself might be standing outside the SUV, "Only why bother with that garbage when it's a lot simpler—and a whole lot less messy—to simply BUY us out?"

Judy stared for a second, unable to keep her foot from thumping the floorboards. "D'ohhh, DUMB bunny!" She could have face pawlmed herself from here back to Bunnyburrow. Yes, of course! Being a rabbit she, of all animals, should understand the principle of carrot-and-stick; why the heck hadn't she thought of it before? That was when her inner voice decided enough was enough. "Knock it off Jude; you can beat yourself up later."

"Ahhh, okay," she said, folding her paws in her lap and hoping she looked cooler than she actually felt. "And may I assume that Mr. Camelson's offer was a generous one?"

"More than double what we could have gotten if we put everything on the open market;" The ironic expression had returned to the Porcini's face. "That guy wants the Palm bad—real bad. He's convinced that if he can get his hooves on it, he can triple the daily take." His hoof went up in a fast half-shrug. "And who knows? He just might make it happen: it wouldn't be the first time he pulled that rabbit out of his hat."

Judy gritted her teeth and said nothing. Had that slur been intentional? Noooo, she decided, this was just a boar being boorish. But that didn't mean she was going to let the remark just slide. Leaning back in her chair, she laid an elbow on the driver's-side window sill; time to show this Cosa Nostra big-shot that he wasn't dealing with anyone's dumb bunny.

"Don't tell me, let me guess; Mr. Camelson never actually said anything…but you know what'll happen if you REJECT his offer. And it won't be pretty, am I right?"

Porcini's eyes widened and his face fell halfway to the floor—but then it bounced back up again and he cocked a blunt finger in her direction.

"Now you're gettin' with the program, Hopps; yeah, exactly that."  His face creased suddenly into a deep frown. "But that wasn't all his guy hadda say to me. Sheldon Camelson didn't get where he is by not knowing how to sweeten a deal—and he sweetened this one big time." He grunted and then belched; filling the cab of the SUV with a smell that made Judy glad she wasn't a canine species. Ah these wiseguys and their garlic. "For the last two years," he told her, "my boss has been trying to expand his recycling business outside of Zootopia—but no dice; no other city would grant him a license to operate. Camelson offered to help him fix all that—and to prove it, he already got us a license to set up a recycling plant in Macaow; a gesture of good faith, he called it." He let out another grunt, this one half amused and half awestruck. "That was what sealed it. When I told the boss about it…sheesh, he NEVER hugged me so hard." A hint of a smirk flashed across his razor-thin features, and then his mouth became a stark, flat line, "But now, with all these arson fires, it's not such a sure thing anymore. Mr. Camelson has made it very clear—to both the Red Pig and to me—that if we go to war with Mr. Big, we can kiss his offer buh-BYE!"

"Great!" Judy was unable to curb her enthusiasm…but then, why should she? If that was true, The Red Pig didn't dare retaliate for the Flora and Fauna blaze; the issue had solved itself.

Not…quite… Her visitor's face turned instantly peevish.

"Yeah, yeah…you're forgettin' a coupla things here, aren't' ya, Hopps? Number one, it wasn't us—or Mr. Big—that set up those torch jobs; somebody else gave the order." His voice became a low, menacing roll. "And whoever that somebody is, I-I-I don't think they care too much whether or not the Camelson deal works out. Heck, they may even want it to go belly up."

Yowp, it was as if someone had dumped a bucket of dirty ice-water over Judy's head. How the heck could she have forgotten about that—especially when it was what had started this conversation in first place? And what was it she'd said to herself a moment ago, that it was time show this pig that she wasn't a dumb bunny? Yeah, riiiiiight…she was just hitting 'em out of the park right now.

And Porcini was winding up with the biggest curve-ball yet.

"And that's the other thing, Hopps; if the Camelson thing tanks, my boss will have ZERO reason not to hit the mattresses. And then it won't be just war between us and the Tundratown mob, it'll be stinking Armageddon. And—trust me, I know this guy—if Rocco loses out on the Camelson thing, he won't care what Mr. Big throws at him…or the ZPD. There won't be NOTHING that can hold him back!"

Judy felt her teeth trying to chatter and a stuttering chill crawling up the length of her spine. Those were almost exactly the same words Mr. Big had spoken when she'd talked to him. "If another one of my properties goes up in flames…then I promise you, NOTHING will stay my paw."

Zootopia wasn't just sitting on a precipice; it was teetering on the edge of an abyss! More than anything else, she wanted to excuse herself and burn rubber back to Precinct-1 as fast as she could. Instead, she drew in a short gulp of air, counting to five as she slowly exhaled. The relief she felt was only minimal, but she'd take what she could get right now.

"Mr. Porcini, why are you telling me this?" she asked, somehow managing to keep her voice on an even keel.

He responded by straightening his tie and thrusting out his chin.

"As Consigliere to The Red Pig, it's my job to do right by my boss—even if he doesn't realize it, even if it means risking my…"

That was as far as he got before Judy threw up a paw, practically right in his face.

"Excuse me? If I want a snow-job, I'll go play in Tundratown." She folded her arms, regarding the black pig with eyes that were almost slits, "Why are YOU telling me all this?"

He stared for a second and then almost chuckled.

"In other words, what's in it for ME? Ahhh, you're a fast learner Hopps, I'll give ya that." he leaned towards her again, this time dampening down his voice to almost a whisper. "Let's just say that my boss wasn't the only pig to get an offer from Sheldon Camelson. Except that other one wasn't the kind you can't refuse—just one you wouldn't want to."

Judy started to raise her paw again, but then swiftly let it drop. There was no point in pushing it any further; that was all she was going to get from him—at least on this subject. Besides, it wasn't that important anyway, not compared to something he'd said at the beginning, "All right, but you agree that someone ELSE has been setting all these fires?"

"Probably it's someone else," the whip-thin boar corrected, hedging his bets.

"All right, probably," Judy conceded, not about to argue the point, "But do you have any idea who it could be?"

Porcini slumped in his seat, grunting in frustration. And then his thin snout dropped slowly in the direction of the floorboards, moving back and forth in a deliberate motion.

"No...but God, I wish I did. I been rackin' my brain about it all week…and I can't come up with nothin'."

"Urrrrgh!" The bunny-cop felt like slumping herself. This time, her visitor wasn't blowing smoke; he really didn't have a clue as to the actual arsonist's identity. Of course, if he'd wanted to he could have done a lot more than just rack his brain over it—but not without the Red Pig finding out. And for merely suggesting that the real arsonist might have been a third party, Porcini had found himself banished from the Sahara Square Mob chieftain's yacht. So, just imagine what would happen if he…nope, that wasn't an option.

These thoughts were interrupted when a high-pitched buzzing filled the cab of the SUV, a noise not unlike the rhythmic whining of a mosquito's wings. Judy's ears went this way and that, trying to pinpoint the source—until she noticed that her passenger was hurriedly examining his watch.

"Awrite, time's up; I gotta get outta here," he said, reaching for the door handle. "I told you all I could, what you do with it is up to you." He opened the door and got out, but then leaned back inside again, offering the doe-bunny a yellow slip of paper. "Almost forgot, here's your parking validation. Gimme five minutes before you take off…oh, and don't forget to see the rat before you're outta here."

"I won't," Judy promised, nodding. Porcini nodded back and then he was gone, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

There was one question she hadn't asked him—because he couldn't possibly have known the answer.

Right at the edge; Mr. Big and Rocco Peccari were right at the edge. One more incident, one more arson attack—aimed at either one's properties—and their cold war would instantly turn red-hot.

So…why hadn't it already happened? If the real arsonist, whoever they were, was hoping to provoke a gang war between the Sahara Square and Tundratown mobs, their best chance had already come and gone. After the meeting at Mr. Big's house had broken up in a storm of animosity—that would have been the perfect time to hit him with another arson attack. He would have immediately blamed the Red Pig and it would have been ON. Instead, there'd been nothing…and why? It made absolutely no…"

"Wait a minute...wai-i-it a minute...yes, it DOES!"

The epiphany came to Judy like a thunderclap. When Mr. Big's...when whoever's polar bears had broken into the Flora and Fauna Flower Shop, they'd found an entire crew of Razorbacks waiting to greet them. True, the arsonist duo had ultimately succeeded in their mission and escaped with only minor injuries, but still…

The Red Pig had known they were coming and his pigs had caught them completely by surprise. Whoever they'd been working for—Mr. Big, or anyone else—that must have rattled his cage, but good.

But then the two polar bears, (only two polar bears,) had sprung a surprise of their own, routing the Razorbacks and sending them fleeing for their lives...and afterwards the flower shop had still gone up in flames.

THAT was why nothing else had happened as of yet; in their way, both sides had been caught flatfooted. And until their employers figured out what the heck had gone wrong, neither one of them could risk another move. (And the same thing was true for Mr. Big, even if he hadn't been involved.)

Great…fine, but that state of affairs wouldn't last forever. Whoever was attempting to set Mr. Big and the Red Pig against each other, they hadn't gotten this close only to walk away now. Zootopia had been granted a reprieve—but it was ONLY a reprieve. Sooner or later, there would be another arson attack; Judy could feel it in the depths of her bones.

And then…?

And then she shuddered, shook it off and turned the ignition key. The five minutes she'd been told to wait were up—and there was someone else she needed to see before heading back to Precinct-1.

When she caught up with Vernon J. Rodenberg, it was deja-vu all over again. There he was, leaning back against the fender of his car again; affecting the exact same pose she'd seen during their first encounter, earlier in the day. The only difference was the sunglasses, which he removed as soon as he saw her.

"Looks like The Shadow told you plenty, Hopps," he informed her by way of greeting.

"You could say that," she answered stiffly, in no mood for banter right now. Unfortunately, she couldn't just bid the rat farewell and get on back to Precinct-1. Even Lieutenant Saw would have had to admit, he had more than fulfilled his part of the bargain.

And now it was time to pony up. But first…dangit, her nose was just twitching up a storm right now.

"Why'd you take off before Porcini showed up?"

Rodenberg brushed at a shoulder. When he spoke, he sounded as if he was reciting from a legal brief.

"As chief legal counsel to Mr. Peccari—and his associates—I have certain obligations. Had I been present for your discussion, I would have been required to do everything in my power to prevent Mr. Porcini from revealing…ah, certain information regarding his employer's business transactions."

Judy's left ear and eyebrow cocked upwards and her mouth became a crooked line.

"That…and if you'd been there and The Red Pig had found out, Joe Porcini wouldn't be the ONLY animal sent to sleep with the truffles, am I right?"

Rodenberg spit out a squeak and folded halfway over, chittering with laughter. "'Sleep with the truffles', can I use that?" he stopped, straightened up again, and then threw up his paws; a perp caught in a police-cruiser's spotlight. "Okay copper, you got me—but everything else I said just now is also true." Something else seemed to come to him then, and he worked his incisors for a second. "You don't have anything to worry about though; no way would Mr. Peccari put out a contract on a police officer."

"Unless a certain business deal falls through," the doe-bunny retorted, folding her arms pointedly, "And after meeting him face-to-face, I'm not so sure he wouldn't anyway."

Rodenberg eyed her with his whiskers bobbing.

"You ever thought about Law School, Hopps? You're wasting your talents as a street cop."

"Thanks, but no thanks," the doe-bunny responded dryly, and then found that, for some reason, she no longer felt compelled to get on back to headquarters right now. "Mr. Rodenberg, I know the ZPD owes you a favor…but I get the feeling that's not the only reason you agreed to set up this meeting. Or should I say, these meetings; what else is in it for you?"

"Hmmm, you are a smart bunny," the grey rat studied her with keen interest. "Smart enough, I think, that I'd be wasting my time if I rattled off a list of lofty principles over here; that so?"

Judy nodded even more wryly, watching as the grey rat leaned back against the fender of his car again.

"Okay, straight up, no chaser. You've heard all the stories about me I'm sure…that I never really liked working for the wiseguys; that I only do it, coz it's the only way I can earn as an attorney."

"I heard," the doe-bunny answered simply, not bothering to add that what she hadn't heard was anyone saying they believed that story. The conventional wisdom around the Precinct-1 said that Rodenberg had gone to work for La Cosa Nostra as revenge for his wrongful murder conviction: "You punks took seven years off my life for something I didn't do. So now, guess what? I'm gonna get guys off who DID do stuff. Whaddaya think of THAT?"

Judy wasn't sure how much of the story she believed, but it was a very popular sentiment with the police force as a whole—to say nothing of the Attorney General's office. The one time she'd heard Chief Bogo expressing his feelings on the matter; it had been enough to bring a flush of color to her cheeks and lower ears.

"Yeah, well…the truth's a little more complicated than that," Rodenberg sniffed and brushed at his muzzle. "I get along okay with Mr. Big; I even like him a little." His voice turned cold and he shivered slightly. "But the Red Pig? Forget it! Did you know that jerk had me thrown off his boat once? Yeah, and I mean the hard way; right into the drink, I nearly drowned." His incisors clicked and his whiskers went rigid. "If I am forced to take sides over here, it's the Big Shrew all the way." He seemed to have sent his train of thought down the wrong siding. No problem; Judy thought she knew exactly what to say to get it back on the main line.

"But…you don't want to take sides?" she prompted, hoping she had finally grasped the grey rat's meaning.

Not quite…

"Nooo, I don't; you're right there, Hopps...but what I really want is my freedom."

"Huh?" She felt her nose twitching again.

Rodenberg sighed and scratched behind an ear. "One thing I found out when I started this shtick is that being a mob lawyer is a lot like being a mob member. When you're in, you're IN; you only get to walk away when they say...not when you want."

Judy nodded and this time, she hedged her prompt.

"Would I be insulting you if I asked, is that what you want?"

The grey rat's eyes narrowed and his muzzle seemed to lengthen slightly. It reminded the doe-bunny of her former partner, whenever he, 'got his sly on.'

"No you wouldn't…and yes it is." He pointed at the ground…momentarily confusing her, until he spoke again. "I've made a number of investments over the years, mostly in the Nocturnal District—and I'm happy to say that many of them have paid off quite handsomely. If it was only a matter of money, I could have retired from practice last year." His eyes locked onto hers, "But, like I just said, it's not just about the money. As long as Rocco Peccari and Mr. Big continue to require my services, I'm stuck on this merry-go-round."

This time, he was the one offering a prompt…and Judy picked it up at once.

"But if they get out the rackets, they won't need you anymore; you'll be free to quit the law if you want."

Once again, she was close, but no carrot.

"Right, except I'm not planning to quit altogether, Hopps. I just want to stop working for the mob." He thrust upward with a bony finger. "With them out of the picture, I'll finally be able to do what I always wanted, concentrate full time on my pro-bono work. I even have plans to start a legal foundation, dedicated to helping animals who can't afford proper representation."

Judy didn't respond to this, not right away, but there must have been something skeptical in her expression because the grey rat's fur bristled slightly.

"Don't get the wrong idea, krolik." He was wagging the finger he'd raised, "This isn't me, trying to atone for past sins; I made peace with my decision to throw in with the wiseguys the day I walked outta the slam." His paw flipped sideways, becoming a throwaway gesture and his accent abruptly thickened. "There are worse things I could have done, y'know, than go to work for the mob."

"Such as…?" Judy challenged him, her skepticism out in the open now. And to herself, she added, "Whoa, no wonder Chief Bogo doesn't like this rat."

Rodenberg's whiskers went rigid and his paws went to his hips, "Such as becoming one of those corporate shtarkes, filing SLAPP suits against anyone who dares to hurt their employer's widdle feewings." His voice was dripping with acid. "Oh yeah, that happens all the time now."

"Uh, what's a SLAPP suit?" Judy asked him, momentarily taken aback. It was a term she didn't know.

The grey rat was only too happy to explain.

"Basically, it's filing an anti-defamation suit against somebody for the express purpose of sticking them with a big legal bill," He had softened his stance just a tiny bit, "a bill that'll send 'em to the poorhouse, even if the case gets tossed. If I ever get this legal foundation off the ground, I plan to have us take on a lot of those cases."

"Okay, I get it," Judy answered, feeling a trifle weary. While she still wasn't entirely sure of his sincerity, what did it matter? Rodenberg wanted to get away from La Cosa Nostra. Of that she had no doubt, and did she really need to know the reason why? No, but there was another question she needed to ask—even if she didn't want to. "All right, Counselor, I suppose I can't avoid this any longer. What is it that you want from the ZPD in exchange for setting up this…excuse me, setting up these meetings?"

Rodenberg's whiskers bobbed three times and his eyes seemed to take on a sparkling sheen.

"Ahhh,I-I-I don't think you'll have too much of a problem with this one, Hopps. What I want is, you back on the Conor Lewis investigation."

"What?" Judy was stunned. If there was one thing she had NEVER expected him to ask for…

Not that it mattered; Lieutenant Saw had been dead-bang wrong; this rat was demanding the impossible.

"Mr. Rodenberg…there's no way the ZPD would give ME…"

He immediately cut her off.

"Oh for peanuts' sake, rabbit; I don't mean they should put you in charge; I just want you on the team." his whiskers were flipping irritably up and down. "Give me some credit over here!"

Judy would, but she wouldn't give IN.

"Okay, fine…but didn't you say you were through with Conor Lewis as a client?"

"That was before I heard his pawcast." The grey rat answered, looking like…did he actually look a trifle unsettled? "The one where he sang that 'and then what' song, I mean. That changed everything…not the tune, but something else he said."

Judy was more bewildered than ever. "Wha…? How? What did he say?"

Rodenberg made a fist with his right paw, polishing it with the left. To the doe-bunny's eyes, he looked a little bit like a caricature of the village gossip.

"I'll tell you—but this part is for your ears only, agreed?"

Judy wanted to say no, but knew it wasn't an option. She sighed again

"Okay, Counselor…agreed. Now, what did you hear on Conor's webcast that made you change your mind?"

He clasped his paws in front of his nose, tapping his forefingers against one another, as if trying to decide how best to put it.

Finally he said, "Forgive me for answering your question with another one, but there's something I need to confirm first. That first time the Lewis Kid was questioned, I wasn't there—but you were. Is that right?"

"I was there," Judy frowned, wondering how the heck this was relevant.

"Right," the grey rat nodded, "Remember when he pulled that 'Usual Suspects' gag on Mr. Gamsbart? I chewed him out good for that later on...and yet I always felt that wasn't just him being a smart-mouth; in fact, that's what he said to me himself later on. He never gave me a reason, but I knew without being told that it wasn't anything spontaneous; something had triggered the kinder. And it wasn't until I heard his pawcast that I finally realized what it was." His whiskers jumped upwards for a second. "Or at least that's what I..."

The thumping of Judy's foot cut him off at the pass; her impatience was rapidly giving way to exasperation.

"All right, yes, I get it. Now, what did Conor say?"

"He said," Rodenberg responded, speaking in fits and starts, as if trying to recall the young silver-fox's exact words. "When did the system ever stick it to me? How about…when that jerk prosecutor told me I didn't need a lawyer? I knew then that I was headed for Juvie no matter what I did…guilty or innocent."

Judy thumped her foot again, this time capping it with a groan, "Oh come on already, Mr. Rodenberg; that was just him blowing smoke."

The grey rat's finger shot up like a bottle-rocket.

"Was it? Do-n-n-n't be too sure about that, rabbit. There's a whole lot going on here that you don't know…and one or two things you just aren't thinking about."

"And they are?" Judy asked him, a small quiver in her voice. She was taken aback but not all the way back.

So was Vern Rodenberg, he seemed to have only just now realized he was being a mite too theatrical.

"First of all Conor Lewis isn't his real name, remember? He's living under a fake ID. We don't know who he is, not really; he could be anybody." His eyes narrowed and his whiskers stiffened. "And I think that anybody is a kid who's been through this before; sometime in the past, he got told to forget about a lawyer by a different prosecutor. Only that time he agreed—and he ended up getting burned for it."

Judy didn't know whether to laugh, groan, or change the subject. Whoa, if that wasn't the most far-fetched thing she'd heard today, (and she'd just finished talking to the Red Pig and Joey 'The Shadow' Porcini!)

And yet…something inside the doe-bunny was telling her to pay attention to what Rodenberg was telling her.

"All right Counselor, may I assume you have some evidence to support your claim?"

He looked away for a second with his jaws working, and then back at her.

"Nothing that isn't circumstantial I'm afraid. But first—forgive me Hopps, but I need to ask one more question before we go any further; was that the moment the Lewis boy turned snarky on Rudy Gamsbart, when he was advised not to seek legal counsel?"

Judy cupped a paw around the end of her muzzle, thinking back and thinking hard. When had that happened; had there ever even been a sudden turning point? Yes…yes, there had. And yes, 'the moment' had been when Conor was advised to waive his right to an attorney. It wasn't anything the doe-bunny remembered as much as felt—but she felt it as strongly as the pull of gravity.

"Yes, that was what triggered Conor to pull his Usual Suspects troll," she said.

Rodenberg clapped his rat-sized paws together; the sound was like a wheat-straw snapping in two.

"Hah, I knew it! That wasn't the first time the kid was advised to waive counsel. "

Judy was about to ask him how he could be so certain when a sudden awareness overrode the question; her look hardened and she zeroed in on the rat-attorney's eyes. "All right Mr. Rodenberg, what is it you're not telling me?"

As she had already found out several times, this rat could play the hard-case too. He fielded the look and threw it right back at her; "Something that you absolutely better not blab about if you know what's good for you, rabbit."

Oooo…that really made her ears lay backwards. "Are you threatening me, Mr. Rodenberg?" She was leaning over the rat and pointing at herself with a pair of quivering fingers.

Once again, he was completely unfazed, tilting his head and looking up at her with a wry smirk. "Don't need to, Hopps. If you talk about this and the wrong animal hears about it, you're gonna make your OWN trouble—more than you ever want to think about." The irony dropped away from his voice, and he altered his gaze a little, regarding her in all seriousness. "So...do you still want to hear it?"

Judy bit her lip and swallowed…and then nodded. "Go ahead," her voice was barely audible, even to her own ears.

Rodenberg looked away towards the trees for a second, muttering to nobody in particular, "More guts than brains!"

"Hey!" Judy's ears went back again. One thing she was not going to take from this grey-furred little so-and-so was the 'dumb-bunny' routine.

However, that wasn't what he had in mind.

"Relax, Hopps; I'm talking about myself over here." His paws were up in a placating gesture and his expression had gone from wry to rueful. When he spoke again, he seemed mostly to be talking to himself. "What a shmoe; if I had half a brain, I'd never have started this. Okay…" Shaking off whatever doubts he had, he looked straight up at her.

"I always suspected it wasn't the Lewis kid's first time," he said, whiskers twitching like antennae, "But I KNOW it wasn't that stinking ground-hog Judge Schatten's first—OR that dirt-bag chamois, Rudy Gamsbart."

This time Judy didn't ask him to clarify; she knew that he'd explain himself shortly and without any prompting.

He did.

"What I mean by that is, if a kid gets brought before the Honorable Judge George Schatten, the chances they'll be sent to Juvie—instead of getting probation, or community service, or whatever—is something like 70%; that's more than three times the average." His expression turned almost deathly grim, "And if Rudy Gamsbart happens to be the prosecutor, the percentage goes up to nearly 100%."

"What?" Judy's paws flew up to her face before she could stop them. That wasn't just excessive, it was insane.

"But wait, there's more." Rodenberg's voice had become a mocking imitation of an infomercial pitch-mammal. "Why are they sending so many kids to Juvie you ask? You tell me bunny...coz nothing seems to make a difference; violent or non-violent, habitual or first-timer, loving or dysfunctional family, it's all the same to Schatten and Gamsbart. If you're a juvenile, and you're brought up before them—for any reason—you can kiss your freedom buh-bye."

He paused here, whether to allow her to digest his words or to give her an opportunity to respond, Judy didn't know. What she did know was…no way; how could they possibly hope to get away with it?

"And no one's objected to any of this?" she demanded, incredulous, "Nobody filed a complaint?"

Rodenberg let out a low, sharp squeak

"A few of these kids' parents yeah, but other than that…are you kiddin' me, rabbit? Gamsbart and Schatten are like one step below super-heroes with the 'get-tough-on-crime' crowd. Ask anyone who got their property vandalized last summer what THEY think of those guys. Your little buddy, Rock Hardesty, thinks they're the greatest thing since the microwave oven. "

At the mention of that particular hyrax's name, Judy's ears went back and her teeth locked. Just the other night, she'd had a wonderful dream about her less-than-favorite talk-show host. In it, she was back on parking duty and had just come upon his car…illegally parked in a handicapped zone and also in front of a fire-hydrant.

She shook it off and asked another question.

"How did you find out about this, Counselor? Was one of the kids they sent to Juvie a client of yours?" That was the most likely avenue she figured, and once again, she was close but not dead on target.

"Not exactly," the grey rat told her, "I don't normally take on juvenile cases. I first heard about it through a friend of mine from Temple, Benny Gruenberg, a raccoon. One of those kids sent up by Schatten and Gamsbart was his daughter, Becky. I didn't find out about it until after she came home or I would have offered him my services, pro bono. Nice kid that girl; never been in any trouble, 3.8 GPA…but that punk woodchuck still gave her 60 days in youth corrections." His incisors began to gnash as if he were preparing to bite somebody. "And now, it's gonna be on her record for the rest of her life...and you know what that means; just wait'll she tries to get into college." His whiskers went rigid and began to quiver. "But you want to know what really bugs me over here, Hopps? It's not the quantity, it's the quality. Judge S and Mr. G have shipped kids off to Juvie for some of the most petty stuff imaginable; stealing a candy bar, skateboarding on private property, writing graffiti on an abandoned building. Wanna know what Becky Gruenwald did to get herself thrown in the big J? Trashed out her school's vice-principal on Snapcat."Okay, now Judy felt she had to speak up…even if it was only two words.

"You're kidding!"

All right, THREE words…

"Why?"

Rodenberg squeaked like a rusty hinge and threw up his paws. "I don't KNOW Hopps, and that the most frustrating thing of all. Something's going on here that isn't kosher...and I got no stinkin' clue as to what it is." He lowered his arms and looked straight at her, speaking quietly and evenly, "But Conor Lewis does…or at least he knows a heckuva lot more than I do."

Judy had no answer to this, but in any case it hardly mattered, because she still had a lot of questions.

"All right Mr. Rodenberg, assuming I agree to this…"

"You already agreed to this," he interrupted smoothly, "it's a done deal."

Counting quietly to three, she tried again, "all right, but why me, why not Ni…my former partner? He knows Conor at least as well as I do and they're also the same species." She said this and then added silently. "And he'd JUMP at the chance to get back on the Lewis case."

Once more the grey rat was a step ahead of her. He folded his arms and clicked his incisors.

"Because there's no way that bushy-tailed schmuck Lieutenant Tufts is ever going to let him join his merry band. You, maybe…but not Nick, not after he said he's about certain the Lewis kid didn't MEAN to bite him. There's about as much chance of now of that fox being allowed to rejoin the Lewis case as there is of a blizzard in the rainforest district. From what I heard, Tufts went straight through the ceiling when he heard about it; and you don't wanna know what Rudy Gamsbart said."

Judy winced as if she'd just stepped on a LEGOAT piece. She wasn't surprised only frustrated. Yes, Nick had said that to her in confidence, but she knew her fox; no way would she have been the only one he told. And in any case, that had to come out eventually—secrets in a police station have extremely limited shelf lives—but dangit, couldn't it have held up a little while longer?

"Well okay, but what makes you think Lieutenant Tufts will ever take me back?" She said, "We didn't exactly part on good terms the last time I saw him. AND Conor saved my life, don't forget; by rights I should have even more sympathy for him than my…oh, the heck with it, more than NICK!"

"Lieutenant Tufts will take you back," Rodenberg coolly informed her, "Because he's starting to get desperate. His investigation's been stuck on the treadmill for weeks now and the folks upstairs are finally beginning to lose patience with him. Even Gamsbart's starting to get on his tail. He won't be a happy camper about taking you back, but in the end he'll agree to it—especially if Chief Bogo gives the order. Like it or not, he needs someone on his team who knows how the Lewis kid rolls." He cocked a finger, "And that's YOU, Hopps."

"And also Nick Wilde," the doe-bunny pointed out. She still wasn't ready to give it up completely.

Unfortunately for her, neither was Vern Rodenberg.

"Yes, and like I already said, that idea's a non-starter; if Bogo tries to force Nick on that whiney-tail squirrel, he'll run straight to the Attorney General's office and we'll be right back where we started."

"But not if it's me?" Judy's voice was as close to a growl as was possible for a rabbit. She was rapidly approaching the point of complete exasperation.

"But not if it's you," the rat-attorney agreed, nodding slowly and solemnly before dropping yet another bombshell, "You're not another fox." Seeing her expression, he quickly raised a paw. "It seems that Lieutenant Tufts—and also Mr. Gamsbart—are of the opinion that your former partner made that statement based not on his actual recollections, but on a sense of loyalty to his own species."

"WHAT!" Judy's ears went back and she thumped her foot so hard it rattled a nearby vehicle's wiper blades. "Nick would NEVER…!"

"I know, I know!" the grey rat interjected. Now he had both paws raised. "And I couldn't agree more; that's wrong and completely out of line. But it is what it is, bunny…and that's why it has to be you and not him."

"Okay," she nodded quietly, "I'm in." But even as she did, she had to wonder why she'd been so resistant to the idea in the first place; didn't she want to get back on the Conor Lewis investigation? Heck yes, she did; maybe not as much as her former partner, but…heck yes she did.

However, there were still some hurdles to clear…and one more question she had to ask.

"I'll pass your request on to Chief Bogo, Mr. Rodenberg, but I hope you understand that he makes his own decisions; I can't guarantee he'll agree to your terms. Same thing for Lieutenant Tufts

"Fair enough," The grey rat replied, clapping his paws together as if to seal the bargain, once and for all.

Judy, however, didn't see it that way.

"All right, assuming I'm allowed back on the Conor Lewis case, then what do you expect from me?" her brows flattened and her ears went back. "If you think I'm going to be your…your spy, or whatever..."

Rodenberg cut her off with a cry of surprise and disgust. "And end up with Internal Affairs all over you? Oy gevalt! I'd never ask you to do that." He spat out the words like a mouthful of bad seeds.

"Then what do you want?" Judy demanded, leaning over him again.

He didn't answer right away; instead polishing his muzzle with his paws for a second. When he looked up again, his eyes were gleaming darkly and his voice had become still and small.

"What I want," he informed her quietly, "is to help my client."

"Huh?" Judy reeled back as if someone had pulled a hidden wire. "But I thought you quit as Conor's legal counsel." She'd said this already, but it was worth repeating

"That's what I told the press," the grey rat looked sideways, patting his paws together, "but I never formally gave the kid notice that we were done—and he never actually fired me—so technically, I'm still his attorney." His eyes found hers again, no longer uncertain, but firm with resolve. "I admit Hopps, I almost dumped him; I was as mad as a stinkin' murder hornet when I found out that silberfuchs kinder had broken out of jail. 'A meshugener zol men oyshraybn, un im araynshraybn!' I said."

"Uhhh…" The doe-bunny's nose was twitching again.

"They should free a madmammal and lock him up," the translation rolled easily off Rodenberg's tongue before he once more grew serious. "But if it's true that the kid made a run for it because he thought he was gonna get railroaded…again, well, I'm still not happy about what he did, but I can forgive him for it. After I got pulled in for that murder I didn't commit, I had a chance to make a break, too. I never took it—and I spent a lot of nights afterwards wishing that I had."

"Well, it's a good thing you didn't," Judy was tempted to remind the rat. At the end of the day, he'd ended up in a better place than if he had signed on for that escape.

She wanted to tell him that—but by now she knew better, holding her tongue and nodding solemnly.

And then she repeated what she'd said earlier.

"All right, Counselor…but you still haven't said what it is that you expect from ME."

Rodenberg's's face became a blank slate.

"What I expect from you is…nothing," he said…and then his whiskers stiffened slightly and his voice became a murmur so soft that only a bunny could have heard it. "What I'm hoping for here is some possible quid-pro-quo."

He said nothing more, and that was all Judy Hopps could take. Thumping her foot like a kettledrum solo, she slapped her paws against her hips. Here he went again.

"Mr. Rodenberg, this isn't a courtroom; will you please cut it out with all the drama?"

He waved a paw and grumbled, looking and sounding eerily reminiscent of her former partner.

"Ahhh, you're no fun, Hopps. All right, here's the lowdown; I set up a meeting for you, so if you get the chance—IF you get the chance—I would like you to do the same for me."

Several seconds of nose-twitching silence followed. 'Quid pro quo?' 'Do the same for him?' What the heck did he mean by… "Oh no...ohhhhhhh, NO!"

"You mean set up a meeting between you and Conor?" Judy stared down aghast. "No way, Counselor; the Chief would never agree to it...much less Lieutenant Tufts or, God help me, Rudy Gamsbart." Rodenberg started to raise finger, but she got there first with a raised paw. "And don't even think about that; I'm in enough trouble with The Department already for seeing Mr. Big without clearing it first. I am NOT going to go behind Chief Bogo's back a second time. And didn't you just now say that you'd never ask me to do something that'll get in trouble with Internal Affairs?" She clenched her fists and steeled herself. Things were about to get ugly

But the grey rat only grimaced and let out a squeak that was more of a groan.

"Ahhhh, yeah… Sorry, sorry…yeah, that's right, I wasn't thinking," He lowered his gaze and waved his paws about his head. "Forget I said that, Hopps…just forget about it, okay? It'll be enough to have you back on the Lewis case. With you on the team, they might finally be able to make some progress. As for that other thing, just forget it."

"Okay," Judy folded her arms, feeling not entirely mollified, "Is there anything else Counselor? I need to get back to headquarters." Already at least an hour overdue, she could imagine Bogo's reaction when she finally walked in the door, "Where the Devil have YOU been, then?"

"Just a quick piece of advice, Officer Hopps," he said, "not about the Lewis kid, about Mr. Big and the Red Pig."

"Are you even allowed to do that?" Judy asked him, feeling her nose starting to twitch again. 'Officer Hopps'...that was the first time he'd addressed her by her title. Did he feel that contrite for his little quid-pro-quo suggestion…or was there another reason?

"Yes, as long as I don't name names or get into specifics, it's all good." he said, and then regarded her with a penetrating eye. "Okay, now I'm guessing you think that the real perp torching these properties has to be an enemy of both Mr. Big and Rocco Peccari. Am I right?"

"The…thought did cross my mind." Judy answered him slowly and cautiously.

His answer came with a cocked finger, "Ahhh, thought so. Hate to tell ya, Hopps, but you're looking at this thing through the wrong end of the telescope. Forget about that 'keep your friends close but your enemies closer,' garbage; the real Cosa Nostra is nothing like the movies. And I should know," he thumped himself in the chest, "I been around wiseguys since even before I went to the slam. And in all that time, I never saw anyone get whacked or snitched out by an enemy—but I saw plenty taken down by their closest friends. That's who ends you in the mob, the animal you've hung with all your life, the one that'll slap around anyone they catch insulting you, the stand-up guy that's taken a pinch for you...or even a bullet. If you want to figure out who's really setting those fires, don't look at The Big Shrew and the Red Pig's enemies, look at the paisan they have in common. It's like Rafael Porcini once told me. 'The animals you think you can trust the most are the ones you should trust the least.'"

Judy knew she shouldn't allow herself to be distracted, but... "Rafael? I thought his name was Joe."

"It is," Rodenberg told her, his expression becoming slightly caustic. "I'm talking about Joey The Shadow's father over here; he was Boss of the Sahara Square mob before the Red Pig took over. And before you ask...Joey never wanted to be boss, and it's never been a hereditary title anyway."

"Right," It was all Judy could think to say. Whoa, he had known exactly what she was going to say next; little wonder that every cop's greatest fear was being cross-examined by this rat. His insight was almost mind boggling.

…As he was about to demonstrate yet again.

"Okay, that's all I got to say…and now I'll let you go; your Chief's probably about ready to blow a gasket, wondering why you're not back yet."

"Right," Judy answered again, and then, much as it pained her to say it, "Thanks, Mr. Rodenberg."

"Ahhh, what can I say, you're welcome," he said, and then got in his car and drove away.

Judy was about to do the same when she stopped, yanked the key from the ignition and pounded the steering wheel with her fists. After ten or perhaps fifteen reps she stopped, jamming her palms into the horn and sending up a long, extended 'Eeeeeaaap!' All the while she continued to let loose a steady stream of frustration, "Dangit, dangit…no, nooo, NO!"

Laying back off the horn, she threw open the door and leaped out of the Montarpan, alternately thumping her foot and kicking furiously at the tries.

"No good…little…scaly tailed…manipulative…little…JERK!"

"Just forget about it," Rodenberg had said to her; just forget about trying to arrange a meeting between him and Conor Lewis.

Judy kicked the tires again, "As! IF!"

In the next lot over, she thought she saw a giraffe looking in her direction.

She didn't care; she couldn't forget about Rodenberg's request, she wouldn't forget about it—and that stinking little rat-fink had KNOWN she wouldn't forget about it, even as he'd said those words. And then, of course, he'd thrown in that little nugget of advice at the end; not really a nugget, more like a seed—of guilt!

"I…do…NOT…need…this...right...N—OWWW!"

Her last kick had missed the tire and hit the rim instead; she spent the next half minute performing a one-legged war-dance around the SUV, yelping in pain and frustration.

And then, at last, Judy heaved herself back into the Montarpan's driver seat, slamming the door behind her.

"All right," she breathed, laying her forehead against the lower edge of the steering wheel, "all right."

Chapter 10: A Rock and a Hard Place (Cont'd...Part 9)

Summary:

Judy delivers a starting report, while Nick makes an even more startling discovery.

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 1—A Rock and a Hard Place
(Continued… Part 9)

Judy was back in Chief Bogo's office, along with Lieutenant Saw. And so far everything was following the script.

So far...

Her recap of the meeting with The Red Pig had been met with grunts and knowing nods, just as she might have predicted. The Lieutenant was of the opinion that she'd hit the nail on the head with her assessment of the Sahara Square Mob chief's motives. He had only agreed to meet with her so he could claim he'd at least been willing to listen to Mr. Big's truce proposal, (which he hadn't.) And although his reasons for cutting the meeting short had come as news to both the Bogo and Saw, they'd been anything but surprised by his actions. That answered a question the doe-bunny had been harboring ever since taking leave of The Red Pig; yes, they had known all along that Mr. Big's son-in-law was a made member of Cosa Nostra. If nothing else, it went a long way towards explaining why Lieutenant Saw had chosen to arrest him in public, (although in Judy's mind, that was still no excuse for having taken Fru-Fru into custody as well.)

When she told them about her 'other' meeting however—the one with Joey, 'The Shadow' Porcini—their' attitudes practically underwent a paradigm shift, especially when she informed them…

"Wait, what? Sheldon Camelson is planning to buy out the Palm Hotel?" Lt. Saw almost fell out of his chair and Chief Bogo's jaw nearly went crashing through his desktop.

"How is it we don't know this?" the big Cape buffalo demanded, blowing a note of vexation through his nostrils. Luckily for Judy, he was looking at Lieutenant Saw not her.

"Mmmm, can't say for certain, Chief," the sun bear replied, already having recovered most of his composure, "although from what little I've heard of Mr. Camelson, he's supposed to be a very secretive individual." The merest hint of a smile flitted across his muzzle and then vanished without a trace. "However, if he's seriously planning to make a play for the Palm Hotel Casino, he'll first need to obtain a gaming license. With that in mind, I'd suggest we get in touch with City Hall."

"Leave that to me." Bogo rapped the desktop with his knuckles as if trying to conjure good luck. "I know exactly who to talk to."

And with that settled, they once more turned their attention to Judy.

"Getting back to what you told us earlier, Hopps; do you know if Joe Porcini said anything to The Red Pig about someone else setting these fires?" It was Lieutenant Saw again.

"Yes sir, he did," the doe bunny answered, mouth feeling as if she'd just taken a swig of bitters, "or that's what he told me. And he also said it got him kicked off the Red Pig's yacht right before we sailed."

"Cor!" Bogo's eyes pinched shut and he turned away as if he'd accidentally walked in on an autopsy, "Peccari didn't even want to hear about it; that's not good, not good at all."

"Or maybe he just wants everyone to THINK he doesn't want to hear about it," Lieutenant Saw ventured, and then shaking his head, he muttered, almost to himself, "Never can tell with these wiseguys."

That was likely a fair assessment—but still not good enough for his boss. Bogo slapped a hoof on his desktop blotter causing several items to rearrange themselves.

"What, then? What possible reason could even a mobster have for wanting to do a thing like that?"

"Well, I'M no mobster," Judy piped up, surprising even herself, "But if I was Rocco Peccari—and I believed a third party was setting those arson fires—I sure as heck wouldn't want everybody to know I was on to them.

Bogo and Saw looked briefly at each other and then back at her.

"Good point," The Chief conceded, nodding his approval. Lieutenant Saw looked slightly nettled, as if the doe-bunny had stolen his thunder.

"About this, errr, third party as you call it," he said, "did Porcini have any idea as to who it might be?"

"Not a clue," Judy admitted, adding almost as an afterthought. "Mr. Rodenberg had some ideas though."

It was a postscript she immediately wished she could take back. At the mention of the rat-attorney's name, Lieutenant Saw's fangs unsheathed, and Chief Bogo looked as if he was getting ready to charge.

"We'll talk about him later," the big Cape buffalo informed her, in a voice like the tolling of a funeral bell—and was it her, or had it suddenly gotten colder in here?

---

Three floors below, Nick Wilde was having just the opposite problem; dang, but it was muggy down here. Oh well, beggars couldn't be choosers; he should count himself lucky that Bogo was even allowing him to pursue this.

…Especially after he'd up and pulled that little fait accompli on his Chief.

If it hadn't been for his former partner's extended conversation with Vernon J. Rodenberg, Nick would have likely never have made it back to Precinct-1 ahead of her. As things turned out, he'd walked in through the front door a good half-hour ahead of Judy Hopps. Had he been able to observe the doe-bunny's arrival a short while later, he would have seen her waylaid by Benjamin Clawhauser and told to wait for Chief Bogo's summons in the police commissary, no reason given. As things stood, Nick was even now completely unaware of her presence in the building—although he'd unknowingly come close to finding out at least once. About 20 minutes into his report, Bogo's phone had buzzed, and he'd had to wait while the big Cape buffalo answered it. It had been Judy on the other end, asking permission to wait outside the Chief's office instead of downstairs. Without mentioning her name (or glancing at the fox sitting in front of his desk,) Bogo had flatly insisted she wait in the commissary, and refused to tell her why. The reason, had he chosen to divulge it, was because she hadn't known Nick was back in Precinct-1 either—and The Chief had wanted to keep it that way, determined to avoid even the slightest chance of an encounter between the bunny-cop and her former partner.

As for Officer Wilde…

Initially still angry over the fox's late arrival—and Judy's even later arrival—Bogo had quickly mellowed upon hearing his report. Clever species that he was, Nick had cannily cut right to the chase, beginning his presentation with the names of the Rafaj Brothers' current suppliers of blood diamonds, and filling in the details afterwards. By the time he was finished, The Chief was so thoroughly pleased, he couldn't have cared less that the interview with the two jackals had taken so long; THIS was information worth waiting for. He'd especially liked the way Nick had turned the brothers' own attorney against them. "Brilliant," he'd called it, clapping his hooves.

It was only towards the end that the fox had finally turned to the subject he wanted to discuss—the Rafaj Brothers' first shipment of blood-diamonds, the one they'd received from The Company. Once again using his head, he'd couched that part of his report in phrases such as, "It's probably not important, but…" and, "it may mean nothing, but..." Bogo had found what he'd had to say interesting if not imperative, and had even contributed a tidbit of his own.

"Y'know, if he were still alive, McCrodon would likely be a suspect in these arson fires. Yes, that's right; according to what Hopp…er, what Mr. Big had to say, both he and the Red Pig managed to incur The Mister's wrath, sometime before he died. Seems he went to each of them, asking for sanctuary following his indictment—and both of them turned him down flat."

"Really?" Nick's ears had snapped to confused attention. While that had certainly been grounds for taking umbrage on the sea mink's part, it had hardly been serious enough to justify provoking a gang war...especially since, with the help of Vern Rodenberg, The Mister had eventually walked. But then Bogo had gone on to explain; Peccari and Mr. Big had then each tried to claim separately that they had sent the rat-attorney to defend him. Hearing that, Nick had instantly raised his paws. "Say no more, Chief; that'd do it all right; from what I heard of that animal, he was more than crazy enough to threaten them both at once."

"And ruthless enough to possibly make good on that threat," the big Cape buffalo had amended, drawing another nod. Wrapping things up, Nick had swiftly decided that he'd earned enough points to make a request.

"Sir," he'd said, assuming his humble fox identity, "if you don't mind, I'd like to make a copy of my interview with the Rafaj Brothers and do some research into their connection with The Mister. Yes, I know," he'd added quickly, seeing the Chief raise a finger, "McCrodon's been dead for three years now. But something in that part of the report is still relevant."

"And that would be?" Bogo had asked, leaning over his desk; he'd been skeptical but also curious. Unfortunately, Nick hadn't had an answer for him—and so, with no other cards to play he'd fallen back on naked honesty.

"To tell the truth sir, I don't know—but something's there, something important, and whatever it is, it's refusing to leave me alone."

Bogo had let out a pungent snort, studied him for a second, and then let out another one. Nick hadn't needed to be clairvoyant to know what was going on in his boss's mind; he hadn't worked his way to the top without trusting his own instincts now and then. Finally agreeing to the request, he'd grunted, "All right, but if you find anything, I want you to bring it to me ASAP." The tone of his voice had said that he didn't expect the fox to find anything—but that he didn't dare refuse, and in any case, it couldn't hurt. None of that had mattered to Nick; a reluctant yes is still a yes.

"Thank you, sir. Um, I'll need to get into the database archives, though."

At this Bogo had frowned angrily; his officer should have made that request before he'd gotten the okay to do any digging. Both of them knew why he hadn't—because now that Nick had permission to do his research, the Chief could hardly deny him access to the archives, not without looking petty.

"Why do you need to…?" the big Cape buffalo had started to say, but then he'd stopped, flashing a ghostly smirk for half a second. "There's a workstation down in the Records Annex; you can access the archives from there."

"Thanks Chief," the fox had answered, expending nearly every ounce of his energy to keep from grimacing. The ZPD Records Division was located in the Precinct-1 basement; and the annex was situated almost directly adjacent to the boiler. Unless you happened to be a jungle species—and a nocturnal one at that—being assigned there was considered one step below parking duty. And that, of course, was the general idea. Even if he hadn't meant to do it, the fact remained that Nick had pulled a bait-and-switch on his Chief. Nobody pulled that stunt and got away with it!

Now, mopping the condensation from his forehead with a shop-towel, the fox reminded himself of something for perhaps the twentieth time. At least Bogo hadn't rejected his request outright. "Yeah, happy day!" he growled. As if to put a cherry on top of his sundae of miseries, Chief Buffalo Butt had pointedly neglected to mention that the workstation he'd had in mind was set up for large-mammal species. As a result, Nick had been required to prop a filebox on top of the task-chair and employ the 'two-pawed' typing method. To access the mouse, he not only had to use both paws but stretch himself halfway across the desktop. The only advantage was that he had plenty of table space on which to lay out his paperwork—and he needed all the space he could get right now. Not to put too fine a point on it, he had so many documents strewn about the cubicle; a casual visitor might have concluded that they'd stumbled into the lair of an overgrown gerbil.

So many documents…and so far not one of them had offered even a hint of the information Nick was looking for. (What WAS he looking for?)

Well anyway that thought would have to wait awhile. Right now, he had other business to attend to, waiting on hold and mentally rehearsing what he needed to say when the call finally connected.

Chief Bogo hadn't given him permission to talk to the First Bank of Sahara Square…but then he hadn't told the fox that he couldn't contact them either, (mainly because Nick hadn't bothered to mention it.) It was devious, but also entirely necessary…or that was how it felt anyway. Fox-on-the-rocks, what WAS the information he wasn't seeing in that report? Maybe this would give him a clue.

He put the thought aside and went back to his mental preparations. He needed to present his case using just the right words. Otherwise the response would likely be something on the order of, "I'm sorry, but that's privileged information; we simply cannot divulge it without our client's permission."

Of course Nick could obtain that permission any time he wanted; the Rafaj Brother could hardly refuse him if he requested access to their bank records. Maybe so, but he wasn't going to get that okay anytime in the next five minutes—OR without Chief Bogo finding out. However, if he played his cards right, neither one of those things would be a problem.

The line clicked and a voice spoke, formal, clipped, wee, and tinny, a rodent of some kind.

"This is Mr. Sands, how may I help you?"

Nick took a small breath, crossed his fingers and went into his pitch, keeping it every bit as formal as the animal on the other end of the call.

"Good afternoon sir, this is Officer Nicholas P. Wilde of the Zootopia Police Department. I'm hoping you can assist us with something. Recently, a couple of animals we took into custody informed us that, three years ago, they withdrew a rather large sum of money from your bank—money which was then used to purchase a shipment of illegal conflict diamonds."

"Who told you this?" Mr. Sands asked cautiously. "Was it the animals that withdrew the funds, or...?"

"Yes sir," Nick answered at once, "We know this; they've admitted it. And they have since agreed to cooperate fully with us in our investigation. Perhaps you've heard of them; Ahmed and Ismael Rafaj, the owners of Rafaj Brothers Jewelers?" It was a long shot at best; the story had made the news but had more or less been buried in what passed for the internet's back pages.

"Mmmm, can't say that I have, Mr….I-I mean Officer Wilde. What is it that I can do for you?"

"Well sir," Nick told him, adding a dash of chipper to his voice, "The amount they withdrew—against a mortgage they took out on their mother's home—was drawn in cash and well in excess of $50K. So, according to standard procedure, the money should have been issued in bills with sequential serial numbers…"

"Which we would have, I assure you, Officer Wilde." Mr. Sands sounded mildly offended; as if HIS bank would have done anything else!

"Very good sir," Nick responded, doing his fox-darndest to sound impressed. "Now I have a formal request prepared—we want to do this by the numbers—so if you could just give me the proper email address, I'll forward it to you tout-suite."

"Ummm," Sands hesitated for a second. Possibly he feared that he might be walking into a scam.

Nick moved swiftly to reassure him. "If you would prefer, I can send it by FAX rather than email."

That seemed to bring the banker to his senses. "Mmmm, no, that won't be necessary; send it to paymentinquiries …"

Nick typed the address into the proper window and clicked 'Send,' nearly straining his back in the process. Dang this blankety-blank, way-too-big workstation!

"Okay, it's on the way."

"Very well," said the rodent on the other end, "May I put you on hold for a moment?"

"Certainly…"

And with that, Mr. Sands went away. What came back in his place caused Nick to grimace and yank the phone away from his ear; not music, but a silky robotic, feminine voice…

"If you're thinking about refinancing your home, there's no better time than right now. At First Bank of Sahara Square, we're dedicated to…"

"If I wanted to get spammed, I'd go surf the WEB!" the red fox growled, addressing no one in particular. He set the phone down on the desktop and pressed 'Speaker'. With the voice not right in his ear, he could at least partially tune it out.

Still, Nick had to admit, if you happened to believe in Karma, he had brought it on himself. Lacing his fingers behind his head, he gazed upwards at the labyrinth of pipes and conduits, snaking their way across the ceiling overhead.

"'…do this by the numbers,' 'tout-suite', did I really say THAT? Gah, but I'm a shameless little fox today."

Just then, Mr. Sands returned.

"All right, I have your request. May I ask you to confirm; you're asking for the serial numbers of the bills issued to Misters Ahmed and Ismael Rafaj on…" a short rustling of papers, "…the twelfth of April, three years ago. I-Is that correct?"

"Yes sir," Nick answered, smoothly, "That's all the information we require at this time," said while putting just a touch of emphasis on the word 'all.'

"Very well, I'll get right on it," the rodent answered, now quite happy to cooperate with the fox's inquiry. And why shouldn't he be? The whole point of a bank issuing bills with sequential serial numbers was to allow them to be tracked by Law Enforcement. AND…the ZPD hadn't asked for anything else, certainly nothing that could come back later to bite the First Bank of Sahara Square. "Should I forward them to the email address on your request form?"

"Please do," Nick answered, nodding in spite of the fact that the bank official couldn't see him. "Thank you very much for your help Mr. Sands; the ZPD appreciates it."

"Always happy to cooperate with our mammals in blue," the rodent responded, an even more canned response than the fox's. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a customer waiting."

"Yes, of course," Nick answered him with a smile in his voice. He had what he needed, and was more than happy to end this conversation. "Good afternoon, Mr. Sands."

"Good afternoon."

And with that, his cell beeped twice and disconnected, leaving the fox completely satisfied; everything had gone exactly as he'd hoped and now...

Nick Wilde was nowhere close to being a computer-geek, but there were times when even he had to appreciate them—such as right now. In years past, it would have taken days, or even weeks to locate those serial numbers; now they could be retrieved almost instantly and at the touch of a few computer keys. With a little luck, he'd have them within the hour. Thank you, Bill Goats…or Steve Jerboas, or whoever.

"Okay, back to the slog," the red fox muttered to himself, raising his arms high overhead and cracking his knuckles. Oh, how he wished that Carrots was here; document research had always been her cup of juice. Still, he'd managed to pick up a few pearls of wisdom from his former partner in the time they'd spent together. And one of the first of these had been, "If you hit a dead end, go back to the beginning and start over."

And so that was precisely what Nick had done, going over the history of the Rafaj Brothers first source of blood diamonds—the Zoo York gang known simply as The Company and the sea-mink who'd been their boss, James 'The Mister' McCrodon.

He had started by going to the Zoo York Times archives and found very slim pickings; The Times tended to concentrate more on national and international news than local stories. Now he switched to the Zoo York Daily News and had better luck; the Zoo York crime beat was practically their raison d'etre. From there, he moved on via Zoogle to a number of different websites, most of them dedicated to the history of organized crime. And, slowly but surely, he began putting together a picture of The Company and their first and only boss.

The animal that would one day come to lead that organization could have hardly sprung from more unlikely stock. Before he'd broken bad, James McCrodon had been, of all things, a commercial fishermammal, 3rd generation no less, and captain of his own boat. All that had changed the day he'd been recruited to run a load of weapons into Northern Ireland by the much-feared Pawston gangster James, 'Whitey' Bullgore. It had been the beginning of a fruitful but short-lived association, one that came to an abrupt end when Bullgore went on the lam, making his exit literally one step ahead of the law. It was from that incident McCrodon had learned an important lesson. Never wait until the cops are coming for you; always have something ready in advance. It was a lesson that the sea-mink had eventually forgotten. Years later, under indictment and facing an airtight case that could have put him away forever, he'd been reduced to begging sanctuary from Mr. Big and the Red Pig, both of whom had rebuffed him.

"So, what did you do then, McCrodon?" Nick breathed, as if the ghost of the deceased arms trader was right there with him in the cubicle. "Yes, Vern Rodenberg showed up and beat the case against you, but then what? You were smart…smart enough to know that wouldn't be the last time you'd be looking at 25-to-life. What was your next move?"

Putting the thought aside for the moment, he went back to his research

Following the loss of his mentor, McCrodon had relocated to Zoo York City and gone into business for himself. It was a sound decision on the face of it; he had retained all his contacts from his time with Bullgoar and they'd all been willing to do business with him. For the first year, things had gone well but then, six months later, disaster struck. The established Zoo York crime cartels had never particularly appreciated the upstart Pawston sea-mink's presence in their city—but as long as he'd kept to his own they'd been willing to tolerate him. That all changed when The Mister decided to supplement his weapons business by dealing in bootleg pharmaceuticals. NOW he was poaching on the big boys' turf—and they were not going to let him get away with it. On a frosty morning in November James McCrodon had awakened to find himself at war with not but TWO other crime families.

By rights, it should have been a slaughter. Either gang, by itself, had The Company outgunned by 3-to-1. McCrodon, however, had been made of sterner stuff than his enemies surmised. Refusing to back down, he'd fought like a fire-demon…and he'd also enjoyed some hidden advantages over his foes.

First of all, his two rival crime-bosses, one Russian, the other Albanian had loathed each other almost as much as him. As a result they had refused to even speak to one another, much less coordinate their efforts. It had allowed the sea-mink to take them on separately, and had led to some almost comical incidents—such as when two of their crews had mistaken each other for McCrodon soldiers and shot it out in an abandoned casino on the Cony Island boardwalk. Before they'd finally realized their mistake, three of their number had been wounded and a fourth was on his way to the morgue.

"How you must have laughed your tail off at that one, Mister." Nick thought to himself, shaking his head.

The other advantage McCrodon had enjoyed was his decision to embrace the then-nascent realm of cybercrime and embrace it hard. It was a judgment that had served him well in what had later come to be known as 'The Weapons-Shop Wars'.

For example…

Returning home from a late-night revel in his armored limousine, Naum 'Norm' Hehxi, the Albanian Mob's the chief enforcer, had found himself held up by the flashing lights and lowered gate of a railroad crossing…with no train anywhere in sight, (and with none scheduled, according to the police report.)

What had happened next was still a matter of conjecture. Either on his own initiative, or under Hehxi's orders, the driver had opened his door, possibly planning to exit the vehicle and investigate the delay. It had been the last act the brown bear ever performed. According to the coroner's report, he was felled instantly by a single shot from a sniper's rifle. As for the lynx who'd been his employer, he simply disappeared. The burned out-remains of the armored limo were found three days later in Sheepshead Bay but his remains were never recovered. The ZYPD's best guess was that his driver had opened the door with the engine still running, and that someone else simply had taken his place and driven away...with Hexhi still in the back. Why he hadn't leapt from the vehicle and made a run for it no one knew—or maybe he had, and hadn't gotten very far. In any case, he was never seen again.

It would take two more years of bloody conflict, but when the dust finally settled, James 'The Mister' McCrodon had emerged as the undisputed kingpin of the east coast arms trade.

"Whoof!" Nick fell back in his seat; cheeks puffed out and both paws clasping the top of his head. The idea of McCrodon threatening Mr. Big and The Red Pig, both at the same time, had just become a lot more plausible. For him it must have felt like deja vu all over again.

Sitting back up in his chair, the fox returned to his research.

From this point onwards, the information regarding both McCrodon and the Company began to taper off. None of the websites or news sources had anything to offer in the way of an explanation, but it wasn't hard to guess; in the wake of his victory in the Weapons Shop Wars, McCrodon had probably—and wisely—chosen to assume a low profile. (Mr. Big had done the same thing following his ascension.) It wasn't until Nick began researching the raid that had finally taken down The Company that the stream of information began to pick up.

Stream…? More like a torrent; but then that was hardly surprising given the controversy surrounding that raid. Finagles' Nightclub had burned to the ground; only two members of The Company had made it out alive, and—worst of all from Nick's perspective—three members of Zoo York's Finest had lost their lives that day. (The ZPD, by contrast, had never lost that many officers in a single incident.) And that wasn't all; at least eight other cops had suffered serious injuries in the melee, including Detective Sergeant Claudia Nizhang. Left with a permanent limp, she had quit the ZYPD and was now a member of the Zootopia City Council.

In the aftermath of the Finagles raid, the Zoo York Press, being the Zoo York Press, had gone on a feeding frenzy, variously describing it as a 'fiasco', a 'debacle', and a 'disaster.' For all that, almost nobody had been able to agree on who was responsible for the failure. The Daily News blamed the Commissioner's office; The Zoo York Post blamed the Mayor, and the Zoo York Times, for once taking interest in a local issue, had blamed it on the fact that City Hall had recruited a private security firm, AKER, as backup. About the only thing on which the media could reach a consensus was that whoever was to blame, the raid had been poorly planned, and even more poorly executed. Reading over the details, Nick could only shake his head. Nooo kidding; what the heck had the Zoo York City Police Department been thinking? They'd conducted that raid as if it was a military operation; no wonder Finagles' nightclub had gone up in flames and only two members of the Company had walked out alive—including…

"Let's not think about THAT," the red fox admonished himself, returning his thoughts to the reason he was down here in the first place, that first consignment of blood diamonds shipped to the Rafaj Brothers.

"Mmmmnnng," he grumbled, leaning back in his chair, and studying the overhead pipes again. That poor sap of a courier, successfully exchanging those diamonds for cash and getting safely out of Zootopia—only to stroll right into a firefight upon his return to Zoo York, a firefight from which he hadn't walked out.

Or…HAD he?

Nick sat up suddenly, eyes wide and ears erect, unconsciously sniffing the air. Open on the display screen in front of him was a story from the Zoo Yorker, dated two years previously. The headline read, 'Terror! At The Disco,' And underneath it said, "One year ago last week, Finagles—then one of Zoo York's hottest night spots—became the 9th circle of Hell…"

Nooo, that wouldn't work; he needed something from the actual day of the raid. Stretching out over the keyboard and working the mouse, with both paws, he clicked on 'History.' When the list appeared, the second item from the top was a ZY-1 News story he'd read several minutes earlier, complete with video. "Live From Barklyn: Police Raid Becomes An Inferno." This time, however, Nick wasn't interested in the story or even the camera footage, but in something else entirely. Yes, now where was…? There! Right there in the upper-right corner. Okay, print that out and go check The Sahara Square Sentinel; three years ago, what date was that again? Okay, should be the day before….there, now check the obits; please let it be there, annnd…

"Holy...!"

Nick fell back in his chair with a fox-scream, the file box nearly shooting out from under his tail.

"Son of a…!"

There it was; the thing that had been gnawing at him practically all day. It had been right there to find all along—and he hadn't noticed it, not before now. He'd been studying all the right documents, but looking in all the wrong places.

But now he saw it, and whoa…was this going to blow away Big Chief Buffalo…

"No, it won't; get real, fox!"

No, it wouldn't, he realized. Not by itself; he'd need more than this before he took his findings to Bogo's office. Okay, fine…but what else WAS there? Nothing; this was all he…

At that very instant, as if in answer to the fox's unspoken prayer, he heard a low double-ping in his headset, informing him, 'you've got mail.'

Clicking on the email icon, Nick saw at once that the message had come from The First Bank of Sahara Square. Clicking on the attached document, he studied it for a moment, and pulled aside his headset, at the same time reaching for his cell-phone again.

"Clawhauser, this is Nick Wilde. If I wanted to put a trace on some bills with sequential serial numbers, who would I talk to?"

---

Three floors above, Judy, Chief Bogo, and Lieutenant Saw were finally getting around to the prickly subject of Vernon J, Rodenberg; specifically, what did rat-attorney want for having set up that meeting with The Red Pig, (and Joe Porcini)?

To say that the doe-bunny's answer came as something of a surprise to the Chief and the Lieutenant would have been the understatement of the decade. Saw actually roared, and Bogo's reaction could have passed for a boom-box cranked up to the max.

"He wants what?" the big Cape buffalo demanded, staring open-mouthed.

"Why?" Lieutenant Saw asked, and for Judy the answer was like attempting to traverse a field littered with broken glass—walking barefoot and also blindfolded. On the one paw, she dared not lie in the Chief's presence, especially now; on the other, Vern Rodenberg had been 1000% correct when he'd said, "If you know what's good for you, you won't even think about blabbing what I'm about to say, not to anyone else."

What was she going to do? The answer came to her almost at once. There was nothing TO do except wing it and hope for the best; that, and resist the urge to cross her fingers behind her back.

"You'd have to ask him, Lieutenant," she said, "The only reason he gave was that with me back on the case, maybe they'll start to make progress; I know the suspect and I know how he thinks…or that's what Mr. Rodenberg said anyway."

There, she'd told the truth—technically. The grey rat had, after all, taken back his request for her to set up a meeting with Conor Lewis, (also technically.)

"But didn't he drop the Lewis boy as his client?" Bogo queried with a snort, "Why'd he suddenly decide to take up that fox kid's case again?"

Judy swallowed a lump and gulped a breath. Ohhh boy, this was going to be tricky.

"According to him, that's what he told the press, but he never formally took the step of resigning as Conor Lewis's attorney…and the kid never actually fired him, so…"

"So he still represents the kid," Bogo finished for her, "at least on paper; I see." He thoughtfully stroked his chin, "Hmmm, wonder if that wasn't his plan all along."

"Well it might have been simply for practical reasons," Judy offered, "After all, how do you quit on someone if you can't even find them?"

For the past two weeks, not a thing had been heard either from or about the fugitive young silver fox; he had seemingly vanished off the face of the earth. Speculation was running rampant in Precinct-1 as to what had happened to him, the prevalent theory being that he had fled Zootopia for greener pastures.

Judy didn't think so, although if anyone had asked her, she couldn't have said why. It was just…a feeling she had, that's all.

Oops, Chief Bogo was speaking to her again.

"Still, you've got to wonder, haven't you? The Lewis boy's escape from jail was at least as big an embarrassment to that little conniver Rodenberg as it was to the Department—and yet here he is, continuing to stick by that young fox. Why on earth should he do that?"

Judy felt herself pressing hard against the back of her chair, as if she was in a car that had suddenly accelerated to 100 miles an hour. She was trapped; there was no dodging this question. She would have to answer truthfully and hang the consequences.

She might have, but Bogo got there first.

"Well, I suppose we'll find out eventually," he sighed, rapping his knuckles on the desktop again and looking away for a second, "or not."

Judy let out a sigh of her own—one of relief. The Chief's query had been rhetorical, thank heaven.

Then Lieutenant Saw spoke up. For the past few minutes he'd been just sitting quietly, watching the exchange between her and Bogo. It was hardly surprising; the Conor Lewis investigation had almost nothing to do with Organized Crime, and therefore almost nothing to do with him. Vern Rodenberg, however, was someone he knew all too well. In fact, he'd been the one who'd approached the grey rat in the first place, asking him to help set up a meeting with The Red Pig.

"Well, I think the more important question is, should we comply with Mr. Rodenberg's request?" His dark eyes flicked towards Judy for a second. "And CAN we comply with it? According to the Precinct-1 grapevine, Lieutenant Tufts doesn't like Officer Hopps there very much."

Bogo answered the sun bear's questions in the order they'd been asked.

"Well something's got to change, Saw. The Lewis case has been going nowhere for far too long and—much as I hate to admit it—Rodenberg's right about one thing at least. Hopps does know the suspect…or at least she knows him better than anyone currently working the case. If it were up to me, I'd have had her back on that investigation already."

"But like the Lieutenant says, can you do that, Chief?" Judy asked the question perhaps a touch plaintively, "Saying Lieutenant Tufts 'doesn't like me very much' is like saying Nighthowler makes you edgy."

A burst of laughter greeted this statement, surprisingly coming from Lieutenant Saw, rather than the Chief. "Excellent way of putting it Hopps," he said, making it clear that he was no fan of the Kaibab squirrel either. Maybe so, but that still didn't answer her question.

"Won't he just get the Attorney General's office to overrule my appointment?" She was looking at Bogo again.

His face became a granite wall, "Two weeks, even a week ago, that might have been true Hopps, but not anymore. The AG'S office is getting sick and tired of that squirrel's excuses. At this point, I think even Rudy Gamsbart would be willing to have you back on that investigation," He let out a low sulfurous grunt, and then qualified his statement, "providing, of course, that it will improve our chances of recapturing the Lewis boy."

"Hrmmm, excuse me," Charles Saw was raising a paw, "but there's something I've always wondered. Why is the Conor Lewis investigation such a high priority, anyway? Yes, the kid escaped from jail, but other than that, all he did was carry money for a loan-shark; hardly the most heinous of crimes. Why's he such a big deal all of a sudden?"

"F' two reasons, Lieutenant," Bogo was clasping his hooves on the desktop. "Number one, he bit a police officer; number two, that loan shark he was working for was none other than The Phantom."

"Grrr-argh; say no more, Chief!" Saw snarled as his raised paw became two raised paws, "If the Lewis kid's the key to finally busting that animal, I can well understand the urgency." He began to stroke his chin, looking thoughtful, "You know, if he really was working for a loan-shark it puts him more or less in the Organized Crime Task Force's field of operation."

"You've got enough on your plate with a gang-war brewing!" Bogo informed him curtly, and then pointed a thick finger, "and don't think I've f'gotten what happened the last time you and Lieutenant Tufts tried to work together."

Saw made a noise that might have been a groan, "How many times must I say it? That was an accident!"

Bogo rolled his eyes diagonally, "Oh, certainly it was…"

Watching from the sidelines with a twitching nose, Judy would have dearly loved to know the nature of that 'accident.' She knew better than to ask, though. And besides…Bogo was speaking to her again.

"Hopps, you said a moment ago that Rodenberg had some ideas of his own about who might be setting these arson fires."

She glanced at Saw for a second and back again, quickly deciding to hedge her bets.

"This is probably something you and the Lieutenant already know sir, but…Mr. Rodenberg he told me we shouldn't waste our time looking into whichever enemies Mr. Big and The Red Pig have in common; the real fire-bug is much more likely to be one of their mutual friends."

Once again, the faintest trace of a smile flitted across Saw's muzzle and was gone.

"Yes Hopps, I do know that…but it's something that can't be repeated too many times." He frowned deeply, "Unfortunately, those two don't have any mutual friends…at least not that we know of; they despise each other so much that getting chummy with either one will likely make you an instant enemy of the other."

Judy could only nod her understanding. In the last few days, she had fursonally heard the two mob bosses giving their opinions of one another. And it hadn't been pretty; their mutual hatred really was that strong.

"Anything else then, Hopps?" Bogo was asking her.

For a second, the doe-bunny hesitated. There probably was, but she couldn't think of it right off the top of her head.

"Not at the moment sir."

"All right then," Lieutenant Saw stood up and brushed at his shoulder. "In that case, I need to get over to Precinct 2. The word around the canals is that Sam Sayanong just opened up another illegal Pachinko barge; high rollers only this time, two dollars a ball, fifty dollars minimum." His eyes narrowed slightly, "and if I know THAT palm civet, he's not running an honest house."

Bogo snorted in disgust. "Huh, less than six months out of prison and he's already back at it. Little idiot; he never learns."

"Tell me about it," the sun bear snarled, showing a fang, and then nodded in Judy's direction. "Satisfactory job, Hopps," he said, and then as was his habit, he slipped out the door before either she or Bogo could say anything else.

Judy felt her face drop to the floor. After all her effort, after all she'd learned, after all she'd accomplished THAT was the best he had to…? Wait a minute; was someone playing a tuba solo in here? No; it was Chief Bogo; and was he…laughing?

"Don't take it too hard, Hopps," the big Cape buffalo finally said. "Lieutenant Saw calling your work 'satisfactory' is like anyone else singing your praises from the rooftops."

"Yes sir," the doe-bunny answered, feeling worlds better and unable to suppress a grin.

"For myself, I think you've done an exemplary job." Bogo leaned forward with his elbows folded on his desktop, nodding slowly and appreciatively, "What you've discovered may not be enough by itself to head off this gang-war, but it should certainly be a big help; well done." And then, to Judy's utter astonishment; he stretched out even further, proffering a hoof. Sweet cheez n' crackers, was this actually happening? He'd never once offered to shake with her before, not even after she'd foiled the Savage Predator plot.

"Just doing my job, sir," she said at last, putting out a paw and watching it get swallowed up in the Chief's grip like a gnat in a Venus Flytrap. Oh well, it was her own fault anyway for giving such a lame response. "So, uh, what would you like me to do next?"

Bogo sat back in his chair and made another rumbling noise.

"F' now, just go home, Hopps. I'll call on you again in a day or two."

"Yes, sir," the doe-bunny answered, sliding down out of her chair. There was something about his response that was decidedly UN-satisfying, but she couldn't even begin to put her finger on it.

…That is, not until she was halfway down the concourse; only then did it come to her. The matter of her unauthorized visit to Mr. Big was still unresolved. And while Chief Bogo might be inclined to think that, given the results, her actions had been justified, there was still the Police Board to contend with. What would they have to…?

"What the HECK?"

Ten yards down the ramp, Nick Wilde had just come flying around a turn and was running full tilt in her direction—and why was he running on all fours?

Judy threw up her paws as if to hold back a great flood.

"Nick, no! You know we're not…supposed…to…"

The remaining words died in her throat as the fox streaked past her without even so much as a sidelong glance and disappeared around the next bend. What the…? What the heck had lit a fire under his tail? And what had he been carrying in his mouth? It had looked like… was that a file folder?

That was when she heard the hammering. Now what? Was Nick…pounding on Chief Bogo's door?

It was almost too bad she wasn't there to see it. The fox was banging so hard on the door, he was leaning into it. Perhaps he'd been expecting Bogo to simply bellow out a response, as was his habit, "What the DEVIL…?" Instead the door swung suddenly inward, causing him to pitch face-first onto the carpet.

Now he heard it. "Wilde! What the Devil d'you think you're DOING?"

Springing to his feet, Nick spoke rapidly as he brushed himself off.

"Sorry sir, but you told me to report to you ASAP if I found anything."

"Found anything…where?" the Chief demanded, scowling like a Roman mask. But then he seemed to remember, "You mean about the Rafaj Brothers' first shipment of blood diamonds?" Nick nodded and Bogo turned on his heel, beckoning for the fox to follow. "You'd better have learnt that Zootopia's on the edge of an apocalypse!"

He went back to his desk and sat down again.

"Well at least he didn't tell me to go away," Nick thought to himself. To the Chief he said, "Well, it's not THAT serious sir, but…" He held up the folder—or tried to; he didn't have it any more. Oh no, where had it…? Wait, there it was, lying on the carpet, the documents scattered like autumn leaves. He hurriedly scooped them up, all too aware of the big Cape buffalo's smoldering gaze and the impatient tapping of his hoof.

"Well, I didn't find anything like that, sir," he finally said, hopping up into the chair in front of the desk, still barely able to curb his enthusiasm. "But I DID find something that just about blew me straight through the wall."

Bogo's frown became almost impossibly deep; he was in no mood for drama right now. "Right, what is it then?"

Ahhh, dangit. Nick didn't want to cut to the chase a second time; it would greatly lessen the impact of what he had to say. On the other paw, if he didn't keep it short and sweet, Bogo was liable to show him the door before he could finish.

In the end he decided to split the difference.

"Sir, please bear with me," he was putting on his humble-little-fox act again, "But this can't be explained in two sentences." He fished hurriedly in his file folder. Dangit everything was out of order. Where the heck were those…? Oh wait, here they were. He withdrew a pair of documents, one of which he slid across the desk in Bogo's direction. "If you recall Chief, the Rafaj brothers took delivery of that diamond shipment from The Company on the 15th of April, three years ago. And they were absolutely certain of that date; it was the day after their mother's funeral." He pointed at the document he'd laid on the Chief's desk. "There's a copy of the death certificate, and this…" he added the other document, "is her obituary. It confirms that her memorial service took place on the 14th of April that year."

Bogo studied the documents briefly and then raised an irritated eyebrow, "So?"

"So…" Nick pulled another document from the folder, "The courier who delivered those diamonds was a member of the Company, remember? Now, take a look at this." He slid the document across the desktop. The Chief took it and immediately blew a note of disgust. "'…Police Raid Becomes An Inferno'? Why are you wasting my time, Wilde? As IF I wouldn't already know…"

Nick thrust out a finger. "Sir, sir…look at the DATE on that story, the 14th of April the same day as Mrs. Rafaj's funeral service...and the day before those blood diamonds were delivered!"

Bogo stopped in mid tirade, sitting up ramrod straight, eyes widening with a dawning realization.

Nick waited until they were just the right size, and then delivered the clincher.

"Up to now, we've always assumed that The Company's diamond mule, whoever he was, went back to Zoo York after making the exchange and was killed in the raid on Finagles. Ehhh, wrong; he was here in Zootopia at the time—there were THREE survivors of that raid, not just two—and that third guy walked away with a $200K payoff in his pocket. A nice haul, except a whole lot of that money was in bills with sequential serial numbers; he'd have had to launder it before he could spend it. And since he didn't know anybody here in Zootopia, what was he supposed to do?" Settling back in his chair Nick pressed his fingertips together. "Well, as we all know, there were some master cybercrooks earning with The Company. Sooo, how about becoming an online loanshark…?"

That was all he managed before Bogo cut him off at the pass.

"Oh, come off it, Wilde!" The big Cape buffalo had reverted back to vexed mode, standing with his hooves braced against the desktop. "If that courier'd had half a brain, he'd be long gone from Zootopia by now. And even if he is still here, are you seriously suggesting that HE'S The Phantom?"

Nick felt the smile unzipping around his muzzle, sly, wicked…foxy.

"I'm not suggesting anything of the kind sir…because I don't think; I know!"

He pulled another document from the file folder. This one, however, he didn't slide across the desk, instead slapping it down in triumph like the Ace of Spades. "I took the liberty of asking Fraud and Extortion to run a trace on those serial numbers…"

"Wha…? I didn't authorize you to…!" Bogo's mood had gone from irritated to infuriated.

"I think you'll find it was justified sir," the red fox interjected quickly, pointing at the document. "Three, count 'em, three of those bills were deposited in a local bank account only a few months ago—and guess whose account they landed in?"

The Chief glared at him for a second and then scanned his way down the page. When he got to the last entry, the paper dropped from his fingers and his eyes went wider than ever. His voice, when he spoke, was like the breath of a departed spirit.

"Cor…Ian Shortal."

"That's right, sir; The Phantom's last known customer." Nick stood on his chair and leaned across the desk, his finger tapping the document like a telegraph key. "One of those bills might have passed through a few other paws before Shortal got hold of them, but three?  No! Way! That money could only have come from the cash the Rafaj Brothers used to pay for that first shipment of blood-diamonds." He allowed himself the small luxury of directly meeting The Chief's gaze. "We may not know who The Phantom is sir, but at least now we know where he came from and how he got here. And I don't think I need to tell you how much closer that'll bring us to finally unmasking him."

He sat down again with a satisfied growl; a satisfaction that was destined to be short lived. Wearing no expression at all Bogo was taking the documents and laying them in a neat stack. That done, he held out a hoof in the fox's direction.

"D'you have anything else then?"

Nick felt his enthusiasm quickly dampening. There was something about the way he said it…

"Uh yes, but it's all pretty much more of the same sir." He passed over the file folder, marveling at how quickly the Cape buffalo had recovered his composure...and even turned the tables. Now HE was the one with the fidgets.

Bogo took the folder and slipped the remaining papers inside. "Off y' go then…and not a word of this to anyone, especially not…"

Nick felt the bristles on his neck standing upright, and started to raise a finger. "What the heck? I NEVER planned to share this with Judy!"

"…especially not Clawhauser," The Chief concluded, and the fox's protest died stillborn. Oops, he'd come that close to stepping in it. Feeling like a pool-toy with the valve popped, he slid halfway out of his chair with his tail sagging—but then stopped when Bogo spoke again.

"And one more thing…?"

"Yes sir?" Nick asked him, looking up…and then he was the one with big, wide eyes. Bogo was offering him a hoof across the desktop. Momentarily struck dumbfounded, it took the red fox several seconds to respond. When he did, he too saw his paw overwhelmed by the Chief's grip.

"Well done, Wilde…very well done. You can expect a call in a day or two. In the meantime, good work."

"Uh, thank you sir," the fox responded, unable to think of anything else.

When he was gone, Bogo tilted back in his chair, with his arms folded, studying the overhead fluorescents and reciting a little ditty under his breath. "♪ When constabulary duty's to be done, to be done … ♫"

Over the course of the last hour, he'd been hit by not one, but two bombshells—and what was he going to do about it? He knew of course; he'd known his next move even before Nick Wilde had left his office.

And he also knew that certain animals WEREN'T going to like it, not one little bit.

" ♪…a police chief's life is not a happy one. ♫"

Chapter 11: Finding Conor, Pt 1

Summary:

Judy on the carpet.

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 2—Finding Conor
(Part 1)

To gain access to Zootopia's Police Precinct-1, visitors are required to ascend a short flight of steps, six at the most.

For Judy Hopps, on this hazy, sultry, Savanna Central morning, it felt as if she were climbing the slopes of Mount Doom.

Chief Bogo's call had come in two days ago. "Hopps, be in my office the day after tomorrow, 9:00 A.M. sharp…and come in uniform."

He had offered no explanation.

"Yes sir," Judy had said, and when the Chief had rung off, she had caught herself fighting back the tears. His call had contained only about a hundred harbingers of bad things to come. First of all, he had told her to come in 'the day after tomorrow.' Not good; if he'd wanted to talk some more about her meetings with the Red Pig, and Joe 'The Shadow' Porcini, he would have instructed her to come in right away. And then there was the matter of that '9:00 sharp'; he never set a specific time for a meeting unless it had something to do with your performance record. And, last but not least, he had ordered her to appear in uniform. That had been all she wrote as far as this doe-bunny was concerned. She was being summoned to a disciplinary hearing; it couldn't be anything else.

Reporting first to Benjamin Clawhauser, as instructed, Judy was told to take a seat in the lobby and wait for Bogo to call her. The plus size cheetah's face showed neither sorrow, nor sympathy as he delivered the order. He was, in fact, his usual bubbly self. That told the doe-bunny it would be pointless to ask him for any clarification; he wouldn't have known what Bogo wanted her for either.

After several minutes of searching, she managed to find a bench that was currently unoccupied, (she didn't want anyone else near her right now.) Checking her watch, she saw that it was 8:55, a few minutes early; as always she had been punctual to a fault.

To a fault…yes, that was a good way to put it. These next five minutes were going to seem like centuries.

Maddening centuries; for all of those next few minutes, the animals passing by her offered only the briefest of glances, if that much. Nobody stopped to talk to her; nobody said a word to her. On the plus side, nobody pointed a finger in her direction and whispered an aside to their companion—and nobody seemed to be going out of their way to avoid her either. It was just another day in Precinct-1 as far as everyone here was concerned. At one point Judy spotted Detective Lieutenant Charles Saw, on his way up the concourse to Chief Bogo's office, but he didn't look at her either. (Of course, he was all the way over on the other side of the Precinct's front foyer, so he probably wouldn't have noticed her anyway.)

"When I'm done here," she told herself. "I need to go talk to Dr. Hind. Oh, wait a minute…will I even be eligible to see him after today? And what about Mom and Dad, what will I tell them? Oh, sweet cheez n' crackers, they're going to be here on Friday with Erin; her ZAPA audition is coming up Saturday, I forgot all about that. Ohhhh, how can I face them? Will they let me come home, after that business with…my former partner, and now THIS? And I just renewed the lease on my apartment. And how am I going to get packed up in only….? QUIT GETTING AHEAD OF YOURSELF, DUMB BUNNY!"

Quietly acquiescing to the command of her inner voice, Judy hit the air-brakes on her train of thought. And then slumping down in her seat, she leaned forward with her elbows on her knees and her ears drooping over her shoulders. She would have thought it quite appropriate had she known how much she looked like the weary warrior in the famous sculpture, End of the Trail.

That was when her cell buzzed. She didn't need to look at the screen to know who was calling.

"Hopps, come on up."

If negotiating the stairs leading to the precinct's front entrance had felt like a steep climb, the ascent up the concourse to Bogo's office was like scaling the face of a vertical glacier. With every step she took, Judy's feet seemed to acquire an extra six pounds of weight.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of putting one foot in front of the other, she found herself standing at the door to Chief Bogo's office.

But now it was her paws that failed her, refusing to rise upwards and knock; for a number of long seconds she remained like that, frozen in place.

And then her ears shot backwards, her mouth set hard, and she reached up and rapped briskly on the door. "The HECK with this; whatever's going to happen, bring it on, (help!)"

"Come." Bogo's contra-bass voice was as flat as a slab of concrete.

Judy swallowed, gritted her teeth and stepped in through the doorway.

Entering the office, she was unsurprised, if not reassured, to find that The Chief had been joined by Lt. Saw—except this time the sun bear was seated beside his desk rather than in front of it.

It was another 'not good' sign.

"Sit down, Officer Hopps," Bogo nodded at the chair in front of his desk; 'Officer' Hopps, still another bad portent.

One thing you had to say for the Chief of the ZPD; he had never been one to waste either words or time. No sooner had Judy taken her seat, than he thrust out a hoof across the desktop.

"Right Hopps, let's have your badge."

"S-Sir?" She felt her eyes go wide and heard a mantra unspooling in the back of her head, "I-will-not-cry, I-will-not-cry, I-will-not-cry, I-will-not-cry…" But at the same time, what the…? Wasn't she even going to get a HEARING? Or…was she being suspended, pending a…?

Bogo snapped his fingers and his hoof shot out even further.

"I've no time for shilly-shally, Hopps; BADGE!"

"Yes sir." She sniffed, and reached up to unpin it from her tunic. At once, a thousand memories flooded through her. She remembered the first time Bogo had demanded her badge, that night in the Rainforest District when Mr. Manchas had turned savage on her and Nick. She would have given it up then, if it hadn't been for her former…if it hadn't been for Nick. Then there was the time shortly afterwards, when she'd surrendered it of her own choice. She had gotten it back after her reinstatement, and then how many times since then had 'it' happened? Some idiot would start to call her a dumb bunny…only to pull up short, when they realized that THIS bunny was also a cop. Ohhh, she'd been so proud to wear her badge these last two years. "I will NOT cry!"

Standing up her chair, she rose on her tiptoes, laying the badge on the desktop, and sliding it in Bogo's direction with a pair of fingers. He took it without ceremony and slipped it into a desk drawer.

Watching him, Judy tried to find some appropriate words, but none would come. Dangit, she had to say something; she couldn't just meekly let this moment happen without…hang on, what the…?

Now Bogo was sliding something across the desktop, in HER direction. What the heck…what was that? It looked like a scaled-down billfold, only much thinner…what now?

She looked up at the Chief, who only nodded and arched an eyebrow as if to say, 'Well…?'

With a trembling finger, Judy reached out and flipped the 'billfold' open.

…And gasped.

Inside was another badge, this one in white gold and shaped like an oval starburst. Embossed around the edges were the words, Police Department, City Of Zootopia, and in large digits across the bottom was a number, 3416.

And in the center of the badge, clearly visible, was the word…

"Congratulations…Detective Hopps." For the second time in three days Bogo was reaching out to offer her his hoof. She took it and began to recite inwardly again. I-will-not-cry, I-will-not-cry, I-will-not-cry…like HECK I won't!"

"Th-Thank you sir," she said, and burst into tears.

It wasn't exactly an unemotional moment for Chief Bogo and Lieutenant Saw either. Caught unawares, they regarded each other with awkward expressions for a moment.

It was the sun bear who recovered first, and he seemed to grasp instantaneously the reason for the doe-bunny's emotional response.

"You didn't…know why you'd been called here, Hopps?"

"N-No sir," she sniffled, "I thought I was going to be suspended; maybe even fired over that unauthorized meeting with Mr. Big."

"Oh f'heaven's sake, Hopps," Bogo passed her a tissue across the desk and waited while she blew her nose, "Don't you ever check your email? You were only notified about this twice."

"Uh yes sir," she said wiping her mouth, "But after that…after those videos of my former partner and me went viral, a-and Rock Hardesty began talking about them...us...well, I started getting all kinds of harassing messages on my cell and my laptop, and I had to put up a whole bunch of new filters and…"

"Right, right…I f'got about that," the big Cape buffalo snorted, nearly face-hoofing himself and settling for a head-shake instead.

"But didn't the trolling stop after you two decided to separate?' It was Lieutenant Saw again, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

"Uh, yes it did," Judy admitted, rolling the tissue into a ball. In fact she hadn't experienced any online harassment in weeks—or in real life, for that matter. She couldn't remember the last time someone had catcalled, 'Pred and prey, keep AWAY!' at her. Even Rock Hardesty seemed to have lost interest, not just in her and Nick, but in predator/prey relationships in general. Shaking her head, she added, "but I never did take those filters down, I'm terrible at that."

"Well, you'd best not ever let Lieutenant Tufts hear you say that," Bogo grunted with a lopsided expression, "He's agreed to have you back, but he'll be looking for any excuse to get rid of you; you can count on that."

That brought up a question Judy couldn't help asking.

"Did he go to the Attorney General's office?" Relevant or not, she had to know.

Bogo snorted again. "Didn't get the chance; Gamsbart called HIM." He folded his massive arms, "I made sure of that."

"Thank you sir," the doe-bunny said, not exactly sure what she was thanking him for. Yes, he'd gotten Tufts to take her back, but she knew what was coming when she reported for duty; the most menial and demeaning jobs that the Kaibab squirrel could come up with. She could probably forget about making it to Erin's audition, too. He'd absolutely have an assignment for her on that day, probably way up in the Meadowlands; you could take that to any bank you cared to name. Not that it mattered to Chief Bogo, Judy realized; the only important thing to him was that he'd kept his part of the bargain with Vernon J. Rodenberg. Judy Hopps was back on the Conor Lewis case and if the Lieutenant in charge shunted her to the sidelines…hey tough cheese, rat. You never specified that she was to be given an active role in that investigation.

Ohhhh, the more Judy thought about it, the more she had to wonder, what the heck had she been crying for? Her new badge might have looked like a promotion, but in fact, it was an e-ticket to purgatory. And speaking of her promotion, the whole business felt jury-rigged, thrown together, almost as an afterthought.

"So, what are you going to do Jude, give BACK your detective's shield?"

The emotional whirlwind must have shown on her face because Lt. Saw was scrutinizing her with a probing eye.

"Something wrong, Detective?"

Judy jolted in her seat; Detective…? Detective who; who the heck he was talking to? There was no one here besides… Oh, riiiiight; she was going to have to get used to being called Detective Hopps.

And on that subject…she flipped her new badge open, holding it up for all to see.

"Lieutenant…Chief? W-With all due respect…this…my promotion. I-I'm grateful, you understand, but the way that…well, it was hardly normal procedure."

"No Hopps, it wasn't," the Chief agreed solemnly, "But then these are hardly normal times. We've got a possible gang war brewing, an ex-member of The Company on the loose somewhere in Zootopia, and we're no closer to recapturing Conor Lewis than we were the day after his escape. The ZPD needs more detectives…and not now, yesterday!"

This, in fact, was actually nothing new. On an average day the Department always had enough detectives to go around. But bring on a crisis—like say14 missing mammals—and it was a whole 'nother ballgame.

…And there were still more innings to go in this one.

"We just got word yesterday," Lt. Saw informed her," Captain Visent will not be returning to duty. As of this morning, I'm no longer acting chief of the Organized Crime division."

"Oh," Judy started to say, but the sun bear swiftly cut her off.

"No Hopps, NO congratulations; I won't pretend I didn't want the job, but I never wanted it this way!"

"No sir," the doe-bunny answered, nodding her understanding.

"And he's not the only one going, is he?" Bogo rumbled. "Lieutenant Laroja, down in Missing Fursons is set to pull the pin next week." (Police slang for retiring.)

"Laroja," Saw was scratching thoughtfully at an ear, "She's a wolf, right?"

"A maned wolf, but yes that's who you're thinking of," Bogo told him..

"Ouch," the sun bear winced as if he'd stuck himself, "Tough luck for the Department; she was GOOD at what she did."

"Yes, I know," Bogo sighed, "But she's put in the time and she's eligible. And you heard about the close call she had last year, the estranged husband who nearly took her head off?"

"Yep, Siberian tiger wasn't he?"

"Yes that's right," the big Chief nodded, and then his face became portrait in grim irony. "Mind, a perp's species doesn't matter all that much if they've got a shotgun aimed between your eyes."

"Ouch!"

Judy watched the exchange with mounting frustration; it was as if she'd disappeared from the room. "Hey, dangit… what about ME!" Wait, oh no, had she said that out loud? Nooo, not this time, thank heaven, but still…

She coughed and cleared her throat. "Excuse me…sirs?"

To her considerable surprise, they both stopped talking and looked at her—leaving her speechless for a second. She hadn't expected the interruption to make even a dent in their conversation.

"Sorry, but we're getting off topic here," she said. "And…I have to ask, what about that unauthorized visit I made to Mr. Big's house?"

"Oh yes, that." Bogo rolled his eyes as if he'd been wondering for hours when she was finally going to get around to that subject. "I'm calling it an unauthorized intelligence probe, Hopps…and being as it proved to be fruitful, the police board has agreed that I should let you off with a verbal warning. However," his finger shot out like a bolt from a crossbow, "Don't you EVER pull an end run round me like that again. Next time, I will have your badge; do I make myself clear, Detective Hopps?"

"Perfectly sir," she answered, relieved and terrified, all at the same time. And then raising her paw in a bunny-scout salute she said, "It won't happen again Chief, I promise."

"Better not," The sun-bear seated beside the desk chimed in, "You don't want to make me sorry I went to bat for you, Hopps."

"I-I won't Lieutenant," Judy answered him, feeling her ears shoot upwards. It hadn't surprised her in the least that Bogo was in her corner, but Saw? It was a good thing neither one of them had a feather handy; they could have used it to knock her for a loop right now.

Just then, someone rapped on the door. Judy turned, wondering who the heck that could be; Nick perhaps? "Nooooo…no WAY!"

"Come," Bogo grunted, nodding in the door's direction

It swung open, and Zootopia City Councilmammal Claudia Nizhang came hobbling into the office on her gold-headed cane. "Morning Chief, morning Lieutenant."

"Good morning Councilmammal," Bogo replied, only a little surprised by the red panda's appearance. "How's the knee?"

"Like always, when it's humid out," Claudia grumbled, patting her bum leg. "Hope you brought your raincoat today; it'll be coming down in sheets by this afternoon."

At this, the big Cape buffalo grimaced and looked at Judy. "Better take notice, Hopps; that knee of hers is never wrong."

"Yes sir," Judy answered, unable to suppress a grin.

"You're early, Councilmammal," Lieutenant Saw observed, giving the doe-bunny even more reason to suspect that this wasn't an impromptu visit.

"Yes I know," Claudia Nizhang replied, almost bursting with excitement, "But I wanted to let you know right away; we just heard back from Mr. Camelson's office, and he's agreed to cooperate with us, 100%"

At once the atmosphere in the office became festive. Chief Bogo whooped and Lt. Saw threw up his arms as if he'd just scored the winning goal in a soccer match.

"Wonderful!"

"Fantastic!"

Judy, for her part, was a little bewildered—but only just a little. She'd find out soon enough what was going on here.

In fact, Chief Bogo was already indicating her with a wave of his hoof.

"Well, before you give us the details, Councilmammal, allow me to present the officer who obtained that information; the ZPD's newest detective, Judy Hopps."

"Oh, we've met," Claudia told him, and then transferred her cane to her left paw, smoothly as a stage magician, at the same time, offering the right paw to Judy. For a disabled animal, she could be surprisingly deft. "Congratulations, Detective."

"Thanks, Councilmammal," Judy answered, taking the paw and shaking it warmly.

"Uh-uh," the red panda responded, smiling and wagging her cane like a finger, "YOU call me Claudia, got it?"

"Got it."

"So, what have you come to tell us, then?" Bogo asked the red panda. He seemed slightly annoyed that Judy was on a first-name basis with her…and he wasn't. "Lieutenant, would you get the Councilmammal a chair, please?"

The sun-bear started to get up but Claudia promptly waved him back again.

"No worries, I've got this." Using her cane as a miniature pole vault, she flung herself through the air, landing next to a chair behind and to the right of Judy. Grabbing an arm, she pivoted on her good leg and, using her body weight as leverage, flung the chair forward. It scooted along the floor settling nicely into place beside Judy. In less than half of another second, Claudia was there and had seated herself. Glancing from Bogo to Lieutenant Saw, the doe-bunny saw that the Chief was mightily impressed by what he'd just seen; the sun-bear even more so.

Oops, Claudia was whispering something to her.

"Nice guy, that Bogo, but I keep on having to remind him; I'm disabled, I'm not helpless."

Judy forced herself not to giggle.

"Now then Chief," the red panda said, getting down to business, "As I said, Mr. Camelson says he fully understands our situation and he's agreed to help us out in any way he can. He says he'll make it very clear to Rocco Peccari that if he even thinks about trying to retaliate for the Flora and Fauna fire, their deal is kaput."

"But, what if it falls through on its own?" Judy blurted out, unable to contain herself. From the moment she'd learned of this possibility, it had always been her worst fear. If The Red Pig's deal with Sheldon Camelson failed, there'd be nothing to stop him from going to war with Mr. Big—which he would and in a heartbeat.

"It won't," Claudia smiled, "Or if it does, Peccari isn't going to find out about it until we've got this matter settled. Like I said, Mr. Camelson is eager to cooperate with us in this matter. He's promised us that until this gang-war business is resolved his offer is going to remain on the table."

And once again there was much rejoicing, capped off by a cynical growl from Lieutenant Saw.

"Amazing, isn't it—what you can accomplish by threatening to withhold a gaming license?"

Claudia immediately raised her paws. "Actually, it never came to that, Lieutenant. Mr. Camelson agreed to help us right out of the gate." Noting a quizzical expression on Bogo's face, she turned in his direction. "He's a sharp cookie, Chief…he understands that a gang war in this town would be devastating for the Palm Hotel casino. And, as the Red Pig's consigliere said to Officer…er, Detective Hopps there, he wants that place very badly."

Everyone eased down into their seats, Judy included. They hadn't entirely avoided the possibility of a gang-war—there was still that unknown third party to contend with—but at least they didn't have to worry about The Red Pig starting anything on his own. And with him safely sidelined, the ZPD would be free to concentrate their efforts on trying to unmask the real arsonist.

Zootopia wasn't out of the woods just yet...but at least the tree-line was visible.

Bogo looked at his watch, and then at Judy.

"Right Hopps, we're done for now. Best be on your way; y'don't want to keep Lieutenant Tufts waiting." He sounded almost sympathetic.

"Yes, sir," Judy answered, slipping out of her chair...and sounding a lot more than almost unhappy.

When she had gone, the office fell into a short, hard silence, broken only seconds later by Lt. Saw.

"Aren't you going to…?"

"No, let's give it a minute or two," Bogo scratched briefly at his nose. "I don't want to take a chance on having them run into each other…again." A brief smirk crossed his face, "Dead lucky that he didn't notice her the first time."

The Chief was right to wait a while; Judy was in no great hurry to get to Cybercrimes Division, a wise decision on her part. The moment she walked in through the door, she was whisked into the baleful presence of Lieutenant Albert Tufts—who proceeded to climb up onto a tabletop and look her up and down in a manner not unlike a drillmaster sizing up a raw recruit.

"I didn't ask for you Hopps, and I don't need you." he chittered, "As far as I'm concerned you're dead weight around here. You have exactly zero computer skills, and you already let our suspect get away from you at least once."

Remembering Bogo's warning, '…any excuse to get rid of you,' Judy gritted her teeth and said nothing.

It wasn't easy, Tufts' last observation had not only been way out of line, but patently false; Judy hadn't even been on duty at the time of Conor's jailbreak.

"Keep it together, Jude."

"With all due respect Lieutenant," she said, keeping her tone neutral "I wasn't brought on board for my computer skills…"

"You weren't 'brought on board' at all!" The Kaibab squirrel interrupted, snapping his incisors as he spoke. He leaned forward, showing their full length. "You were FOISTED on me Hopps." His tail began to flap with anger and Judy was about to respond, when he added bitterly, "I don't suppose you'd care to tell me why I'm being forced to take you on, either."

"Sooo," the doe-bunny mused to herself, "he doesn't KNOW about the deal with Mr. Rodenberg. Hmmm, and if I know what's good for me, I'll make sure to keep that little item under wraps."

"It's because I happen to know the suspect, sir," she said.

"Feh, yeah," Tufts chittered again, putting his paws on his hips, "and a fat lot of good it's done you so far. The first time you tried to take him down, you almost got yourself electrocuted and HE had to come in and save your fluffy little tail."

Ouch…okay, that stung. Judy tried not to grimace but was unable to stop herself, (much to the Lieutenant's ill-concealed delight.)

"Anyway, I'm stuck with you—for now," he said, jabbing a bony finger in her direction, "but understand something, Hopps. You step out of line by even a fraction of a centimeter and you'll be off this case so fast, you'll make a sonic boom when you go."

Judy suspected this was pure bluff; Tufts wouldn't be able to jettison her except for a major infraction…and she wasn't about to make that kind of mistake.

"Except for the meeting with Conor that Mr. Rodenberg said to forget abou... SHUT UP!"

The Lieutenant, meanwhile, was pointing to a far corner.

"That'll be your desk over there. Get it cleaned out and then you can go around and take everyone's lunch order."

Judy almost bristled, but somehow managed to hold her tongue. She might not have managed even that much if the Lieutenant hadn't already hopped off the table and been skittering away. It was an even better thing that he wasn't nearby when she found her workstation, a monstrosity that could almost have passed for something out of a haunted-house movie. The desktop was covered with what looked like half an inch of dust and there were cobwebs plastered to both corners of the cubicle. Perhaps a third of the letters on the computer keyboard had been smudged into oblivion, and this had to be the last work-station in the ZPD still equipped with a CRT monitor. When she attempted to open the drawer underneath, it point-blank refused to budge. She tried it once, twice, and was about to make a third attempt when a pink-fringed hoof reached past her.

"Hold on Judy, there's a trick to it."

Turning quickly, the doe-bunny saw that Claire Swinton had joined her. Hallelujah heaven, if she had ever needed to see a friendly face, it was right now.

"You need to shake it to the left a little and then pull," the pig cop demonstrated, easing the draw open. It was completely empty, thank goodness. After her experiences so far with her new workspace, Judy had been half-expecting to find a nest of cockroaches inside.

"Thanks Claire."

"No charge," the sow replied and then spread her arms wide, "Soooo, welcome to Operation AD-Smash."

"Operation AD…Smash?" Judy repeated the name slowly, ears erect and nose twitching.

"A-D...stands for Artful Dodger," Swinton explained, and then corked a thumb in no particular direction, "Lieutenant Tufts' nickname for the Lewis boy."

Judy rolled her eyes, she couldn't help it; Operation AD-Smash…as if they were trying to take down an international crime cartel instead of a 14-year-old kid. Sweet cheez n' crackers, how pretentious can you GET?

The look in her face was not lost on the pig cop.

"Believe it or not, the Lieutenant isn't usually that much of a jerk; you just happened to catch him on a particularly bad day. He's seriously ticked off right now about being one-upped by your former partner."

Judy's ears went up higher than ever. "Wait, what…? Nick…one upped…how?"

Swinton's eyebrows also stood to attention. "Huh? You don't…know?"

"Uh, no I don't." Judy lowered her voice and leaned in closer, "Nick...that is, Officer Wilde…ummm, we try to keep our distance these days as much as possible."

"Right, right, right," the pig cop said, nodding quickly. And then her eyes narrowed and the corners of her mouth turned impishly upward, "Well you're going to love this, hon. He figured out who the Phantom is."

"He did WHAT?!" Judy almost screamed.

"Shhhh, keep it down." Swinton looked furtively around and then relaxed. No one seemed to have overheard.

"Sorry, but…seriously?" Judy was staring as if the pig cop had just turned bright purple.

"Well-l-l, he didn't get a name, but…yeah." Swinton's mouth had pulled halfway to the side. She spent the next few minutes filling in the doe-bunny on all that the fox had discovered.

"Remember that lavender diamond from Rafaj Brothers sting? Well, three of the bills used to pay for it ended up in the bank account of…of...ahhh, I can't remember, but it was the stoat who left the money in that beach locker. Ahhhh, what was his name again? Oh right, Ian Shortal."

This time Judy remembered to keep her voice down, though it took her a considerable effort.

"Whoo-hoo! Yay Nick!" Whoa, had she ever been right to give HIM the job of interrogating the Rafaj brothers. "If YOU don't make Detective too," she swore, speaking silently to her absent former partner, "then there's no justice in this world. I'll quit if you don't, I mean it!"

As a matter of fact, it was a superfluous oath on the doe-bunny's part—because there was justice in the world. At that very moment, Chief Bogo was sliding another gold shield across his desk, "Congratulations, Detective Wilde."

"Thank you sir," the red fox beamed, genuinely grateful but far less surprised by his promotion than Judy had been. After all, HE hadn't committed any major procedural violations of late, (and he had also been keeping up with his e-mail.)

Bogo waited until he put the badge away and spoke again.

"Wilde, you're the one who discovered the existence of this—for lack of better name, I'm calling him the Runaway Courier—and so I'm giving you the task of tracking him down."

"Hmmm...it could be a 'her' Chief," Nick pointed out, instantly wondering if correcting his boss like that was out of line. Ordinarily even he would never have been so forward, but being placed in charge of locating the missing diamond courier…the same day he made Detective? It didn't get a whole lot more heady than that; he felt almost as if somebody had slipped him a shot of catnip.

The response to his suggestion came not from Chief Bogo but from the red panda seated in the next chair over.

"Nope, not The Mister, Detective Wilde…not him; there's been never a more chauvinistic jerk than that sea-mink and there probably never will be. Believe me, he wouldn't trust a female with a job that important if it meant an extra $100 Grand in his pocket. I can almost hear him now." She cleared her throat, and when she spoke again, her voice had dropped into the Zoo York gutter. "Hire a BROAD to deliver those diamonds? Yeah, riiiight…and then watch her open the package 'for just a quick, little peek', nuh-uh, no thanks!"

Both Nick and the Chief nearly fell on the floor laughing. Claudia Nizhang wasn't laughing, and neither was Lieutenant Saw…but then that was because he'd departed several minutes earlier.

Recovering quickly, Chief Bogo indicated her with a hoof for Nick Wilde's benefit. "As you know, Councilmember Nizhang was once herself a Zoo York City police detective. What you may not be aware of is that she was also a member of the task force charged with bringing down The Company." He flashed a quick sardonic grin. "And as I think you can judge for y'self Wilde, she's quite familiar with both their history and with how they operated. Accordingly, I wanted to begin this investigation by having you speak to her."

"Yes sir," Nick nodded agreeably. He would have asked to see the red panda himself, had Bogo not thought of it first.

The Chief nodded back and then turned to speak to Claudia.

"Before we begin Councilmammal, I should like you to know how much the ZPD appreciates your help in this matter."

"Hey, no problem, Chief," she replied, waving an airy paw. "You had me at, '...a third survivor of the Finagles raid;' nearly blew me through the back wall of my office when I heard." Turning to Nick she said, "Oh-kayyy, where do you want me to start?"

Chapter 12: Finding Conor, (Cont'd...Pt 2)

Summary:

And now it's Nick's turn to be briefed

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 2—Finding Conor
(Continued…Part 2)

"Wel-l-l-ll," Nick chewed his lip for a second. Dangit, but this red-panda lady wasn't one for beating around the bush. She must have been a force of nature, back in the day when she'd carried a detective's shield. "Well, I guess we should start with the obvious question. Did you…did the Zoo York Police Department have any idea as to who might have been the Company's diamond mule?"

The corners of Claudia's mouth went in two different directions.

"Honestly, we didn't even know there'd been a blood diamond shipment scheduled for that day; didn't learn it had gone out until three days after the raid. But then yeah, we thought we knew who the mule was—although it's pretty darn obvious now that it wasn't him, seeing as he's dead."

Nick sighed and rolled his eyes. He had known right away that this interviewer wouldn't be a cakewalk, but still…

"Mmmm, all right, who was it, then?" Bogo beetled his brows as he spoke, a sign of impatience that Nick Wilde knew all too well.

Claudia Nizhang either didn't know or didn't care.

"The Mister's son, James McCrodon Jr.," she said, shrugging unconcernedly, "or just plain Junior, that's what everybody called him...to his face. Anyway, he up and whacked himself after his dad burned up with Finagles, took a swan dive off the Furrizano Narrows Bridge. Something like a dozen witnesses saw him do it; bolted out of his limo, ran to the railing and buh-BYE, never said a word to anyone; just ran and jumped."

Nick felt his tail tense up and had to fight to keep his face from following suit, talk about your hard-boiled cop. Claudia Nizhang had just described a young animal's suicide, while offering no more compassion than she would have wasted on a pill-bug she'd crushed underfoot.

He wasn't the only one to take note of this.

"Am I correct in assuming that you don't have very much sympathy for that young sea-mink, Councilmember?" It was Chief Bogo.

Claudia's voice promptly iced over.

"No Chief, I have NO sympathy for what happened to that punk; probably nobody would who ever knew him. Both of his uncles couldn't stand him and neither could anyone else in the Company. I'm telling you, if Junior hadn't been The Mister's only son, he'd have been whacked-out long before he took that sayonara leap He was smart-mouthed, arrogant, whiny, sniveling; the kind of guy that talks the talk, but when it's time to walk the walk, he doesn't walk, he turns and runs...usually to his father. He just loved to pull sick pranks on other mammals…knowing they couldn't even think about getting back at him, not as long as dear ol' dad had his six." She growled softly, adding, "And oh boy, what a loser; that kid could mess up a cup of coffee."

Nick looked at Bogo, raising his eyebrows as if to say, 'Will you ask her, or shall I?'

It was Bogo who asked, "If that's true, then why the Devil would The Mister have entrusted him to deliver that diamond shipment?"

"Because," Claudia answered, raising a brow of her own, "Like I said, he was The Mister's only son; as far as THAT guy was concerned, his kid could do no wrong. You know the type."

"I do," Nick answered, figuring he'd better get back into this conversation while the getting was good, "But what I still don't understand is, where'd the Zoo York PD ever get the idea that HE was the diamond courier?"

A deep frown creased Claudia's muzzle. When she spoke, she was tapping her fingertips together, as if keeping time to a song that only she could hear.

"I have to admit, I was as surprised by that as anyone…but when they fished Junior's body out of Gravesend Bay, he had something like a fifty thousand bucks' worth of uncut stones sewn into the lining of his trench-coat. And then we found out he'd been on his way Zoowark Airport when he made that jump; had a first class ticket to Cancoon booked, with a stopover in Ft. Leopardale. Ergo, HE had been the diamond mule; elementary my dear detectives."

"Maybe to everyone else...but not to you." Nick almost said it, but held his tongue in check; that was a question for later. And in any case, he didn't need to know who the diamond courier hadn't been; he needed to know who it HAD been.

And with that in mind, he raised finger and drew an invisible 'X' in the air. "Oh-kayyyy, scratch one Junior. Then who else might The Mister have recruited to deliver those diamonds?"

Claudia made a soft grumbling noise, "Ahhh, that's a toughie, lemme think for a minute." She sank into a short, brooding silence.

Unperturbed, Nick settled back to give her some space. He hadn't expected an immediate answer—not to this, nor to any other questions. After all, it was more than three years since ZYPD Detective Sergeant Nizhang had last crossed swords with The Company. And at the time those blood diamonds were being picked up by Ismael Rafaj, she'd been on her way to the ER with a bullet in her leg.

Finally, she looked up, "Well, it's not an entirely satisfying idea, but McCrodon might have used an outside contractor for the job. He was always doing that; hiring independents for out-of-town work. That way, if things went south, it would be that much harder to pin it on him."

"Makes sense, but why is it unsatisfactory?" Chief Bogo asked, while Nick Wilde nodded in concurrence. He himself had once served Mr. Big in a similar capacity; it all made perfect sense..

"Because of the size of that shipment," the red panda explained, "more than $200 grand worth of blood diamonds. Believe me; McCrodon would have been very reluctant to put that kind of temptation in front of someone he wasn't 100% certain he could trust." Her face screwed up into a wry expression, "by which I mean, someone over whom he had some leverage."

"Leverage," Nick repeated the word, feeling his head tilt sideways. Something was telling him that this was a key point.

It was.

"Yep," Claudia nodded, "leverage was always a huge thing with The Mister. He used to say, 'I don't never trust nobody I can't destroy with a single phone call.' It's a big reason we had so much trouble getting the goods on that dirt-bag; no one wanted to testify against him because he always knew something about our witnesses that we didn't."

Listening to the red panda's reminiscences, Nick realized instantly that she had been swept away by her memories; she was back with ZYPD again, working to take down The Company. The transformation was so complete, he would have been unsurprised to see her stand up and walk without the aid of her cane.

Then Chief Bogo spoke again.

"Leverage aside, what sort of animal might The Mister have chosen to deliver those diamonds?"

"I'd have thought an older mammal," Nick ventured, and immediately wished he hadn't; Claudia swiftly shook her head; so did Chief Bogo.

"Noooo…that gag went out more than ten years ago. It was popular for a while, but then everybody started using retirees to run contraband and Big John Law caught on to it REAL fast."

"Right, and so after that, they started using kids as couriers," Chief Bogo nodded, "but now we're on to that trick as well."

Thoroughly chastised, Nick shrank down into his seat; a gaffe like that one was no way to start an investigation.

But then something occurred to him, a thought that was almost an itch, although he couldn't have begun to say why it was so important.

"Wait, hold up…we may be on to the trick of using kids to mule contraband now, but this particular diamond shipment was delivered more than three years ago. What about back THEN?"

Once again, Bogo and Claudia Nizhang looked at each other—but this time their expressions showed that the fox had scored a bullseye.

"Point…that's right," the red panda said, cocking finger in the fox's direction. "We weren't onto that scheme back then; at least the ZYPD wasn't."

"Neither were we," Chief Bogo added.

"So then, would The Mister have used a kid to deliver those blood diamonds?" Nick had no idea where he was going with this, only a sense that this was where he needed to go.

Claudia's mouth pulled off to one side again.

"Well-l-l, he certainly wouldn't have had any moral compunction about it—but then there's still the issue of trust. Honestly, would you trust a kid to handle more than $200 thousand dollars?"

"No," Chief Bogo admitted, "but then would a child have known the package he was carrying was worth that much?" To Nick's considerable surprise, the big Cape buffalo was coming in on his side. "I've seen my share of uncut diamonds, Councilmammal. To an untrained eye, they look like something you'd find in a gravel pit."

"Maybe so, Chief," the red panda rejoined, raising a finger, "but don't forget, it wasn't only diamonds. There was also the money paid for them...all of it in cash. Want to bet even a kid wouldn't know what that was worth?"

"Ahhh yes…true that." Bogo raised his hooves conceding defeat.

Claudia, however, wasn't planning on taking a victory lap.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm not completely dismissing the idea," she said. "Junior McCrodon was pretty much still a kid himself after all. And God knows there were always plenty of little wiseguy wannabes hanging around The Company's headquarters, kids who'd run into a burning building if The Mister asked 'em...just so they could tell their friends that they'd done some work for the guy."

That brought up another memory for Nick.

"Yeah, Mr. Big always had a few kids hanging around, too. He used to call them cuginetti, little cousins." He frowned thoughtfully, adding, "Never had much use for 'em, though; he'd give one a message to deliver now and then, but that was about it."

His words seemed to ignite something in Claudia Nizhang; for half of a second, her eyes flashed.

"Hm, now that you mention it, there was ONE kid The Mister might have trusted to deliver those diamonds…if he hadn't had some other issues, that is."

"Who?" For no reason that he could fathom, Nick could feel his pulse rising. This was going to be a dead end, the same as Junior McCrodon.

And yet…and yet…

"He was this kid The Mister used as his own, private bike messenger." Claudia's mouth curled into an ironic twist. "For a guy that was as deep into cybercrime as that sea-mink, he stinking hated to use computers himself. Same thing with cell-phones; he wouldn't take a call on anything except a disposable and then, when he was done," she brought her fists together and then twisted them apart, "crack, right in the garbage."

"Yeah," Nick nodded; this was another thing the deceased arms trader had in common with Mr. Big. "Tell me more about this kid. Who was he?"

Claudia's reaction to this could hardly have been more bewildering. Sighing roughly and looking sideways for a moment, she flexed her fingers against the side of her cheek.

Then she turned towards Nick again, leaning forward with her paws on her knees.

"'Kay, before anything else there's something we need to get out of the way. Yes, the kid was a silver fox; no, it wasn't the Lewis boy."

Nick's ears shot up in spite of her qualification, "What, now?"

"How d'you know this, then?" Chief Bogo asked, even more nonplused than his officer.

"First of all, I keep up with the news," the red panda informed both him and Nick, "and I've seen the pictures. Believe me; those two don't look anything like each other. Her head tilted sideways and her eyes narrowed into slits. "But since I know you're going to ask, that other fox kid's name was McLeod, Sean McLeod, although we were pretty sure that was an alias. Not that it mattered, since nobody in the gang ever called him by that name; he was always Z-Face or just plain Z." She drew a jagged line in the air with a pair of fingers. "He got stuck with that handle because his jaw was all bent out of shape—and even without that, his muzzle was still longer than the Lewis kid's. His fur was lighter in color too, and his ears were also bigger, nearly too big for his head."

"Mmmm, yeah, my grandmother had ears like that too, when she was a kit," Nick scratched thoughtfully at the back of his neck. Although outwardly calm, his mind was racing at full tilt. There were a couple of things he knew that Claudia Nizhang didn't—but he also knew better than to bring them up in front of Chief Bogo. The last thing he wanted right now was to give the big Cape buffalo a case of buyer's remorse for having promoted him. With that in mind, he couched his next question very tactfully. "Well okay, it's not Conor Lewis, but…why would you suggest that the Mister would have used the...um, the Z kid to run those diamonds in the first place?"

"First of all, there was that face of his," Claudia explained, "One look and even my boss couldn't help feeling sorry for him—and lemme tell you, they didn't come any tougher than that guy. So imagine what'd happen if those minimum wage MSA geeks got a look at the kid; probably wouldn't have even made him go through the metal detectors."

Nick almost snickered, but stifled it at the last second; this wasn't funny. And besides, he wasn't entirely certain he agreed with Claudia on that last point. Yes, a broken face might generate some sympathy for the kid—but it would also make him easy-peasy to pick out of a crowd, something you absolutely don't want in a smuggler.

Then Chief Bogo grunted, "What else makes you think he'd have been a good candidate to mule those blood diamonds?"

"Two things," Claudia cupped one paw on top of the other, "We must have pulled the McLeod kid in for questioning a dozen times—and he never cracked; never got scared, never froze up on us. But at the same time he never mouthed off to us either; he was always polite, but he was also about as helpful as a set of IKEA instructions. By that I mean he could talk up a storm, but he'd never give you anything useful. I swear, he was like a pint-size version of the Danaconda."

"Danaconda?" Bogo was staring with his ears flicking.

"Danny Tipperin, I'm sure you know that name," the red panda told him, "known on the street as the Danaconda, maybe the most lethal gunsel in the history of Zoo York. One time on a stakeout, I saw a full grown jaguar break down and cry at just the mention of his name. Anyway, he was always Mr. Yadda-Yadda whenever we pulled his tail in; always courteous, NEVER helpful."

"Tipperin...oh yes, I've heard of HIM." Bogo was nodding grimly.

Nick wasn't nodding; he was finding it hard to meet either Bogo or Councilmammal Nizhang's gaze. But then he noticed that she too was averting her eyes, as if she'd caught herself speaking out of turn. Hm, what the heck was that all about?

Whatever it was, it took her all of half a second to recover.

"But now you see what I'm talking about; the Z-kid was practically the definition of grace under pressure—except when it came to the Mister. He was absolutely terrified of that sea-mink; whatever McCrodon told him to do, he couldn't do it fast enough. For all practical purposes, that boy was his slave. He never went to school, never played with any of the neighborhood kids; spent all of his time doing jobs for The Company."

"I'm surprised you never tried to pull him in for truancy," Chief Bogo ventured.

"We did," Claudia told him, "But before we could even finish booking the kid, along came the Mister's lawyer with a writ granting permission for Sean McLeod to be home-schooled. It was obviously bought and paid for, but there was no way we could prove it. We tried giving the kid an IQ test to prove he wasn't actually getting any schooling, but he turned around and aced the sucker. After that, the only thing we could do was let him walk."

"Hmmm," Nick was tapping his chin with a pair of fingers. "Either that boy's services were very valuable to The Mister, or else he genuinely cared about the kid."

Claudia eyed him sardonically. "What do you think, foxy? That crooked-faced boy was a regular Artful Dodger. He could lose a police cruiser on that messenger bike of his like he was ditching a stinking sloth."

At this, Nick was unable to keep from grinning. Obviously, this lady had never met his old buddy, Flash. (Say-y-y, what was that sloth up to these days anyway?)

Meanwhile, the red panda continued with her story.

"One time, the McLeod kid even managed to get away from a motorcycle-cop, although that was mostly just dumb luck. But even when we were able to pull him over, we never found anything incriminating on him; nothing except a few bucks and change. Know why? None of the messages he was given to run were ever written down; he had to memorize everything. And from what I heard, he almost never messed up on that part of his job." Without warning, her paws flared out and she slapped them against her knees. "But…all this is academic; he's dead too."

The edges of Nick's mouth pulled back in a fast fox grimace and when he happened to look in Bogo's direction, he found himself sharing a rare moment of commiseration with the Chief of the ZPD; now she tells us!

"Sorry should have mentioned that to begin with," Claudia said, sounding not even the least bit apologetic.

"What happened to him?" Nick asked her. He didn't really care, but she was going to tell him anyway, so he might as well give her an opening and get it over with quickly.

Claudia puffed out her cheeks for a second.

"This pack of Russian wolf-punks from outside the neighborhood—the Uzhashki I think they were called—was beating up on Junior McCrodon, The McLeod kid jumped in to help and they turned on him instead. He ended up DOA at Zoo York Methodist Hospital and by the time we found out what had happened, he had already been planted in Potto's Field, out on Hart Island."

A long frown wrapped its way around Nick's muzzle. Either the Zoo York Health Department had reacted with remarkable efficiency, (as IF!) or the ZYPD had been asleep at the switch; not a good thing either way.

In fact it was neither one.

"In case you're wondering," Claudia said to both him and The Chief, "the animals in The Mister's neighborhood were none too big on calling the cops for help. McCrodon may have been a lowlife jerk to the rest of the world, but to them he was practically a folk hero. If you lived on his turf and you found yourself in a jackpot, forget about calling anyone else, he was your guy."

"Like a few other gangsters I could name." Nick concurred bitterly, and for once, he wasn't referring to Mr. Big or even The Red Pig. In his time as boss of the Lambino Crime Family, John Goatti had also developed a reputation for rogue civic-mindedness. When he'd finally gone to jail, the residents of his home turf, Furzone Park, had treated it almost like the passing of a saint. Knowing that, the red fox began to weave a theory. For whatever reason, The Mister had let it be known that he didn't want the police to know about the McLeod kid's death until after the body was buried—and the responsible animals had dutifully complied. Whether they had acted out of fear, the expectation of reward, or simple loyalty didn't matter; 'The Mister commands, we obey.' That was how things had worked in his territory while he lived.

"Thank God that jerk's gone," Nick reminded himself with a shudder—before remembering that one of the deceased sea-mink's associates was still very much alive...and running a loan-shark business right here in Zootopia. He cleared his throat, at the same time clearing his mind. "But listen, we're kind of getting off-topic here."

"Agreed," said Bogo. "If the diamond courier wasn't him either…well, can you at least give us a profile of who it might have been?"

Leaning forward in her chair, Claudia answered with a short, earnest nod. "That I can help you with; at least a little bit. Something else the Mister used to say, a lot, was 'Professionals bring in professionals.' If he HAD decided to go outside the Company to find a diamond courier, he would have almost certainly hired someone with...A, experience in smuggling contraband, and B, a reputation for getting the job done. It would have cost him; pros don't come cheap, that's the downside, but he might have thought it was worth the extra expense. He was dealing with a new client and the newbies are always the ones that mess things up."

"Which they did," Nick pointed out with a foxy smile, "the Rafaj Brothers messed up bigly when they paid for those diamonds in bills with sequential serial numbers."

The smile Claudia gave back to him was of the caustic variety. "Tell me about it; if The Mister wasn't dead, THEY probably would be."

"What about that uh, leverage business?" Bogo was asking. "How would the Mister have gotten some of that if he'd hired a pro?"

"He wouldn't have needed any," Claudia told him, with just the merest hint of condescension in her voice. "Professional smugglers never double-cross their customers. It's against their code."

"You said if he'd decided to go outside the Company," Nick interjected, "Does that mean McCrodon might have decided to er, keep it all in the family?" Sitting back in his chair again, he had to wonder what the heck he was doing. Was he actually trying to give Big Chief Buffalo Nickel some cover? Holy foxtrot, that detective's shield really HAD gone to his head!

Claudia tilted her head and scratched at an ear.

"He might have…though it's hard to say for sure. Towards the end, nobody was entirely sure what the heck was making that sea-mink tick. But if he had gone for someone inside The Company…well obviously he would have wanted an animal that was big and strong enough to handle that package of diamonds, and especially the cash. Even in stacks of hundreds, $200k carries some pretty decent weight. At the same time, he wouldn't have wanted someone TOO big; the larger the animal, the more difficult they are to seat on an airplane. And they're much more likely to attract attention than someone of a smaller size. With that in mind, I'd suggest he'd have gone for a medium-sized mammal. He'd have wanted a fairly common species, too; something we're used to seeing every day. And last but not least, he'd have wanted a courier with a non-threatening appearance."

"Non-threatening," Nick suggested, "so I guess that eliminates predators?"

"Mmmm yes…and no." Claudia frowned and chewed her lower lip, "An apex predator...yeah, you could cross that off the list, but not all predators. You see, while the Mister wouldn't have wanted an aggressive-looking mammal to mule those diamonds, he WOULD have wanted someone who looked like they could handle themselves ifthey were attacked. Keep in mind it wasn't just the law that the courier would've had to look out for; there were also thieves and take-off artists. As for the rest of it…" she tapped at her cheek again. "He would have wanted his guy to look like a business traveler rather than a tourist, preferably someone with 'frequent flyer' written all over him; those animals always get less attention from airport security than other folks. He'd have also wanted someone neatly dressed and more or less the quiet type; the kind of animal that won't start a conversation, but who won't shy away…from one…either..."

Her words had ground to an uncertain halt and then she was turning an eye upwards at a corner of the ceiling, her mouth compressed into a sideways half-pucker.

"What?" Nick and Bogo asked simultaneously.

She turned to look at them each in turn, wagging a finger as she spoke.

"I was just thinking; you know who that describes almost perfectly? Half the guys in Kieran's crew."

"Kieran?" Nick was lifting an ear and tilting his head, "You mean Kieran McCrodon, The Mister's nephew?"

"The sea-mink in charge of the Company's cyber-crime rackets," Claudia nodded, "Yep, that's exactly who I mean."

Bogo looked at her with his left ear flicking.

"What, now? Are you seriously suggesting Ms. Nizhang…that a hacker might have been the Mister's diamond smuggler?"

Visibly grimacing, the red panda let out an airy groan. "Ohhh boy, here we go again." She shot him a piercing look. "Don't tell me, let me guess; right now you're conjuring up either some fat blob, living in his mother's basement, or a skinny chick in a hoodie with Che Guanaco's picture on the front, am I right?"

Bogo said nothing to this, only stared at her stone-faced.

"I'll take that as a yes," Claudia responded, setting off a rising heat in Nick Wilde's cheeks; those might not have been the Chief's thoughts, but they sure as heck had been his.

"Well forget it," the red panda was saying, "That kind of hacker went out with CRT monitors. The ones working these days—the ones that make the news anyway—are pros, not amateurs. They always operate as part of a crew, never solo, and they're not a bunch of scruffy kids with fleas. Professional hackers run in age from the late twenties to the early forties—and they're always clean cut and well dressed. All of them have day jobs and few of them even own their own businesses. Nice cars, decent houses; the average professional hacker these days looks just like your typical Joe-Stinking-Suburbia."

This time Nick didn't wait for Bogo, he asked the question himself..

"Why the heck would an animal with that kind of lifestyle want to get into computer-hacking?"

"For the money, Detective," Claudia answered at once, "Hacking's not about fun and excitement anymore, it's all about profit. In six months, a top notch hacker can pull down enough coinage to stop worrying about how they're going to put their kid through college." She shook her head bitterly, "Much as I'll always want to spit on The Mister's memory, I have to give him this much, he was way ahead of the curve on that one."

"Hmmm," Chief Bogo rumbled, regarding her now with a look of respect, "Would I be wrong to suspect that you're speaking from experience, Councilmammal?"

"You would not," the red panda replied. "That's how I got my start with the ZYPD, working cybercrimes."

Nick and Bogo exchanged another look, and the red fox didn't need to be a mind-reader to know what his boss was thinking, "Why couldn't you be in charge of OUR cybercrimes division?"

After all, that was pretty much how HE felt, too.

"But the other thing about hackers is this," Claudia was saying, "When they're looking to steal passwords and access codes, they don't just go online, they go where the employees of the big tech firms like to hang out; their favorite clubs, their favorite restaurants, their favorite watering-holes. Tech fairs are a hacker's happy hunting ground. And they don't use gadgets or algorithms to get what they're after either; their preferred method is social engineering."

Nick's face broke open in a sly grin. "It's called a hustle, sweetheart."

So did Claudia's, "Hustle, social engineering, whatever…you have your term and I have mine." She grew serious again. "But what that means is that professional hackers do a lot of traveling, and they're experts at dodging Security." She leaned back and folded her arms. "So tell me something, would an animal like that be a good candidate to smuggle blood diamonds?"

"Too right, he would!" Chief Bogo was halfway out of his seat.

"Ditto," said Nick, not quite as enthusiastic as his boss, but still in wholehearted agreement with the red panda's theorem.

Then she said, "If it was one of Kieran McCrodon's crew who delivered those blood diamonds, there's an easy way to narrow down which one it might have been. Most of The Company's hackers, nearly all of them, were animals he knew only online. You can cross that bunch off the list right now. Maybe Kieran would have been willing to trust that diamond drop to someone he'd never met face-to-face—but you better believe that The Mister wouldn't have gone for it. Nope, it would have had to be someone that Kieran McCrodon knew in real life…and that he'd introduced to his uncle at least once."

Nick let out a noise that was midway between a growl and a sigh. "Ahhhh, I don't suppose you'd know of any animals who fit that description?" The tone of his voice reeked with forlorn hope.

Claudia's mouth stretched backwards almost to the corners of her muzzle. "If I did, they'd already be in custody. As it is, the ZYPD never did catch up with any of the Company's hacker crew. None of them were at the Finagles meeting and one of them managed to sound the alarm even before the raid was over. By the following Tuesday, they'd all gone underground and had their tracks covered."

"Didn't ZYPD Forensics find anything useful inside of Finagles?" Nick asked her. "After the fire was out, I mean. There must have been something left over that could have led you to at least one of them."

"Nope, zilch," Claudia shook her head grimly, "whatever electronic evidence there might have been inside that place, it got toasted along with everything else. Kieran had all his gear rigged for self-destruction. Between that and the fire we ended up with nothing but a pawful of air."

Nick growled and slapped the arm of his chair in frustration.

"Yeah, I guess I should have expected something like that," he said. Before either Claudia or the Chief could respond, a church-bell peeled from somewhere inside the office.

It was coming from the red panda's cell phone.

"This Is Nizhang," she said, placing it against her cheek. "What's up, Sharon? Uhm, over at Precinct -1, why? What…?" Nick watched as her eyebrows jumped and then flattened, "Oh, right, right, right; thanks for reminding me. No, no problem, I'll be right there."

She disconnected and looked from Bogo to Nick.

"Sorry guys, I've got to fly. There's a City Council vote coming up in 20 minutes and I need to be there."

"Quite alright," Bogo nodded his understanding.

"What the Chief said," Nick concurred, "And no worries, you've given us more than enough info to start work with." He got up to see her to the door—and this time she didn't object to being helped.

"Come by my office before you leave," she told the fox, "we'll talk some more,"

And then she was gone.

"Hmm, you rather like her, eh Wilde?" a deep voice observed as he shut the door.

"Sure do," the red fox replied, turning around, "Don't you?"

"Since the first time I met her," Bogo flashed an uncharacteristic grin. And then one of his eyebrows went up higher than the other. "What d'you suppose she meant by 'before you leave', then?"

The tone of his voice told Nick that he knew exactly what Claudia had been talking about—and so he replied by saying, "Isn't it obvious, sir?" And then dropping down to one knee, he opened his arms wide and began to warble.

"Start spreadin' the newwwws…
I'm leavin' todayyyyyy…
I wanna be a part of it…"

Bogo rapped the desktop with the flat of his hoof.

"Cut that out, cut that out, you're not breaking into a song here. This is a police precinct, not some blasted musical theater, and by the way," he thrust out a finger in the fox's direction, at the same time pressing his other hoof against an ear, "you're not musical either!"

Notes:

Or, as Judy might have put it, "Everybody sings off key once in a while Nick, but you couldn't carry a tune in a wheelbarrow."

Chapter 13: Finding Conor, (Cont'd...Pt 3)

Summary:

And speaking of Conor...

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 2—Finding Conor
(Continued…Part 3)

Making certain to stay in the shadows, the young fox moved silently along the covered walkway adjoining Ainsley Hall. A minute later, he reached a juncture where the route branched off in two directions. To the right was the pathway leading to the Hoofington Library and beyond that, his goal.

To the left was the path leading into a large, grassy enclosure known as The Quadrangle. There, at a roundabout in the middle of the courtyard, the walkway merged with another one. Planted firmly in the center of that concrete circle, was his first stop.

It wasn't necessary for him to have made this detour. As a matter of fact, this whole stinking expedition shouldn't be necessary—except for one thing. Some whiles previously, he had set one of his browser apps to alert him to any news relating to the Zootopia Academy of the Performing Arts.

And two days ago, it had delivered a corker. Owing to a promised spate of nice weather, the school would be moving the musical auditions from the Lionheart Auditorium to the Gazelle Amphitheatre. When Conor had learned of the change, he let out a scream that made the walls rattle…and then kicked and punched his hard bag until he was barely able to stand. Three scouting trips and a whole month of planning—right down the drain! He'd have to sneak back on campus and work out a plan all over again.

And so, here he was—but first thing's first.

Checking his smart watch, he noted that it was ten after midnight; more than enough time to accomplish his mission, even with this little side-trip. Outside in The Quadrangle, the grass was soaked and the walkways were covered by a thin sheen of water; it had rained hard earlier in the day, and while the downpour had long since ended, the cloud-cover still remained. That, combined with a new moon had made the decision to move tonight a no-brainer. Still, he wished he had more time; the musical auditions were scheduled for this coming Saturday. Agggggh, grrrr, he would have sold a kidney for just one more week to prepare.

"It is what it is," the young fox muttered to himself, shrugging off his backpack and extracting the laptop Kieran had given him. Dropping into a hunkering crouch, he opened it and called up the ZAPA security cameras. Hmmm, a total of two were positioned overlooking The Quad. The first camera would be of little or no consequence; it was trained on the walkway leading to the parking lot. The second one, however…ahhh, that could be a problem. It had a wide-angle lens and was aimed almost directly at the sculpture. For a moment, Conor considered skipping the detour and heading straight for the Gazelle Amphitheater; he could manage that without having to worry about any CCTV cameras. It took him all of two seconds to reject that notion and type a quick set of instructions into his computer, ordering it to record a moment of footage from the number two camera. Now, moving quickly, he shut down the video feed and substituted a loop of the copied footage in its place. This was the trickiest part of the maneuver; the monitor hooked to camera two would blip out for a half a second while he made the switch.

And if anyone happened to be looking at it…well, then that was what was going to happen.

Slipping on his backpack again, Conor moved out into The Quadrangle at a brisk walk; he did not run. A moment later, he was standing at the base of a statue that had been placed here only somewhat recently. Up until about a year ago, it had occupied a hallway in the Zootopia Museum of Science and Industry, the honorable Dr. Lionel G. Lionheart.

Only distantly related to the former mayor of Zootopia—a great uncle twice removed—Dr. Lionheart had been a genuine polymath, a true Renaissance mammal. In his time, he had been an architect, a painter, a philosopher, and a poet. The twisting horns that graced the four corners of Zootopia Central Station were his design; the only items remaining from the original building. Several of his works hung in the Savanna Central Art Museum, and his treatise, 'On Being Feline' was considered a classic of the genre.

But it had been as an industrialist and an entrepreneur that Dr. Lionheart had made his biggest mark on the world. Spearheading the electrification of the City of Zootopia, he had accumulated a small fortune...which soon became a vast one as more and more of his business ventures prospered. He had also been the first mammal to propose dividing Zootopia into different climate zones, and had even drawn up plans for the venture. That had been one of the few of his ideas he hadn't lived to see brought to fruition. While the concept had been sound enough, the technology needed to make it a reality had not yet then existed.

Urged many times to run for public office, Dr. Lionheart had always politely declined, insisting that he could do more good as a private citizen. And good he had done; helping to found the Zootopia Philharmonic, and the Zootopia Opera Company. Later, he built the city's first movie palaces. It would have pleased him to no end to learn that his former estate was now the Zootopia Academy of the Performing Arts.

His former estate…

Like many another great mammal, Lionel Lionheart had sired a generation of …well there was no other way to put it, wastrels and ne'er-do-wells. Within twenty years of his passing, his heirs had run through his nearly entire fortune. What they didn't squander on lavish lifestyles, they lost in bad business deals. In one case, a sizable chunk of the late Doctor's money ended up in the pocket of a swindler who was never caught. Before another three years had passed, everything was gone, including the family estate, seized by the City of Zootopia in lieu of unpaid fines and taxes. For many years afterwards the property had remained in limbo…until another Lionheart had proposed its rebirth as a school for the performing arts.

Now Conor stood at the base of Dr. Lionheart's statue, his expression not unlike a pair of crossed fingers. Was all this really worth the risk?

"Dumb question, you're HERE already, aren't ya?" the young fox chided himself, gazing upwards at the sculpture. It depicted a short, burly lion, standing with an elbow on a plinth and his trademark pince-nez held in his other paw. The smile on his face seemed to suggest that he was sharing a private joke with the viewer. On the base of the statue, carved in Old Roman Script was an inscription, Qva Re Necesse Est, Qvod Svpergreditvr, 'Reality Is That Which We Must Rise Above.'

Those words had been Dr. Lionheart's lifelong motto. With an attitude like that, it was hardly surprising that Gazelle, the mammal who'd given the world 'Try Everything,' was a champion of the academy now adorning his former property.

None of that, however, was of any current interest to Conor Lewis; what was drawing his attention at the moment was the late Doctor's tail, winding its way around the base of the statue in a counterclockwise spiral. Of particular interest was the bulbous tail-tuft, about a foot to his right. Leaning forward on one leg, he reached out and rubbed his paw over the tuft as if trying to summon a genie.

Conor had no idea who had started the practice, but by now it was a common superstition among the students at ZAPA; rubbing the tip of Dr. Lionheart's tail was supposed to bring good luck.

And right now, this young silver fox needed all the luck he could get.

Turning on his heel, he went back the way he had come.

There were two more things that he knew about Dr. Lionheart, information of an infinitely more practical nature than any folklore surrounding his statue. First of all, like many other wealthy mammals of the period, he had been an eccentric by nature. Second—and much more important from Conor's point of view—Dr. Lionel Lionheart had been the whitest white lion anyone had ever seen, practically an albino. During his lifetime it had been said that viewed from a certain angle, his mane was practically translucent. Because of this, his eyes and the exposed parts of his skin were extremely sensitive to sunlight; by rights, he should have chosen to make his home in the Nocturnal District.

And so he might have done, except that it hadn't existed back in the day. For that reason, most of the walkways on the ZAPA campus were covered by awnings and, as had been discovered later on, not a few of the buildings were connected by underground tunnels.

In an institution filled with inquisitive young minds, it was only natural that a great many of these underground passageways would quickly become known to the student body. (The school had even refurbished two of them for their use.) Not all of the passageways had been discovered however. And many of those that had been found were secrets that the kids who unearthed them shared only with their closest friends—or sometimes not at all. For example, the location of the tunnel that led from Ainsley Hall to Dr. Lionheart's private trolley station—situated less than 100 yards from the terminus of the Pallet Express—was known only to one Conor Severus Lewis.

That, in fact, was the route he'd taken to get here tonight—and it was also how he intended to get here on the day of the audition. With a little luck, he'd be able to make his exit via the same course.

Luck, however, was something the fugitive young silver fox knew he couldn't count on...especially when he stopped to consider how much of his good fortune he'd already used up. His escape from custody, all by itself, should have been enough to seriously deplete his quota—hence the stop-off at Dr. Lionheart's sculpture.

His plan was a simple one; always the best kind, as Danny Tipperin had constantly reminded him. The night before the auditions, he would sneak in under cover of darkness and hole up somewhere close by the theater until an hour or so before the performances started. At that time, he'd make his way inside to watch Erin Hopps' audition. And then, after the theater emptied out, he'd go back to his hidey hole, remain there until nightfall, and leave the same way by which he had come.

All well and good, but those plans had been made when the auditions were scheduled to be held at a different location. And even if the venue hadn't been changed, Conor knew he needed a fallback scheme. Another thing Danny had told him, over and over and over, was, "No matter how careful you work things out kid, there's always friction, those glitches you never could have expected. Sometimes there's only a few, sometimes there's a lot. The rule is, hope for a few, be ready for a lot."

And there was potential here for a whole lot of friction. Conor knew from his forays into the ZPD database that Lieutenant Albert 'Tuff-Guy' Tufts had recently interviewed a certain Ms. Erin Hopps. What he'd asked her and what she'd said in response hadn't been in the police report, but even that had revealed a lot.

First of all, why hadn't it been there? Had it been redacted; did Tufts suspect that someone had been accessing the ZPD computer files? Or was he simply showing a wise sense of caution? Knowing how vulnerable their databases were, more and more police departments these days were reverting to written reports only...and who'd know that better than the head of ZPD Cybercrimes?

Conor couldn't be certain about any of this, but all of it had led him to a singular conclusion; he had better NOT underestimate that geek-face Kaibab squirrel, unless he wanted to earn himself a one-way ticket back to Granite Point. The smartest and wisest thing he could do—what he SHOULD do, let's face it—was be nowhere near this place on audition day.

But he'd made a promise!

And was Tuff-Guy Tufts aware of that promise? If the answer was yes, no way would the ZPD not be laying for him this coming Saturday. And that was the biggest reason for the fugitive young silver fox's presence here tonight; he'd keep his word to Erin and make it to her performance—but not without doing some prep-work first.

Skirting the perimeter of Ainsley Hall, Conor found himself facing the rear of the Hoofington Library. Scurrying on all fours across the short space between them, he skirted the library's perimeter, once again keeping to the shadows. This time, he wasn't worried about being spotted by any security cameras, having carefully chosen his route so as to avoid…

Security cams! Aw nuts, he'd forgotten to reactivate the camera overlooking The Lionheart Statue. Dumb, Dumb, DUMB fox; this was exactly the kind of mistake he needed to avoid if he didn't want to leave here in the back of police cruiser. Pulling himself into one of the many niches carved into the library's outer wall, he opened his laptop and corrected the error, all the while silently cursing himself.

And then he moved on.

Coming around towards the front of the building, Conor saw that he was catty-corner to the left-paw side of the Gazelle Amphitheater, named for the lady who had donated most of the funds to have it renovated.

Built largely of red-brick with just a touch of granite, the amphitheater was more or less a Neo-Greek theater; a semi-sunken, semicircular stage with a pavilion to the rear, and to the front, a crescent of rising stone bleachers, with an open lawn behind them. The main difference between here and a classical Greek Theater was the trapezoidal band-shell arcing over the stage. Well, not exactly a band-shell, it was curtained and there was also a stage-light gantry.

Conor wasn't entirely unfamiliar with this venue. In fact, he had performed here several times. For the spring production of Pig Floyd's The Wall, he'd been chosen to sing and play Dave Gilmare's part on Comfortably Numb. Ohhhh, what a night that had been; Mike Daehan had just crushed the synth solo on Run Like Hell, and the decision to add Dana Alchesay's fiddle to Mother had been a…

"Shut up and get OVER there!"

Dutifully obeying his inner voice, Conor dropped down to all fours, sprinting across the open space and around the back of the amphitheater.

About a third of the way along the structure's curving rear; he came to a nondescript plywood service door. It was currently secured by a padlock, but no problem; he had a key. In fact he'd had one since two weeks into his first semester here; making copies of a key these days was a cakewalk. No more cumbersome wax impressions, all you needed was two seconds, a good phone cam, and access to a 3D printer.

And that wasn't all. Like so many other new establishments these days, the Zootopia Academy of the Performing Arts tended to value efficiency over security. As a result, practically every padlock on the campus could be opened with a master key…like the one a certain young silver fox had in his pocket. That was the good news. The bad news was that it's impossible to close a padlock behind you, at least if it's attached to a solid door. And what that means is, any passersby will notice at a glance that it's been tampered with. Long story short, it might be doable to get into the amphitheater by way of this door tonight—but on Saturday, forget it! Before he could even think about coming to see Erin's performance, Conor knew he'd need to find another way into and, more importantly, another way out of this souvlaki stand.

Pushing open the door, he was instantly drenched in a cascade of sharp, pungent air, a mingling of turpentine and lacquer fumes; the room he was about to enter was normally employed as a paint locker. Fortunately the shelves had all been emptied for the summer, and with a quick influx of air from outside, the unit's interior became quickly tolerable. Closing the door behind him—it could be latched but not locked from the inside—Conor padded to the other end of the closet and felt for the handle. When he pushed down on it, it refused to budge. Oh great, it was locked from the other…but then it suddenly gave way, and he found himself on somewhat more familiar ground. He was inside the room normally reserved for set construction; rack upon rack of drop-cloth, pulleys dangling from the rafters, lights in cages, the floors and windows frosted with sawdust; and wafting through the air, the ever-present aroma of wood and paste. Moving across the floor he made a beeline to the door at the opposite end, not once bothering to look upwards. Incredibly, there were no security cameras inside the Gazelle Amphitheater...or the Lionheart Auditorium, for that matter.

The next part of the building was one with which he was even more intimately acquainted—the rehearsal room; beige walls, a parquet floor, a cathedral high ceiling, mirrors and a wooden practice bar lining one wall, and over in the corner, a battered, coffee-colored, baby-grand piano—a monstrosity that needed re-tuning after something like every fifth time it was played.

Giving his eyes a moment to become fully focused, Conor surveyed the wall opposite the mirror, looking for the door that would lead to the stage wings...

A moment later, he was standing at center-stage, gazing out at the rising rows of stone bleachers. With a wicked fox-grin, he raised an arm and began to solemnly intone, "Friends, Students, and Countrymammals, can you help a fellow Zootopian who's down on his luck?"

It was as far as he got before the bad joke died in his throat; knock it off fox-boy and get serious here.

Turning a slow 180, Conor did just that, making a careful study of his surroundings. One thing became obvious almost immediately. As far as dodging the law went, the Gazelle Amphitheater was better in some aspects than the Lionheart Auditorium, worse in others.

The Good:

Unlike the auditorium, which was located close to the center of the campus, the amphitheater could be accessed directly off the street. If Conor could lose himself in the crowd as they made their exit, he could be out of here before anyone realized that he'd ever even been in here. And on that subject, this place had nearly twice the seating capacity of its sister venue. While that didn't necessarily translate into a full house, it fit in nicely with the young silver fox's plans; there were going to be a lot fewer empty seats here on Saturday than anyone might have expected. Also, because this was an outdoor venue, there'd be no such thing as dimming the house lights. Everything beyond the stage would remain fully visible throughout the performances. Last but not least, in an outdoor venue, it would be that much easier for the fugitive young silver fox to keep downwind of his pursuers.

The Bad:

There was an underground tunnel beneath the Lionheart Auditorium that led directly to Ainsley Hall—one of several such passages. All fine and dandy, but what about this place? Conor had no idea, but he hoped to find out. Also, the proximity to the street was actually a two-edged sword; it meant that Tuff-Guy Tufts would be able to call in back-up on a moment's notice. And then there was the other, bigger trade-off. Holding the audition in an outdoor venue might make it easier for the young silver fox to scope out any cops looking to nail him—but it would also make it that much simpler for THEM to spot him.

The Ugly:

The biggest sticking point, from Conor's point of view, was that out here in the open, Tufts would have the option of using aerial surveillance to try and locate him; in other words, drones. And the amphitheater's topography would allow that blankety-blank squirrel to cover the entire venue with only three of them. AND…the Gazelle Amphitheater was a standalone structure, with no covered access; it would be impossible to get in or out of here without being visible from above.

…Unless he could find a tunnel leading from here to another building, but were there any such passageways anywhere in or around the Gazelle Amphitheater? None of the plans that Conor had studied had even so much as hinted at anything beneath this part of the campus. It was hardly surprising and only mildly discouraging. Practically every other tunnel that had been found so far had been discovered either by accident or via the hit-or-miss method. On the plus side, that meant the ZPD was probably unaware of the underground maze's existence—or were they? Lieutenant Tufts had interviewed several of the young fox's friends and classmates following his escape from the Precinct-1 jail. Had any of them revealed the existence of the Academy's secret passageways? They'd never give them up on purpose, of course, but what about by mistake; a few careless words, spoken without realizing it? That was entirely possible—and even if it wasn't, at least two of the ZAPA tunnels were known to the faculty as well as the students. Nooo, when he mulled it over, it was a good bet that the ZPD at least suspected the existence of those passageways.

Conor shook himself and shook it off. This was how things were and he'd just have to deal with the situation as best he could. But before he could go looking for any secret tunnel-work, he had another task to perform; finding a location from which he could view Erin's audition without being seen himself.

Ideally what he wanted was a vantage point with a hiding place close by, a place where he could hear but not see the proceedings on stage. The idea was that he would wait there until he heard Erin's introduction, and then come out just long enough to watch her audition…and then, as soon as she was finished, back under cover and then the interminable wait for the judges to announce their decision. An interminable wait for everyone else but not for Conor Lewis; when he saw Erin's performance, he'd know whether or not she'd made the cut, he'd know.

"I just hope you foxin' appreciate all the effort I'm makin' over here, Snowdrop," he silently groused to the absent bunny. "The things I gotta DO, just to keep my promises!"

Oh-kay-y-y, now where would be a good vantage point from which to observe her recital? Well, at least he knew where NOT to be on the big day, the wings at stage left. That was where all the hopefuls would be queued up on Saturday, waiting for their turn go on; it was how things had worked back when he had tried out for The Academy. True, last year's musical auditions had been held in a different venue, but Conor was willing to bet that though the location might have changed, the routine would remain the same; this coming Saturday, stage left was going to be Zootopia Central Station—at rush-hour!

And he could also forget about watching from the pavilion attached to the band-shell. He'd be a sitting duck for any drones up there, and have a lousy view besides. Still, the idea of watching Erin perform from an overhead location held a great deal of appeal for him—so what about the lighting gantry? Hmmm, now that had possibilities; no dimming of the house lights would also mean no stage lights, and therefore no lighting crew.

It took Conor several precious moments to find the stairs leading upwards to the lighting scaffold, but once he did, they turned out to make for a remarkably easy ascent; the larger part of the stairway was set up to accommodate smaller mammals and just perfect for a youngish fox. Reaching the top of the steps and padding carefully across the catwalk, Conor paused for a moment, took a breath and looked down. While not acrophobic by nature, he was also not arboreal by species. If the height was going to disorient him, he needed to know now, not on audition day.

Gazing downwards, he experienced only a very slight sense of vertigo. Oh-kayyy, so far, so good, but now he needed to…

Hel-looo, what have we here?

In the middle of the catwalk, almost directly over center-stage, a large disk of some kind had been mounted to the lighting scaffold. Hmmmm, what the heck was that for? Well, there was only one way to find out, go give it a look-see.

The disk turned out to be about six feet in diameter and extended maybe a foot or two from the lighting scaffold. Peering at it more closely, Conor noticed a small platform attached to its backside…for what purpose? He didn't have a clue, but heyyy, wait a minute. From the platform behind the disk, every single one of the spotlight stands was visible. All righty then; so this was where the lighting director did his thing…but, as the young silver fox had already pointed out to himself, there would be no stage lights on Saturday. Sooo, might this serve as a place to hide while waiting for Erin to go on?

Absolutely...unless someone on the stage below happened to look directly upwards. The gantry's catwalk had a latticework floor and his footpads would be clearly visible through the mesh—and easily recognizable as belonging to a fox. But wait, hold on, the little platform behind the disk had a solid floor; this might be the place to wait on Erin's audition after all.

That is, IF he'd be able to see her from up here. Moving to a spot just right of the disk, Conor bent over the railing and looked down a second time.

…And almost yipped.

From here, the entire stage was clearly visible—but not the audience or the wings. And Conor knew from what he'd been taught that if he couldn't see either one of those locations, nobody standing there would be able to see him. Even better, if he made this his vantage point, Tuff-Guy Tufts could let loose a whole squadron of drones and it wouldn't do him any good. The only way a drone cam would be able to see this particular spot would be if it flew in under the bandshell and then climbed up into the rafters above the gantry. No WAY would the school allow that to happen—especially not while someone was performing onstage. He had discovered nearly the perfect location from which to observe Erin's audition.

...Except for just one, itsy-bitsy problem; first, he'd have to make it up here without the gendarmes making him—and then he'd have to get back DOWN again, also without being spotted.

Climbing up here without anyone noticing would be tricky in the X-treme. The only way it would work would be if he was to haul his tail up here super early, before anyone else showed up. Ditto for getting back down to ground-level again, he'd have to wait until the amphitheater cleared out and darkness fell. Okay, there was downside number one; the disk only offered concealment only from the front and below. That would be fine if he only intended to hide here while the auditions were going on—but all the way from the night before, until way late on the night afterwards? It would be pushing things, to say the least.

And that was what brought him to downside number two; if the cops did manage to spot him up here, then what? He'd be trapped, that's what. All Tuff-Guy Tufts would need to do was block off the stairs leading up to the catwalk and Conor would be fox-toast. Ahhh, maybe not quite; on the back side of the scaffold was a virtual jungle of stage ropes, many of them dropping all the way to ground level.

Looking up for second, he spoke softly and apparently to no one.

"Thanks Danny," he said, referring to Danny Tipperin, the swift fox who had taught him something of the fine art of rappelling.

All right, so he knew how to get back down to stage level, even if the cops blocked off the stairs, but then what? Well, to figure that out, he would need to get back down to stage level right NOW. In the meantime, the disk would remain his hiding place of choice until, and unless, he found something better.

A moment later, he was crouching at center stage again, studying an image on his laptop screen and trying to recall what he knew.

Ever the diligent young fox when it came to doing his homework, Conor had made a careful study of the Lionheart Estate, even before his first nighttime foray onto the campus. As things turned out, he'd unearthed quite a bit of useful information. For example, there was the reason the old white lion had built himself an amphitheater in the first place.

Whenever he held one of his frequent soirees, Dr. Lionel Lionheart, ever the patron of the arts, would treat his guests to either a musical or a dramatic presentation. After a while it had become clear that he needed a proper venue for these performances—and so the amphitheater where Conor Lewis now hunkered had come to be.

Given the late doctor's sensitivities, one might have expected these events to be held only at night. Not so, according to what the young silver fox had read; there had been at least as many performances held here during the daytime as there had been after dark. The reason was that Dr. Lionheart's gatherings often had a much more practical purpose than mere entertainment. It was here, for example, that he had schmoozed the City Fathers into letting him erect Zootopia's first electric billboards. And that had been only one of the many deals he'd cut during an afternoon fête at his estate.

With that in mind, Conor had called up a vintage photograph on his laptop, a view from the amphitheater stage, back in the day when it had still belonged to the good doctor.

The photo was grainy, and of course it was in black and white, but nonetheless, several things were obvious.

First of all when the city had taken over the amphitheater, they had reduced the size of the orchestra pit and both reworked and expanded the seating arrangements. What had once been boxes were now bleachers—and those long-gone boxes had extended only as far back as the current tenth row. One box still remained however; Dr. Lionheart's private loge, situated at eighth-row center-stage, and now reserved for the use of Very Important Mammals.

Oh yes, that space had been reserved for Dr. Lionheart's use, all right. In the photograph on Conor's laptop screen, it was the only box covered by an awning—and also the biggest one in the theater. It was there that the judges would presumably be seated on audition day.

Of a more immediate concern to the young fox however, was that the photograph showed no covered pathway leading to Dr. Lionheart's opera-box. To reach it, he would have had to either employ a parasol—or else it would have had to be fitted with some kind of underground access. It was a chancy possibility, but definitely worth exploring.

As Conor had expected, the stage door was locked and he was obliged to slide down off the front of the stage and into the orchestra pit in order to make his way to the Lionheart box. It was only a short trek, but a little bit nerve-wracking, even at this late hour. The seats around him were hewn from dark-gray limestone and he had absolutely no cover; he felt as exposed as a black ant, attempting to cross a linen table-cloth. It didn't help that since his 'transformation' into an arctic fox he stood out against darkness a great deal more than before he'd made the change.

When he got to the opera box, no exit was visible in either the walls or the floor, but that was hardly astonishing. Every tunnel the ZAPA students had found so far had been accessed by way of a secret panel, usually in the walls, sometimes in the floor, but all of them opened the same way. Push once on the left side then twice on the right and the panel would pop open.

Deciding that it was worth the risk, Conor slipped on a headlamp, setting the power at the dimmest possible level. After less than two seconds of playing the beam over the walls he stopped and pulled it off again, grumbling with a mixture of resignation and frustration. The back wall of the box had recently been given a fresh coat of paint. Whatever cracks and fissures might have been there to indicate a secret exit were currently invisible; he would have to do this the hard way.

He started at the far left corner, pressing once with a pair of gloved paws and then, remembering that the exit would need to be big enough to accommodate a lion, he moved four feet to the right and pushed twice. Nothing happened, and he moved back three feet to the left and repeated the process; still nothing—and nothing on the next try, or the next try, or the one after that.

But then, on the following attempt, Conor thought he heard a tiny click when he pushed on the left side of the wall. When he pushed again on the right side, he heard another click, much more distinct. And on the next push, the 'wall' swung inward with a low scraping noise.

The door turned out to be much harder to close than it had been to open, and the fugitive young silver fox was obliged to put his back into it to get the thing shut again. At once he found himself enveloped in an inkblot of Stygian blackness; there were no lights of any kind in the passageway—and no point in waiting for his eyes to adjust. Even the best night vision won't allow you to see in total darkness.

Not to worry, Conor had expected this; it was why he'd brought the headlamp. A moment later found him padding down the tunnel that led from what had once been Dr. Lioneart's private box. The interior was spacious—no great revelation there—but also surprisingly clean for a passageway that had been abandoned for so long. There was very little dust and only a few cobwebs. Unfortunately, that small amount of dust was still enough that he was leaving footprints in his wake. They didn't matter now but they'd matter a lot on the day of the auditions; he would need to do something about this. On the other paw, the air in the passageway was so dang musty, he was obliged to stop and put on a surgical mask. (Yes, that was a good thing; unpleasant as it was, it would help to obscure his scent when Saturday arrived.)

Moving down the underground causeway, Conor found that he had no sense of direction. But again, no sweat; being a fox, he was able to use the earth's magnetic field to help him navigate. He was headed right back the way he had come, towards the amphitheater stage. It should have come as no surprise; Dr. Lionheart had liked to fursonally introduce the acts that performed for his guests. And now, lo and behold, here was a fork in the tunnel. To the left was a passageway leading somewhere off into the darkness, but the right side ended in a flight of wide-spaced steps. Taking them two at a time, the young fox soon found himself facing another door panel. Like every other tunnel entrance he'd encountered on the ZAPA campus, this one was much easier to open from the inside than the outside, all you had to do was pull on a handle. Of course, said handle was set at large-mammal rather than small-mammal height, but this smaller-mammal had long since mastered the trick; jump up, grab the handle with both paws, brace your feet against the door and pull.

Dropping back down to the floor again, Conor peered beyond the doorway and stepped through the frame, making sure to wipe his feet first. At once, he found himself deep inside the right-side stage wings. Ahhh, this was good; the kids waiting to go on would be queued up on the other side of the amphitheater. Hmmm, perhaps he should watch Erin from here rather than up in the lighting gantry. He'd have an excellent view and be able to make his exit immediately afterward. Maybe…except this part of the stage was deserted now, but what would it be like this coming Saturday?

He would just have to wait and see.

Slipping back through the door again and closing it behind him, Conor continued with his exploration, following the left side branch of the tunnel, the one that led away to an unknown destination.

This time he had no idea where he was going; oh, he knew in which direction he was headed—but where was that direction taking him? He didn't have the slightest inkling.

But he'd find out soon enough; there, just up ahead, was another flight of stairs. And this time there was no junction with another tunnel; end of the line, everybody out.

It took the fugitive young silver fox three tries to get the door to respond…and when it did, it swung inward so fast it nearly fly-swatted him against the wall. Cursing at nothing, he stormed out of the exit—and immediately skidded to a halt with his jaw hanging open.

What the fox? There was the amphitheater stage in front of him. He was right back where he'd started.

Wait, no he wasn't. The stage he was looking at had been furnished with a set; a minimalist arrangement to be sure—two chairs, a table, and a fake wall with a window—but a set nonetheless.

That was when Conor realized where he was…and when he figured it out, he didn't know whether to whoop, click his heels, or throw a fist in the air. Hallelujah, oh happy day, and let the good times roll; he was backstage inside the Lionheart Auditorium! It was no great shock that the underground passageway from the outdoor theater had led him here; in fact it was more of a 'well, DUH!' moment. Prior to its refurbishing, this had been the estate's main banquet hall. Why wouldn't there be a below-ground passage leading from here to the amphitheater? He should have known it all along, dumb fox.

Only…where the heck had those stage props come from? They hadn't been here during his last...

Oh wait, now he remembered. On the previous Saturday, the Zootopia Academy for the Performing Arts had held the auditions for the acting hopefuls—and on that particular day it had been 90 degrees in the shade with 80 percent humidity. In conditions like that, it went without saying that the acting tryouts would be held indoors—meaning in here.

None of that was of immediate import to Conor Lewis, however; what mattered to him was that this was a venue he knew like the back of his paw. There were at least three other tunnels beneath the Lionheart Auditorium, including one that led to a junction with four, count 'em, four other passageways. And HE knew exactly where every single one of them went. Woo-hoo, his earlier scouting trips hadn't been a waste of time after all. Once he got this far, he'd be home free.

Ahhh, it was all just too much for a young fox to resist. Strolling to the middle of the stage Conor turned towards the audience and dropped down on one knee. And then, spreading his paws in the manner of Al Joeyson in The Jazz Singer, he began to croon…

"If I can maaaake…it…there,
I'll make it annnn-y-where."

That was as far as he got before the peeping of his smart-watch cut off his rendition at the knees. When he looked, he saw that it was...whoa, 4:00 AM, already? How the heck had this one little scouting little mission taken so long? Well-l-l whatever the reason, he needed to be out of here before the sun came up. So saying, he pointed into the stage wings, intoning in a lofty voice, "Exiiiit—stage right!"

And then that was what he did.

---

There are many uneasy moments in the life of the average mammal, but perhaps none so anxiety-inducing as trying to figure out exactly the right moment to ask your boss for some time off—especially if A, you're a new employee, and B, he doesn't like you very much.

That was where Judy Hopps was right now…in spades; this was only her first week working Cybercrimes Division. And if anyone doubted that Lieutenant Albert Tufts, ZPD, was not particularly fond of her, he had just made the doe-bunny pull her second all-nighter in the space of three days.

It had been a shift spent either filing reports or writing them…and then rewriting them again when the Kaibab squirrel invariably found them unacceptable by way of some petty reason.

By now, Judy felt completely drained, both physically and emotionally. The last thing she wanted to do was buttonhole her boss and ask him for Saturday off. She would have shined on making the request already—except for why she wanted that specific day off. Her sister was coming to audition for acceptance into the Zootopia Academy of the Performing Arts. To be free to attend that performance, almost no sacrifice was too great. And, tired as she was, it had not escaped the doe-bunny's attention that Lieutenant Tufts was always in his best humor when preparing to clock out for the day. Even so, she was taking no chances, having already informed Erin that her chances of making it to the ZAPA auditions were iffy at best. The younger bunny had tried to put a good face on it, but the disappointment in her voice had been as clear as a bugle call.

"Oooo, Tufts just  has  to let me have Saturday... Wait, here he comes."

He came scurrying along the space between the cubicles with Claire Swinton walking beside him, the two of them deep in conversation. Luckily for Judy, she was able to catch the pig cop's eye as they passed and Swinton immediately interrupted herself, pretending that she'd just remembered a phone-call she had to make.

That was the doe-bunny's cue and she took it.

"Excuse me…Lieutenant Tufts?"

He stopped and turned towards her. While the tone of his voice was cordial enough; his words were definitely not. "Did you finish rewriting that report, Hopps?"

"Uh, yes sir," she said, trying to remember what she'd done with it. "I…left it with Detective LaFollette."

"I'll look at it tomorrow," the squirrel replied, as if she'd been pestering him about it all day. He turned to go and Judy hurriedly raised a finger.

"Sir, before you leave…"

"What is it, Detective?" Tufts turned back again, paws on hips and an expression that fairly screamed 'This had better be good, rabbit.'

"Ohhh, I am SO wasting my time here," Judy told herself for something like the thirtieth time. And then she said, "Sir, I know I only just started…"

"Get ON with it, Hopps!"

With an inward sigh, "Ohhh-kay, let's get this over with," she cleared her throat and broached the subject. "All right…well, my sister Erin is coming to Zootopia for her audition to get into the Performing Arts Academy, and my family's going to be…"

"Yes, yes…you can have Saturday off," the Kaibab squirrel chittered, waving an irritable paw and turning to leave once again. Now he sounded as if she was making much ado about nothing.

For the zillionth time since she'd started here, Judy was tempted to respond with something smart-mouthed. This time, however, it was an enticement she found easy to resist.

"Whoo-hoo, he said yes!" her inner voice crowed, "'Kay, now don't just stand there Jude; tell him thanks and get your tail out the door before he changes his mind."

Wisely choosing to heed this counsel, Judy practically gushed. "Oh, thank you so much, Lieutenant. Erin would have been so disappointed if I couldn't have made it. I'll see you tom…I-I mean this evening."

And then she hurried through the door without another word.

Tufts watched her for a moment with his tail flipping. He was about to follow her out when he became aware of a presence beside him.

"What is it, Swinton?" he said without looking up.

"You're…not going to…TELL her?" the pig-cop asked incredulously.

Now the Kaibab squirrel did look up at her.

"No, Officer Swinton…and I don't want YOU saying anything to her about it either—and that goes for everyone else. I want Detective Hopps kept out of the loop; do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly sir," the pig-cop answered, still puzzled, "but…but why, Lieutenant?"

He responded with a throwaway shrug. "Because we don't need to inform her; if we require her help later on, she'll be right there; and if we don't…well, we don't." It was a weak response and both of them knew it. What followed wasn't weak, it was WAY out of line. "And besides that, if I inform Hopps about the operation, she just might tell her sister about it…and then she'll tell the Lewis kid; noooo, thank you."

Claire felt the bristles on her back starting to rise.

"Sir, with all due respect, Judy Hopps is an officer of the ZPD…"

"And also a rabbit; you know what they're like," the Lieutenant cut her off, "especially with family."

"No sir, I don't know what they're like," the pig-cop responded in a voice that was frozen stiff. What the heck, now? She'd heard her share of prejudice directed at rabbits in her time, but this was something new entirely; never before had anyone suggested to her that bunnies were motor-mouths. As a matter of fact, that particular stereotype was more often applied to the Lieutenant's own species; project much, nutcracker-boy?

Tufts, for his part, had either taken no notice of the ice in her voice or else he'd chosen to ignore it. "Get the door for me please?" It was more of an order than a request.

Swinton had a few more things to say, but wisely chose to keep them to herself—at least until she was safely behind the wheel of her car where, hopefully, no one would be able to hear her.

She held it back just long enough to get the door closed—and then she exploded, "Snot-nosed, speciest, little two-faced JERK! I swear, if I ever get tagged to work under you again, I'm quitting the stinking police-force!"

No sooner were the words out of her mouth, than Claire fell into an anxious silence, looking furtively around to make sure she hadn't been overheard. Threats didn't come any hollower than the one she'd just made; there was no way she could even think about quitting the ZPD…not now.

That was when something else occurred to her, something that made her unable to suppress a smile. Judy Hopps hadn't had time to mention that the Performing Arts Academy auditions were scheduled for this coming Saturday—and yet Tufts had known when they were being held, right off the top of his head.

If Judy hadn't been so elated that she would be able to attend her sister's audition, she wouldn't have missed that little tidbit.

"But she won't miss it for long," Swinton smiled to herself. "She's one VERY clever rabbit; you don't make Detective as quickly as she did without being able to connect the dots. Hmmm, too bad Tufts already checked out for the day; I'd be willing to bet him a twenty right now that by this coming Saturday, she has all his plans figured out exactly."

Chapter 14: Finding Conor, (Cont'd...Pt 4)

Summary:

Two foxes, three meetings.

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 2—Finding Conor
(Continued…Part 4)

"Hey-batter, hey-batter, hey-batter, hey-batter…SWING!"

With encouragement like that, it was hard to resist—and so the young nutria swung. A sharp ping followed as the aluminum bat connected with the softball and then it was floating upwards in a lazy, egg-shaped arc…right towards the young red panda playing shortstop. Raising a gloved paw, Lisa Nizhang easily bagged the pop-fly. It was a cakewalk catch but you'd never have known it from the reaction of her teammates; whoops, cheers, howls, high fives, and girls hugging each other while jumping up and down. The game was over, the Dodgers had won, and they were on their way to the playoffs.

In the bleachers adjoining the backstop there was plenty of enthusiasm as well; particularly in the third row, center section, where Claudia Nizhang was on her feet, calling through cupped paws. "Way to go, girls, way to go!" Beside her Nick Wilde was standing and applauding vigorously, swept up in the fervor of the moment.

He'd at first been surprised that Claudia would want to meet him here—until he'd learned that her daughter was playing today; Zootopia City Councilmember Nizhang had a long-standing reputation as a dedicated parent.

The game they'd just watched had taken place at a baseball diamond inside of Mount Tapir Park. It was your typical Old Growth City playing field, almost completely organic in construction. The backstop was a basket-weave of interwoven, living bamboo, the outfield fence consisted of neatly-trimmed hedges, and the scoreboard was suspended between the intertwining branches of a pair of flying spider-fern trees. The only parts of the field not fashioned by nature were the scoreboard itself and the bleacher seats…and even they had been built from recycled materials, as Claudia had proudly informed Nick upon his arrival. It had made the red fox wonder if this ball field wasn't one of her projects. OGC was the district she represented, after all.

Now, he followed as she led the way back down to ground level, amazingly spry for a mammal that needed a cane to get around. Seeing her approach, Lisa hurried to meet her at the edge of the field.

"Hey, mom!"

"Hey, Bǎo!" Claudia replied, pulling off her daughter's ball cap and giving her head-fur a quick tousle, "Good game."

And the game had been a good one; not a claw-biter to be sure, final score, 5-1, but a win is still a win. And Lisa Nizhang had done more than her share to bring it home, twice hitting singles and later driving in a run on a sacrifice fly. She'd also been part of the game's only double-play. At the moment however she was looking curiously at the fox standing next to her mother.

Claudia smiled and laid a paw on his shoulder.

"Lisa, say hello to Nick Wilde, the ZPD's newest detective."

"Nice to meet you Detective Wilde," Lisa said, offering a paw and a smile that revealed a set of braces. It seemed that any member of her mother's former profession was okay with her as well.

"Call me Nick," he replied, deciding at once that he liked this kid.

"Uh, Mom," Lisa had turned an uneasy look in her mother's direction. "We were gonna go…"

"Lisa, hurry up!" someone called from behind her.

"I'm coming, I'm coming. Hold on!" the young red panda called back over her shoulder, and then turned to her mother again, "We were gonna go get pizza, and…"

"Yes, you can have some money for the air-hockey table." Claudia took out her wallet and extracted a bill, which she held out between her index and middle fingers. But when the young red panda tried to reach for it, it was pulled back out of her reach and replaced by the face of her mother.

"But NO betting, do I make myself clear?"

"Mommmmmmm!" Lisa's voice was a painful groan, "You know I don't bet on stuff!"

"And you know I want to keep it that way." Claudia smiled and held out the money again; this time, she allowed her daughter to take it. "Okay, have fun."

"Thanks Mom," Lisa leaped up and gave her a hug and peck on the cheek, and then hurried off to join her friends, "Hey guys, wait up!"

"Nice kid," Nick observed, watching her go, "How old is she, twelve?"

"Eleven, she's tall for her age," Claudia answered, and then she said. "Nick, I saw you looking around earlier, so let's get something out of the way…her father and I split up back when I was with the ZYPD. He works for Zoogle now; pays his child support and sends Lisa a prepaid debit card for her birthday and for Christmas. That's pretty much all the contact I have with him—and it's all the contact I want."

"Ah, I see," Nick nodded, wondering why his collar suddenly felt tighter. Yes he'd been wondering where Lisa's father was; who wouldn't have, after all? But oh-kayyy, he could show some prescience, too. "Let me guess," he said "Lisa doesn't like to bet on air-hockey—or pretty much anything else—but some of her friends do. And lately they've been pestering her about it because they can't understand why she doesn't like to gamble; am I right?"

"That's about the size of it, Nick," Claudia answered with a sigh and a lopsided smile, "Not all stereotypes are based on species, y'know."

"Right," the red fox nodded dryly, and watched as she hefted her cane

"But…I didn't ask you to meet me here to talk about my daughter. Come on, let's take a walk. I need to keep this knee of mine moving if I don't want it to lock up on me later."

She led him along a pathway that skirted the edge of the park.

"So…who's Bogo got you reporting to?" she asked, opening the conversation.

"Lieutenant Saw," the fox replied, "He thought that since the diamond courier was working for The Company, the Organized Crime division should handle it."

Claudia looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "Seriously? I'd have thought that with a possible gang-war coming down, he'd have put you somewhere else,"

Nick only shrugged. "Ask him, not me."

"I intend to, next time I see him," his companion replied. "Anyway, Saw's good; has kind of a broomstick up his tail and carries a little bit of a chip on his shoulder, but other than that, he's okay."

"Well, what I like about him is, he's a paws-off kind of boss," Nick offered her a foxy grin. "Doesn't ride your back all the time; as long as you get results, he's happy."

"UNLESS he finds out you got there by taking shortcuts, Nick." Claudia had stopped and was pointing her cane at him. "If there's anything that sun-bear can't stand, it's a rogue cop; don't ever forget that."

"I won't," he promised, raising a skittish paw. Her rejoinder had caught him completely off-guard. To compensate, he attempted a half-jest. "Anyway, very shortly I'm going to be 3000 miles away from him."

His remark was anything but amusing to his companion. Her expression became instantaneously unreadable and then she was scanning their surroundings, paying especially close attention to the tree line.

After a long moment of this, she looked at him again. "Yes, I heard; you're heading off to Zoo York City, that so?"

"Yep, that's right," the fox replied, "I leave Friday. The trail's pretty much stone-cold dead on this end, so we need to see if we can pick it up back where it started." He had a strong impression that he wasn't telling this red panda anything she didn't already know. Even so it felt like something that needed to be said.

"Mmm-hmm," Claudia regarded a nearby tree for a second, chewing on a corner of her mouth as if mulling her next words. Then her eyes found his again. "Nick, there's no way to make a soft landing on this, so I'll just come right out and say it. If you're expecting any help from the ZYPD in trying to track down that diamond courier, you can disabuse yourself of that notion right now! The only thing you're going to get from Zoo York's Finest is at best, suspicion and at worst, outright hostility. You may even be subject to some departmental harassment. And believe me, these guys know a thing or two about how to tighten the screws."

"Because of what happened during the Finagle's raid?" Nick asked her. He was stunned but only mildly stunned. It went without saying that he couldn't go looking for The Company's diamond mule without bringing up that incident. And given what a debacle it had been, it was a no-brainer that the Zoo York City Police wouldn't be eager to talk about it.

…But, actual harassment? Okay, that went beyond his expectations.

"Exactly," Claudia cocked a finger and then tilted her head sideways. "Tell me, Detective Wilde," she said, becoming almost icily formal for a moment, "How much do you know about that raid?"

Nick scratched at an ear, deciding at once to skip the preliminaries and go right to the sordid details.

"Well if nothing else, I know it wasn't one of the ZYPD's prouder achievements; three officers killed, and at least ten wound…injured." For a second, he faltered, realizing that he was talking to one of those ten injured officers. It was wholly unnecessary; if the memory of the Finagles raid was getting to Claudia Nizhang, she refused to let it show. Her gaze remained steely and unflinching; he couldn't help but be impressed. "And only two survivors, out of the more than two dozen Company soldiers holed up inside that nightclub; sooo, I can't say I'm entirely surprised the ZYPD won't want to discuss it."

Claudia narrowed her eyes and her mouth compressed into a long, flat line.

"That's what it said in the papers, Wilde…but now let me tell you something that didn't make the 6 O'clock News. You see this?" She was patting her bad knee. "I didn't get this from any Company thug. It was—and I use the term loosely—friendly fire."

Nick gasped, now he was genuinely stunned. He tried to respond, but couldn't find the words.

Councilmammal Nizhang, however, had plenty of words, and to spare. "And I wasn't the only one either. At least one, possibly two of the officers killed in that raid got it the same way I did. And that also applies to maybe half of the cops who got hurt…and compared to some of the others, I got off easy. I know of at least one officer who lost his eyesight and another who's going to be in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. And none of that's on The Company, NOW do you understand? If what I just told you ever becomes public knowledge, there'll be a feeding frenzy in the press…and that'll be just for starters. The Governor will demand an investigation, and he'll get it. And then the Zoo York City Police Department will get ripped up one side and down the other; probably the Mayor's office, too. So what do you think will happen if some out-of-town rookie detective strolls in and starts dredging up The Company's downfall all over again?"

Nick nodded and swallowed a lump. There was no need to respond; the answer to her question was self-evident. And now, finally, he was able to find his voice...sort of; the next thing he said came out as little more than a croak "Wha…? You're talking cover-up, Claudia."

"Yes, I am," the red panda responded, jutting her chin. Her gaze—and her voice— were as flinty as ever, "And don't ask me to either explain or apologize for any part I might have played in it, because that's not happening. I never met a cop in my life that didn't eventually have to choose between the lesser of two evils. It's a choice you'll have to make yourself someday...that is, if you haven't already."

Nick turned away for a second, unable to help himself. A wee, airy voice from a couple of years ago was echoing in his head. "ICE this weasel…!"

Claudia didn't seem to notice.

"And Zoo York isn't Zootopia, Nick; it's a completely different culture. You'll find that out for yourself when you get there."

"Ohhh-kayyy," He puffed out his cheeks, speaking in a taut voice, "So what should I do when I get there?"

For the first time in several minutes, his companion smiled; the poker-faced smirk of a game show host, just before informing a contestant that they answered the question correctly.

"You won't get any assistance from the ZYPD brass Nick. But from the rank-and-file you might—though not without a little help." She pulled out her wallet, searched through it for a second and then extracted a card, which she passed over to the fox. On it was a logo he recognized, an all-seeing eye with the words underneath, 'We Never Sleep.' Below this was a name, 'Martin J. Pennanti, Private Investigator', followed by an address and a phone number.

Nick studied it for a second and then looked up.

"Kind of retro, isn't it? Minkerton's hasn't used that emblem in more than a hundred years."

"What can I say?' Claudia shrugged, "Martin's a traditional kind of fisher."

A thread of ice ran through Nick's veins. A fisher; now there was a member of the weasel family you didn't want to fool with; only wolverines and ratels were tougher.

"Martin and I haven't talked in…oh, almost a year now," the red panda was saying, "I can't promise that he'll be willing, or even able to help you." She tapped the card with a finger-claw, "but if anyone can, it's him."

"Ummm, all right," Nick turned the card over in a fidgety gesture, "but Claudia, who is he?"

She straightened up as if preparing to swear allegiance.

"The best darn cop I ever knew!" Her voice was a mixture of reverence and defiance. "If you get stonewalled by the ZYPD, go and see him." She reached out and tapped the card again. "Tell him I sent you, and tell him this: 'Justice does not descend from its own pinnacle.' He'll know what it means."

"Justice does not…" Nick repeated the words under his breath, at the same time slipping the card into his own wallet. Catching a glimpse of his wristwatch he rolled it over and checked the time. He had another appointment today and the hour was getting close. "Anything else you can tell me?"

"Couple of things," Claudia said. "First one's kind of related to something I already mentioned. If you start to get too close to what really happened in Finagles, Chief Bogo's probably going to get a few phone-calls and/or memos from the Zoo York PD Commissioner's office, complaining about your behavior. I can help you with that, but be prepared. Second…got your cell phone handy?"

"Uh, yeah," the fox replied, reaching for his holster—before remembering he was a detective now and didn't wear one. Trying to appear as smooth as possible, he shifted his paw to the inside of his jacket and extracted his phone. "Okay…what?"

"Just hold on a second." Claudia had her own cell deployed and was thumbing in a set of instructions. After only a few seconds, Nick's phone pinged, alerting him to a new text message. "It's a list of places to eat in Zoo York," the red panda told him, nodding at his cell, "Places with good food but they won't break the budget; trust me, you're going to need it."

"Thanks." Nick studied the screen for a second. There were only eateries listed, no hotels. Claudia must have been aware that his choice of lodging was Chief Bogo's prerogative, not his own. Thinking about it, he mentally crossed his fingers. While he understood that the ZPD wasn't going to put him up in the likes of the Walrus Astauria, he could only hope that it wouldn't be the Bedbug Inn either. Like many another police official, the big Cape buffalo's philosophy was, pinch pennies first, ask questions never. "Anything else?" he asked, putting the phone away.

Claudia's answer was so long and drawn out, it almost might have come from a sloth.

"Mmmmm, noooo; I-I think that…about…covers it. If I come up with anything else you need to know, I'll call you. Oh, and don't hesitate to call ME if you have any more questions."

"I will," Nick promised, almost offering a ranger-scout and then stopping himself at the last second. Somehow, with this lady, it seemed utterly inappropriate. "Okay, I hope you don't mind me dashing off on you, but I have another meeting coming up and I don't want to be late."

"Of course, Detective," Claudia smiled and offered a paw, "In case I don't see you again before you leave, good luck." They shook, and then she cocked another finger, "and good hunting."

"Thanks Councilmammal," he answered her. He was thoroughly grateful for the information she'd provided—and even more grateful she hadn't asked him for any details regarding his next meeting.

Driving back to Precinct-1, Nick wished he could just go there directly. No such luck; while his meeting with Claudia Nizhang had been police business, the one yet to come was of an entirely fursonal nature. He'd have to return his car to the motor pool before going there.

After filing a brief report with Lt. Tufts, he caught a Red-Line Metro Train at Savanna Central Station. A half hour later found him once again in Happytown, standing in front of an all-too-familiar door. After straightening his jacket and checking his collar he raised a shaky finger to the doorbell. He was just about to push it, when he remembered and felt at his belt.

"Yes, yes…your badge is still there; now quit being such a wussy-fox and RING already."

Gritting his teeth, Nick did as his inner voice commanded. Almost at once he saw a shadow moving behind the frosted glass window in the center of the door. A part of him wanted to turn and run, but before his feet could even begin to comply, it swung open and there was his mother—wearing a striped apron, and a yellow scarf, wrapped around her head.

"Nicholas?"

"Hi Mom," he said, feeling his teeth gnash together even more tightly. Here it comes, 'What did you do this time?' followed by the inevitable inquiry about grandchildren.

"Well, what a wonderful surprise; come in, come in," she said, taking him by the paw, and ushering him into the house. "Can I take your jacket?"

"Uh sure," Nick replied, somehow managing to resist the urge to grab her by the shoulders and scream in her face, "What did you do with my real mother?" Turning his back he shrugged off his jacket, allowing her to hang it on the hallway coat rack. Almost immediately, her eyes were drawn to his waistline.

"Hrm, what's that Nicholas?"

Looking down, he saw that she was pointing to the detective's shield clipped to his belt. He tried not to roll his eyes. Here we go again.

"It's my new badge, Mom," he said, extracting it and flipping it open for her to see. "I've been promoted, I'm a detective now." To himself he added, "Give me strength."

"Oh Nicholas," her eyes were glistening and her voice was cracking in a thousand places. "Can I see?" She held out a paw to him.

"Uh, sure," he replied, passing it over to her…and at the same time covertly pinching himself. Ouch! No, this wasn't a dream.

Taking the badge in her paws, Ellen Wilde cradled it as if it were a sacred icon. "Oh Nicholas…this is wonderfu…"

"Hold it, hold it; time out! time out! time out!" He had formed a T with his paws and was slapping them against one another. That was all he could stand, and what the HECK? Was this the same vixen who'd answered the door the last time he was here?

"What is it, Son?" She was staring in wide-eyed confusion.

Nick pointed to the badge she was holding. "Okay, you believe that's the real thing, right?"

Her head tilted ten degrees right. "Of course, I do Nicholas, why wouldn't I?"

"Why wouldn't…?" he demanded, flabbergasted. He was waving his arms, looking as if he was preparing to take off and fly around the room, "Mom, the last time I was here, I showed up in my full patrolmammal's uniform and the first thing you said was, 'Take that thing off; do you know what the penalty is for impersonating a police officer?' For crying out loud, you believe my badge is real now, but you didn't believe it then…WHY?"

Her expression at once turned dark and sardonic, narrowed eyes and a jagged line for a mouth.

"Well, let's see," she said, returning the badge to him and leaning against the wall while tapping a finger against her muzzle, "There was the time you came home wearing those fake sanitation-worker's coveralls…"

Nick winced and almost bit his tongue. "Um…all right, Mom."

She didn't seem to hear him, turning her eyes upwards, as if searching for an errant fly. "…And the time you came home wearing those fake doctor's scrubs…"

"All right, Mom."

"…Complete with a lab coat and a stethoscope."

"All riiight, Mom."

"And let's not forget the time I opened the door and there you were, wearing a fake mail-carrier's uniform…"

"All right, Mom!"

"And every single time, the same thing happened, you slammed the door, threw your back against it, and then what were the first words out of your mouth?" Her right eyebrow had squiggled upwards into a question-mark.

"'I'm not here,'" Nick quoted himself, sighing and feeling his body sag. She had him; it was no use, she had him. Dangit, why were mothers always right, anyway? "All right Mom," he breathed, in a much softer voice than before.

She reached out and took him by the paws, apparently satisfied that her boy had been properly censured.

And then her eyes began to moisten again.

"I'm so very proud of you, Nicholas," she said, nodding at a picture on the wall. Nick didn't have to look to see which one, but he did anyway. Yep, it was him alright. "And I know that wherever your father is right now you've made him very, very happy. Not just an honest fox, but a police detective." She sniffed deeply, "Ohhh, I wish he was here right now."

"So do I," Nick answered in a cracking voice, his throat seeming to have filled with hot coals. And then he was hugging his mother and feeling her hug him back. "I love you, mom."

"I love you too, Nicholas," she said, "but when am I going to see some grandchildren?"

Bang, there it was; the inevitable question.

And yet, this time it didn't seem to bother him, not nearly as much as before anyway. And so, for once he didn't push away from her. Heck, he didn't even feel himself stiffening. "Mom, I don't honestly know," he said, stepping back and taking her by the shoulders, "Right now, everything's up in the air with me making detective and all…and to tell the truth, this job doesn't exactly lend itself to being a good parent. I just got done talking with a former police detective whose ex never sees his kid…and that's just how she wants it." His paws went down to hers, and he gave them a little squeeze. "And that's one thing I do know; I don't want to have kids unless I'm sure I can be a good dad to them."

"Of course, you do, son." His mother smiled; it wasn't the answer she'd been looking for, but it was one she could live with. With that in mind, Nick decided to change gears.

"Uhmmm, but Mom, there's still one question you haven't answered. You explained why you didn't believe I was really a police officer the last time I was here—and okay, I get that. But you still haven't told me what changed your mind."

Ellen sighed and looked down for a second, but did not let go of him. "Can we go sit down for a minute?" she asked, and led him into the living room. A moment later, they were sitting together on the sofa, with her barely able to meet his gaze. "Give her space," he reminded himself, "She'll get there in her own good time."

Finally, she said, "It was because of that awful Rock Hardesty—wait no, Nick—no, I don't watch his show or listen to him. Let me finish, please."

"Sorry, Mom," Nick wanted to kick himself. Come on—had she, or had she not just referred to the hyrax as 'that AWFUL Rock Hardesty?' "Cripes, cut her a little slack!" he mentally rebuked himself.

She nodded and then went on.

"I was in the check-out line at Cub Foods and there was this Mouflon Sheep ahead of me, talking on her cell phone about a video she'd seen on the Hardesty Show, something about a fox and bunny behaving badly. Normally, I would have paid no attention but then I heard her speak your name. So, when I got home, I went to Hardesty's website and looked it up."

"Mom," Nick said to her trying to put it as gently as he could, "You shouldn't have gone there." God only knew what she'd seen on that site.

"Yes, Nicholas," she sniffed, "B-But I HAD to know." Another sniff; "Oh Son, he said just the most horrible things about you…" She seemed unable to continue for a second, but it didn't matter; Nick knew what she'd been about to say before her voice failed her, "…and that bunny."

She sniffed a third time, but deeply and then cleared her throat, as if putting it all behind her; she even managed a ragged smile. "But at least I found out once and for all that you really were a police officer. That's one good thing I got out of visiting that website." Without warning, she took his paws again, "And…and I'm sorry for not believing you earlier, son."

"Aw Mom; don't worry about it." He smiled, giving her paws a little squeeze. But then he felt the smile fading as he became aware of an elephant in the room. And the longer he ignored it, the bigger it was going to get. "Since we're already on the subject though, I might as well tell you now. Judy...I-I mean Detective Hopps and I are no longer partners. We asked the Chief to separate us, and we've agreed not to see each other again…on or off duty."

His mother's reaction was yet another surprise. "Oh Nick, I'm so sorry." It wasn't the words, but the fact that he had spoken them with complete sincerity. This wasn't just her, trying to spare his feelings.

Maybe so but it was still time for him to get his diplomat on.

"Mom…when I was here last…you just about had a conniption when you found out about her."

"I did no such thing!" she snapped, but then hastily backpedaled. "It wasn't because she's a bunny, son. I would have felt the same way if she was a different pred species than you…even a grey fox."

There was meaning behind those words, and Nick grasped it almost at once.

"Because red and grey foxes can't have cubs," he thought but didn't say. They were back to the subject of grandchildren again, no surprise there.

The next thing she said, however, hit closer to home, "And also because you felt that you needed to keep her a secret from me."

Nick's mouth pulled backwards in a pained grimace and he looked away from her, wondering again, why were mothers always right? Prior to his last visit, he'd never once mentioned Judy Hopps to her—and even when he had it was only after she'd brought it up.

And she still had more to say.

"Oh Nick, I knew you were going to get hurt over her the minute I found out. It wasn't anything I thought, but I just felt it so strongly."

"Ahhh, what can I say Mom, your instincts were dead on target," he conceded with a rueful nod. "You're right; I did end up getting hurt—and I'm still hurting," he added silently, surprising himself.

"Yes, I know," she nodded back, blinking. "But Nicholas, even in my worst moments, I never dreamed it would get as bad as it did. Mammals chanting slogans at you in the street; I had no idea!" Her ears abruptly turned backwards. "Ooooo, that little jerk, Hardesty; he was almost gloating about it. When I heard that, I decided right then and there to call his show and give him a piece of my mind."

"Oh Mom, you didn't!" Nick was staring in wide-eyed shock. Was there ANYTHING that could have made the situation worse?

"Well…I tried," she said, rolling her lips in embarrassment, "But they wouldn't let me on the air."

"Lucky for you," Nick answered, letting out a huge breath. "Hardesty's got a habit of hanging up on callers when they start to score points with him—and then trashing them out to his audience after they're gone."

"He does WHAT?" Now Ellen was the one staring horrified. "Ohhh son, if I'd known that, I'd never have called him."

"It's okay, don't worry about it," Nick repeated again, patting her paw and getting rewarded with a wan smile. For several seconds afterwards, an awkward silence reigned.

"So, uh…have you been assigned a case yet?" His mother asked hesitantly; she was obviously grasping for a new subject. Fortunately for the both of them, it was a topic her son could easily talk about.

"Sure have," he said, "Chief Bogo's given me the job of tracking down a diamond smuggler." From there, he went on to tell her the story; his interrogation of the Rafaj brothers and how he'd figured out that a member of the Company was loose somewhere in Zootopia.

All the while, his mother listened with rapt attention. At one point she observed, "Looks like all those hustling skills were good for something besides peddling bootleg pawpsicles, Son."

"Tell me about it," Nick grinned at her. When it came to his current assignment, however, he had to be a lot more circumspect. There were more than a few details that he simply couldn't discuss—not just with her but with anyone else who didn't need to know. That held doubly true for the card Claudia Nizhang had given him. He hadn't mentioned that, even in the report he'd filed with Lieutenant Saw. "So I'm leaving for Zoo York City on Friday; gonna try to see if I can pick up his trail from that end, That's why I wanted to see you Mom; I wanted to let you know that I'm going to be out of town for a while," Actually, there was more to it than just that; he had originally planned to tell her that he was not leaving Zootopia because the law was after him. No need for that now of course, but…wait, what? "Mom, what's wrong?" Her left ear had begun to twitch, the way it always did when she had a bad feeling about something.

"I'm just worried about you and that gang…The Company, did you call them? The way you talk about them Nicholas, they make the Tundratown Mob look like The Ranger Sc…like a Kindergarten class."

Nick let out a long, slow breath. Whoa, if she'd almost referenced the Junior Ranger Scouts without realizing it, she was seriously worried about him. Moving quickly to reassure her, he said, "Mom, you don't have to worry about those guys; they were taken out of action more than three years ago. There are only two members of The Company still alive right now, and they're both behind bars, doing 25-to-life."

"Two…don't you mean three?" his mother was looking up at him sharply. "Didn't you just tell me there's a third member of that gang, still alive, and still on the street?" It was meant as a rebuttal, but it actually served to bolster Nick's argument.

"Yes, I did, and that's why I have to go," He told her, tight-lipped and grim, "We can NOT have a former member of The Company running loose in Zootopia." He almost added 'especially now', but stopped himself just in time. The gang-war brewing between Mr. Big and the Red Pig was most definitely not a topic for public consumption. "He's already corrupted one very promising young fox and if he's not put away, who knows what other damage he might cause." None of this was exactly true, but the whole truth was a luxury that Nick Wilde couldn't afford—not yet, anyway.

"I…understand," his mother said, nodding reluctantly, but still with a measure of pride in her voice; look out, Zoo York, here comes my son the detective. "How long will you be gone?" she asked.

He leaned back against the sofa, drumming his fingers on his knee.

"Mmmnnn, to tell you the truth, I'm not sure. I guess until I either find what I'm looking for or Chief Bogo orders me back home." Or, if his mission should prove to be a goose chase...but he shouldn't even be thinking about that possibility. So instead, he half smiled and said, "But I-I-I suspect there may be another reason why Big Chief Buffalo Nickel is sending me to Zoo York.

Ellen's brows knitted together. "Nicholas! Show some respect for your superiors. All right, what?"

A long smirk creased his muzzle, half wry and half sly.

"Because of Officer Hopps; ever since we ended our partnership, the Department's been doing everything under the sun to make sure we don't run into each other, even by mistake." He gave a small wink, "And that possibility doesn't get any more remote than if I'M in Zoo York City and she's here in Zootopia."

"No, I supposed it doesn't," his mother agreed, unable to keep from smiling. From the direction of the kitchen, a timer pinged. Ellen turned and looked towards it and then back at Nick.

"'Kay, there's dinner; why don't you stay, son?"

He stood up, smiling warmly.

"You know what, Mom? I believe I will."

She got up too, and gave him a lick on cheek.

---

At the same time this was happening, another fox was sitting in a zero-gravity chair, speaking into his headset and frowning deeply.

Conor Lewis didn't like the idea of having to involve someone else in this enterprise; even less did he like the idea of having to communicate with them directly. Unfortunately, it couldn't be helped; the ZAPA auditions were almost within shouting distance and he simply didn't have time to make the usual set up; it was this or nothing.

In the beginning he had been determined to go it alone; he would make it to Erin's audition performance without any extra help. It was a position he'd maintained right up until the previous weekend. But even before then, an unsettling prospect had begun to loom. From his forays into the ZPD database, Conor had learned that Tuff-Guy Tufts was aware, or at least suspected that he might be planning to put in a clandestine appearance at those auditions. There'd been nothing definite—but with every passing day it was becoming more and more probable that the Kaibab squirrel and his merry band of geeks was planning to stake out the ZAPA auditions. If that happened, no way could he make this a solo flight.

The final nail had been when he'd learned the auditions were being moved to the Gazelle Amphitheater. That was it, resistance was useless; he either took on an assistant—or else he took a hike. And since the latter wasn't an option, here he was, inside the Furaday cage that he called the Furrison Hotel and plugged into the Dark Web by way of the computer known simply as The Beast. On the center screen of the console in front of him was the face of a young, four-point axis deer buck; three ear piercings, a nose piercing, and antlers covered in dark-red lacquer, giving him something of a demonic vibe—an effect greatly enhanced by the pendant worn around his neck, an inverted, jet-black pentagram. His name was Cary Vanderhoof, although he preferred to be addressed by his street-name of EventoeZ, or Eez for short. On the screen to the right was a digitally altered image of the young fox's own face—as it was appearing to the animal on the other end of the chat. Basically, it was the face of a young silver fox; Conor Lewis, before his transmutation into an arctic fox.

He had a VERY good reason for doing this; tonight was not the first time that he and Eez had met, ditto for their previous online chat sessions. Their initial encounter had been of the face-to-face variety—sort of, since Conor had been muzzled at the time.

It had happened at the tail-end of the young silver fox's arraignment, before his escape from custody. When the bailiffs had taken hold of him, and begun to lead out of the courtroom, he'd commenced to whistle the melody from the old rock-and-roll tune, "I Fought The Law."

The first one to recognize it had been Eez—who'd been instantly on his hooves and applauding, joined in rapid succession by every other kid in the courtroom. Later, in the city youth-jail, the young deer buck had given him a big thumbs-up. The bottom line was, he knew what Conor actually looked like…and so what he was seeing tonight was the kid he knew from court and from detention.

Ahhhh, the fugitive young silver fox lamented to himself, if he'd only known then what he knew now, this was how he would have appeared to Eez the first time they chatted. It would have saved a whole lot of grief.

Tracking him down had been, well, easy. According to the court records, there had been exactly ONE axis deer buck scheduled to appear before Judge Schatten on the day of Conor's arraignment. Digging a little deeper, he'd been delighted to learn that Eez had been arrested for reprogramming a freeway sign to read. "My Stepdad Abuses My Mom." followed by his stepfather's name and phone number. This kid was not someone to just take it lying down—and he had some 'mad computer skillZ' of his own. It might be useful to have someone like that in his corner.

But then had come the more difficult part, getting Eez to believe that he was who he said he was,

"Yeah babe, swear to God…I'm the real Conor Lewis."

"Uh-huh, surrrre you are, homes. And uh... how many times does this make you've been trying to contact me about my car's extended warranty?"

The problem was that Conor had been wearing a mask the first time they chatted—a mask he couldn't take off, not without revealing the changes he'd made to his appearance. Small wonder then, that the young axis deer-buck had been initially distrustful of him.

In retrospect, he should have known better. By that time, there'd been at least two other kids posting messages online, claiming to be Conor Lewis. It had taken a blistering guitar solo on the young fox's part to at least break the ice—and even then Eez had remained mostly unconvinced.

"Okay dude, if you're really him, tell me this. What was the last thing you said to the judge before they put that straitjacket on you?"

"It wasn't a straitjacket, it was a muzzle and shackles," the young fox had answered at once, "and I didn't say anything to Judge Predd after they put it on me. I talked to one of the bailiff's though; she asked me if I needed any help and I said I could manage it, just don't ask me to move too fast."

That was what had finally turned the trick. Eez Vanderhoof had become an instant believer, gushing almost like a groupie. "Oh wow dude, it really is you; ohhhh, this is soooo sick…" From there he had launched into an almost breathless recitation of what sounded like a nihilist manifesto, a broad-brush denunciation of any and all authority, coupled with a host of grandiose ideas.

For the next few minutes, Conor had listened to him ramble; the more he heard, the more he'd begun to wonder if contacting this deer-kid had been such a good idea. He'd met guys like him before; there's one at every skate-park and shopping mall, the kid who wears his heart on his sleeve—and an anarchist's 'A' on his heart, the kid who rebels strictly for the sake of rebellion.

That was Eez Vanderhoof five sides from Sunday. At one point, he'd removed his shirt to reveal a crude design shaved into his chest-fur; the face of Che Guanaco—an animal about whom he'd turned out to know nothing beyond the fact that he was a revolutionary and 'he's cool'. He didn't even seem to realize that his idol was long dead.

Conor had nearly logged out of their chat right then, but then he'd remembered something else. Say what you want about the young anarchist crowd; their loyalty to those they revered was blind, unswerving…almost fanatical.

And in the eyes of this young deer-buck, Conor Severus Lewis was practically a demigod.

Now, chatting with him again, the fugitive young silver fox was sincerely glad he hadn't dropped Eez when he'd had the chance—and in any case, his needs at the moment outweighed any lingering misgivings.

"Okay, tell me again; what are you going to do after you log out of here?"

At once, the young axis deer-buck straightened up in his chair, assuming an almost military bearing.

"I'm gonna ping one of my buds—just one of my buds—and make sure it's someone that I know I can trust. I'm gonna tell him to be at the Zootopia Performing Arts Academy on Saturday and go to the Gazelle Amphitheater where the auditions for the new students are happening. He'll need to bring a chartreuse hoodie with him—but not put it on until he hears the signal, which is the sound of an air-horn on the PA system. After I tell him this, I'm to tell him to pass the word to one, only ONE other kid that he knows he can trust, and then have that kid pass it on to someone he trusts. Or, uh...that she trusts," he amended quickly, "It doesn't have to be a guy."

"Ehhh-xellent," Conor nodded his approval, more satisfied than ever that he hadn't dropped this kid from his contact list. This was the third time he'd asked the young deer-buck to repeat his instructions; anyone else would have started an argument, 'What the heck do you need to hear it AGAIN for?' but not Eez; he was the perfect choice for the job.

A ping sounded in the young fox's ear, reminding him that he was closing in on his time limit. Following his escape from custody he had established a rigid set of boundaries for himself; for example, no more than two online chat sessions per day and no more than 30 minutes per chat—not counting his regular sessions with Guildenkranz of course.

Guild…

Whoa-boy, he'd have a meltdown if he ever discovered Conor had planned for this coming Saturday—which was why the young silver fox hadn't breathed so much as a word about it to his online collaborator.

To Eez he said, "Good work, my mammal…but now I need to get outta here." He didn't explain why and the young deer buck didn't ask; another small thing in his favor.

"Gotcha fox," he said, shooting a finger at Conor's screen, "'It is a good life we lead, brother.'"

"We work in the dark to serve the light," The young fox quoted back, trying not to groan as he spoke the words. "This isn't some stupid computer-game, dimbulb!" And then Eez's face disappeared from the screen.

For the next few minutes, Conor just leaned back in his chair, focusing on his breathing. In through the nose, and out through the mouth; in through the nose and out through the mouth.

Over the past few weeks he'd been a busy young mammal—and not just with his plans to attend Erin's audition. With Guild's help, the new identity he was creating for himself was coming along nicely. On the other paw, his attempts to ferret out the location of the 'second' secret loft, the one hidden somewhere in Zoo York City, were proving to be an exercise in frustration. Almost certainly it had been constructed inside a facility originally built for the same purpose as the place where he lived now. The only problem was, there were literally dozens of these structures, scattered across every single one of ZYC's Five Burrows. Even after eliminating the ones that had either been torn down or repurposed, there'd still been plenty left to go around. Agggghh, grrrr...how the heck was he supposed to tell which, out of all these joints, was the one that had been co-opted by The Company? The only other clues he had were buried somewhere in his memory; the conversations he'd overheard but given almost no thought to at the time.

And that was why he was leaning back in his zero-gravity chair with his eyes closed and his fingers laced together on top of his head, breathing….breathing. What was it he'd heard Gerry saying to Kieran that one time? "That place was good against…" the cops? Nooo, not the cops, but who…? Breathe in…breathe out...in through the nose, out through the…

The Zookranians! That was what Gerry had said, "That place was… no, it would have been good against the Zookranians."

Conor sat up in his chair, rubbing his eyes. "Foxin' A! It's not a hideout, it's a war room." And then he fell backwards again, half growling half sighing to himself, "Hey, brilliant deduction Slylock…now tell me how THAT'S supposed to help you find the place."

It wouldn't…and the young fox knew it. The only answer he could come with was. "Ahhh, the heck with this; I need to snag some grub." He had skipped lunch and by now, his stomach was sending up distress flares.

He tilted the chair up into a vertical position and got out of it.

Chapter 15: Finding Conor, (Contcluded...Pt 5)

Summary:

Judy's family arrives in Zootopia...and then Nick gets a little surprise.

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 2—Finding Conor
(Concluded…Part 5)

"Hut-two-three-four! Hut-two-three-four!"

It's one of the more basic adjuncts of Murphy's Law; just as there never seems to be a cop around when you need one, there always seems to be a pack of smart-mouthed kids around when you don't need them.

"Abouuuut FACE! Hut-two-three-four!"

There were three of them in total, all of them middle schoolers, a gopher and two chipmunks, sipping from thimble-sized cans of energy drink and watching the doe-bunny pace the Number 2 platform in Savanna Central Station. Their wee, high-pitched voices only served to make their makeshift cadence-call that much more annoying.

"Hut-two-three-four! Hut-two-three-four!"

It wasn't as if Judy Hopps was a bunny without recourse; a quick show of her badge and these kids would scatter like cockroaches. At the moment, however, she had so much else on her mind she was barely conscious of the little, budding comedians.

Erin would be here shortly, arriving on the 8:00 train, in15…no, 14 minutes.

"Abouuuut FACE…!"

It wasn't the imminent appearance of her sister that had Judy so disconcerted; her parents were coming, too. And this would be her first face-to-face meeting with them since the issue of the 'Fox and bunny-cop, behaving badly' videos had reared its ugly head.

"Hut-two-three-four! Hut-two-three-four!"

And that wasn't all; if her Police Academy graduation had been anything to go by, they'd be bringing half the family with them. Would that include her eldest brother, Stu Jr.? Judy hadn't spoken with him directly since that whole mess had started, not even once —but she'd heard about him. According to Erin, no one in the family had been more outraged by her 'misbehavior' with Nick Wilde than Junior—and for the simplest of all reasons. "He's just plain nuts about Rock Hardesty Jude," the younger bunny had told her, "Got pictures all over the wall of his hutch. I swear, he's almost like a groupie or something."

"Abouuuut FACE! Hut-two-three-four!"

It had shaken Judy almost to the core when she'd heard. Before then, she'd have sworn under oath that her eldest brother didn't have a speciest bone in his body.

But then, that was what she would have said about herself—right up until her disastrous press conference.

Erin, bless that young, white-furred bunny, had been 100% sympathetic to her sister's predicament. "Hey Jude," She'd said, "You're talking to the girl that put one upside a fox's head for making jokes about kissing her…and before that, I'd have gone totally mental if anyone called ME speciest."

Erin…

At first Judy had been foursquare against the idea of her folks bringing so many family members to her kid sister's audition performance; she'd be under enough pressure as is. But then the younger bunny had set the record straight.

"That's the general idea, sis. They want to put us under as much pressure as possible; it's why the ZAPA auditions are open to the public." The plan, as she went on to explain, was to make the experience as close to a real, live, professional gig as possible. "They wanna weed out the kids who can't handle the stress before they let them into the school," she said.

"Mmm, I don't know, sis." Judy had mused, still not happy with the idea, "sounds kind of brutal to me."

"What can I say, that's show biz," Erin had replied, grinning wanly over the cliché. She knew, as did her elder sister, what had happened the first time she'd performed before an audience of strangers; it had ended with her fleeing the stage and nearly destroying her bass.

"Hut-two-three-four! Hut-two-three-four!"

Okay-y-y, now that pack of rodent-kids was beginning to get under her fur. Turning to look at them, Judy was immediately brought up short. Sometime in the last few minutes a new comrade had joined their ranks, a spotted skunk wearing one of those V-For-I-Fought-The-Law T shirts.

She turned and resumed her pacing.

Erin had told her about the pledge Conor had made; that he'd be there for her audition. Maybe so, but he'd made that promise before his arrest. Would he stick to his word—would he, even now, try to keep it?

"I would," Judy thought to herself, "because I DID." She too had promised Erin that she'd make it to the younger bunny's audition performance—and look at all the hoops she'd had to jump through to be able to attend.

But then something else occurred to her. "Hold it, Judy. You're not looking at a one-way trip to the slam if you show up for Erin's audition." Yes, that was true, and it brought up another, more difficult question. Knowing the risk, would that fugitive young silver fox still try to catch her sister's performance?

Judy's ears went back and her pacing became a forced march. Well, that bushytailed little jerk, Lieutenant Albert Tufts sure seemed to think so. Sweet cheez n' crackers, did he seriously believe she wouldn't figure it out? It was as obvious as bloodstains on tile. He had requisitioned a SWAT team for Saturday and—get this—he was also trying to obtain the use of a helicopter! And was there anything ELSE on his plate besides the Lewis case? What, are you kidding me? Either that smug, snarky Kaibab squirrel really did think she was a dumb bunny…or else he was playing some kind of game. Whatever, she didn't like it one bit.

And again, that brought her back to Conor. Did he have any idea of the trap that ZPD Cybercrimes was setting for him? Tufts had tried to keep it a secret from her, but she knew; and so was he aware of what was going down tomorrow?

"Well if he is," she decided, unable to suppress a wicked smile, "then Lieutenant Bushytail might as well call the whole thing off. No way—No! Way!—will that fox kid get within a hundred miles of the Performing Arts Academy if he knows what's waiting for him." Her smile stretched suddenly backwards, becoming a taut grimace. "And then Bogo will chew Tufts to bits for wasting so many police resources on a wild goose chase—and then guess who HE'LL take it out on? Ohhhh, is it too late for me to go back to…hrm?"

Judy stopped her pacing, feeling her ears go up. It wasn't something she heard, it was something she wasn't hearing. When she looked, she saw that the gang of kids had disappeared. Her change of expression and body language had apparently been enough to convince them that they needed to be somewhere else right now.

Just then, the PA crackled and a voice spoke. "Attention, attention please; Silver Wolf Special, now arriving on Track Number 2—from Bunnyburrow, Anaheim, Azoosa and Zoo-ca-MON-ga."

Judy let out a breath and took in another one; that was her sister's train.

Almost immediately, the tracks beside her began to shiver and whine. A moment later, a shiny, sharp-nosed engine came rolling into view, decelerating smoothly as it eased its way over the pond encompassing the back side of the station. It was pulling a total of six cars, all of them double-deckers. Oh great; spotting a familiar face in a train that size would be like trying to pick out a single carrot from an entire crop. And so Judy opted for the only sensible compromise, going to the center of the platform and waiting there for the doors to open. This way Erin and her family would be half a train length away at most when they disembarked.

With a hum of steel against steel, the Silver Wolf Special glided into its berth and slowed to a halt. A pop and hiss of air brakes followed, accompanied by the fading hum of the turbo-diesels powering down. For a long moment, the train just sat there, as if trying to make up its mind. And then, with another hiss, the doors slid open.

Almost at once, a familiar voice called out. "Judy? Judy, we're over here!"

Turning to look, the doe-bunny saw that her decision to wait near the middle of the train had been a wise one. She was off by only a single car; there were her mother and dad, waving as they stepped off the train, two doors behind her. Oh yes, it was her folks all right; she couldn't possibly have mistaken them for anyone else. Her mother was wearing that same sleeveless pink shirt she'd had on for the Police Academy graduation ceremony. As for her dad...did he ever wear ANYTHING besides overalls?

No, Judy decided, and she wouldn't want him any…other…way...

That was when her waterworks turned on. Her throat was full and her eyes were burning as she rushed for her parents with her arms wide open. There seemed to be a hundred miles between her and her folks…and yet she covered the distance in all of half a second.

And then she was throwing her arms around her parents' necks, hugging them tight and giving them each a quick kiss, unashamed tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Oh Mom…Dad." It was all she could manage; although she knew there was so much more to tell them. A part of her wanted to say she was sorry for all the trouble between her and…her former partner.

She couldn't do it; that was the one threshold she couldn't cross. As much as it would have helped to heal whatever breach remained between her and her family, Judy simply couldn't bring herself to make an apology. How could she—when deep in her heart of hearts she still believed she hadn't done anything wrong.

But now she felt her father taking her by the shoulders. Uh-oh, here it comes.

When he stepped back however, his expression was beaming.

"Detective Judy Hopps," he said, trying unsuccessfully not to let his voice crack, "Oh Jude, I've never been so proud."

Her voice was cracking, too.

"Oh Dad…Mom, I-I want to make you proud. I…"

"Hello Judy."

The new voice was as flat as a stone tablet, possibly half as energetic, and only a little less cold—and the effect was like dumping a gallon of slush on a small campfire. At once the burning ceased in Judy's eyes and throat.

"Hello Stu," she said, declining to address her older brother by the more familiar Junior; served him right for spoiling the moment with her parents.

"Congratulations, little sister," he said, sticking out his paw. There was warmth in his voice, but it was obviously forced. And 'little sister'; he hadn't called her that since she was twelve!

"Thanks," she said, letting it slide for now; this was not the time and/or the place for a confrontation.

"Welcome," he said, looking around the platform instead of at her; she didn't have to guess what for.

"Give it a rest, Stu. He's not here; he's…"

"Who's not here? What are you talking about?" A chip the size of a railroad-tie seemed to have materialized on her eldest brother's shoulder.

Before Judy could respond, her mother got quickly between them.

"All right that'll be enough…from both of you."

That shut her kids up in hurry; it was the voice she used when one more word would have you pulling weeds for a week.

Their silence didn't last for long; if bunnies could bristle, the fur on Judy and Stu Hopps' back would have been standing up like porcupine quills.

"She started…"

"He started…"

And then both of them were laughing, the ice between them broken at last.

But even as Judy hugged and made up with her eldest brother, she knew the issue between them had not been resolved, only tabled. There would be another…

"Judy! Judy! Judeeeeee!"

It was a sound for sore ears, the voice of little Cotton Hopps. Turning in the direction of the noise, Judy had just enough time to drop to one knee and catch the little bunny as she leapt into her favorite aunt's arms. Ohhh, now here was someone she was glad her folks had brought along.

"Hi Cotton," Judy said, giving the little bunny's nose a 'boop.'

"Hi Judeeee," Cotton hugged her and then started glancing this way and that. "Where's Nick?"

Hmmm, maybe bringing her here hadn't been such a good idea after all. Ohhh, just when she and Stu Jr. had begun to tone it down…And she had no idea what to say to her little niece. Luckily, her mother was there.

"Now Cotton, we talked about this on the train ride," she said, motioning for Judy to put the little bunny-girl down again. "Mr. Wilde is a police detective, just like your aunt, and he has police things to do today."

"That's right," Judy nodded, picking up the thread, "Honestly, I'm lucky I was able to make it here this morning."

"Ohhh-kay I guess." Cotton scuffed at the ground in disappointment. Her issue wasn't settled yet, either.

Hopps bunnies were coming off the train in a steady stream now, at least as many as had shown up for Judy's police academy graduation…

Wait a minute…academy? Wha…where the heck was…?

"Wha…? Where the heck...where's Erin?"

"Lugging her bass and gear off the train, probably," It was Stu Junior speaking.

Judy's ears shot back and her foot began to thump.

"Huh…? Why aren't you…why isn't anyone helping her?"

Junior raised his paws defensively, but before he could speak, Stu Senior intervened.

"We tried; she won't let anyone touch those things but her."

"Oh," Judy answered, feeling very small for a moment. Yes, of course; that was Erin all over the place.

And speak of the young, white-furred bunny-girl, lo and behold, there she was—practically stumbling off the train with a guitar case in her paw, and a gear bag slung over her back that looked about the size of a 100-gallon ice chest.

"Holy carrot sticks; what the heck has she GOT in that thing?" the doe-bunny marveled, and then swiftly raised a finger. "Erin, come on, let me help you with that."

"I'm…fine sis," the younger bunny asserted—in a voice not unlike that of Sisyphus, right before the boulder gets away from him again.

"The heck you are. Hold up already," Judy called through cupped paws as she hurried in her younger sister's direction.

"I said I got this." Erin grunted, thumping her foot.

Her elder sister was having none of it. "The only thing you're going to get is a hernia if you don't let someone help you. Now, c'mon…put those things down."

Remarkably Erin listened, and set her burden on the platform. But before Judy could even try to decide how to tackle this load, they had their arms wrapped around each other in the tightest embrace of the morning so far. Neither one of them said a word—they didn't need to.

This was the first time Judy had seen her younger sister since the Carrot Days Festival. And yet during their time apart the two of them had grown closer than they'd have ever thought possible. It had been Erin who'd first alerted her that Rock Hardesty was having a field day with that video of her and Nick kissing. And during the tumultuous time that followed, she'd been her big sister's one and only pipeline into the Hopps family warren. Eventually, she'd graduated from conduit to confidante—and never once had she judged or questioned Judy's actions or motives. Through thick and thin, she'd been the one member of the Hopps family the older doe-bunny had known she could count on.

Ohhh, Erin just had to make it into the Performing Arts Academy, she deserved it!

After Stu performed a quick head-count and Bonnie made sure that everyone had all of their bags—and after Judy persuaded Erin to finally let someone help her—the Hopps bunnies trooped out to the train-station's east side lot, where their transportation was waiting. This being the height of summer, getting hold of a pair of school buses for the weekend had been a slam dunk. That was especially true for a city employee…such as, say, a police detective, which was why Judy's folks had agreed to let her handle it. Whoa, she was glad now she'd decided to requisition that second bus; they were going to need it,

When the family exited the station, everyone stopped dead in their tracks, as if they'd walked into an invisible rubber wall. Erin nearly dropped her guitar case, and then put her paw over her face, giggling uncontrollably. In short order she was joined by a chorus of sniggering bunnies.

Both of the buses Judy had procured had the same lettering on the side, "Zootopia Academy of the Performing Arts."

"Oh Judy!" Erin set down her case and threw her arms around the older bunny's neck, nuzzling at her face, "Ohhhh, I love you, big sis!"

"What can I say; I couldn't resist." Judy grinned and then then nuzzled her back, "Oh and by the way, Erin…I love you too."

Finding someone capable of driving the buses was another problem easily solved. The Hopps's were a farm family after all—and as such, no stranger to operating larger vehicles; at least four of them had the correct license for a bus this size. A more difficult problem had been lodging; their usual preference was not an option this time. Erin would need to warm up in preparation for her audition performance, and that simply wouldn't be possible in a hotel—not unless her parents wanted to field a zillion complaints from the management and the other guests.

Fortunately, Judy had a solution. Instead of staying in a hotel, she suggested, why not rent a place for the weekend from Hare BNB? "They have all kinds of different residences available," she had told her folks excitedly, "I'm sure I can find one where Erin can practice without bothering anybody."

She hadn't expected her parents to agree to her proposal, at least not right away; they were old fashioned country rabbits, after all.

…And sure enough…

"I-I-I don't think I like the idea of spending the weekend in some stranger's home," her mother had said. Eventually, with their other options dwindling—and prompted by some vigorous lobbying on the part of Erin—they had grudgingly agreed to the idea.

In the lead bus, Judy's father drove while she took the navigator's position. When she told him their destination, he was not especially thrilled.

"Riverside; isn't that in Sahara Square?"

"Not the best place to spend a weekend in the summertime," her mother chided from a row back, only a little bit less dissatisfied than her husband. Judy had to move quickly to allay their doubts.

"Yes but it's right on the borderline with Savanna Central, so it's not nearly as warm as some of the other parts of the district. And the house is nice and cool; believe me, I checked—and it was a lot hotter then than it is today." She turned to look in Erin's direction. "And it's almost completely underground, with rock walls; you can crank your bass up all the way and nobody, even two rooms over, will be able to hear you." This news was greeted by a smile and a thumbs-up from the younger bunny. Judy smiled back, returned the gesture, and then resumed speaking to her parents. "But the main thing is, it's an easy drive from the Performing Arts Academy. Oh, and there's lots of good places to eat nearby—or, if you'd rather do your own cooking, there's a Hole Foods only a block away. And besides that," she said, laying down her Ace, "the price is right." She said this while looking at her mother, whose paws were already raised in surrender.

"All right, all right; you win, Judy."

Their destination turned out to be a hamada, a beehive-shaped rock formation, repurposed as a residence. Within three seconds of passing through the front door, the last shred of her parents' skepticism was gone.

"Sweet cheez n' crackers," Bonnie set down her bags and looked about the living room with wide unblinking eyes, "Judy, why didn't you tell us you rented a rabbit-warren?"

"Because I didn't," the doe bunny answered, offering her mother a grin that would have made Nick Wilde proud, "This is a meerkat colony…or, it is when the owners are in residence. They're over in South Afurica all this month; family reunion."

"Ohhh, I see."

While the hamada was an excellent choice for a weekend stay, it wasn't 100% perfect; meerkats are a slightly smaller species than rabbits and have much more slender bodies. To pass each other in the hallways, one Hopps family member was obliged to flatten him or herself against the wall until the other had gone by, a particularly intricate move when one of them was Judy's father. But that was okay; the place was quiet, it was private and, best of all, it was cool inside, just as Judy had promised. There were also more than enough rooms to go around, the meerkats who resided here came from a family at least as big as theirs and not all of the Hopps clan was here today. As a result, nobody was obliged to double up; everyone had their own hutch, even little Cotton. And if the beds were a tad cramped, they were all blissfully comfortable. Before everyone had even finished getting settled in, Judy's parents were hugging her and thanking her for a job well done; even Stu Jr. was willing to give her some credit.

Accepting their praise, she was tempted then to tell them something. The animals who owned this place had been trying to rent it out since April—with no takers. Week by week they'd been reducing their price until they'd ultimately slashed it to the bone. That was the reason the price had been right. Judy could have told that to her folks, but why ruin a good thing? There wasn't anything wrong with the place; there had simply been either too much space or too little elbow room for any species but a family of meerkats—or a family of bunnies.

…And this WAS Sahara Square in the summertime after all

Of course, the main reason they were here was for Erin's sake. And following a momentary disappearance, she practically bounced back into the living room, declaring to all and sundry that she'd found a 'totally awesome' place to set up her practice gear.

It was one of the few rooms Judy hadn't visited on her inspection tour; an underground parking garage. Currently empty of cars, it had plenty of space, no shortage of electrical outlets, and after snapping her fingers several times, Erin pronounced the acoustics inside to be 'just primo.' And now, once more, she allowed the other family members to help her, although she still insisted that no one touch her guitar case.

When Violet unzipped the white-furred bunny's gear bag however, Judy caught herself stepping back in surprise. So, that was why it had been such a struggle for her younger sister to carry. But, how the heck…?

"What the…? A karaoke machine?"

Yes, it was and not one of your Toys-R-US 'slumber party' models, with plastic casing, cheesy lights and microphone cords that break if you look at them crossways. Nooo, this was the real deal; a full-on 4000 watt professional set-up, complete with speakers and a mixing board, something straight out of an upscale nightclub.

"Where the heck did you GET this?" Judy asked, staring first at the machine and then at Erin.

It was Stu Sr. who answered her.

"From the Burrow County Grange, they're going to start having karaoke nights on Thursdays; Jed Forepaugh said we could borrow it as long as we bring it back in one piece. Now c'mon, let's help Erin get set up."

With most of the family pitching in, the deed was accomplished in almost no time flat…although Judy still remained dubious.

"You know sis," she cautioned, watching the younger bunny plug in the microphone jack, "there's no way they're going to let you bring this contraption into the ZAPA auditions."

"Oh, I know that Jude," Erin answered breezily, "But that's not 'till tomorrow and I need to keep sharp 'til then." She turned and flicked a finger against the microphone and was rewarded with a resounding thump. "Oh-kayyyy, I think we're good to go."

"Great!' Judy clapped her paws, and looked around the room. Nope, this wouldn't quite do, they needed something first; several of them actually. She raised a finger, but her mother was already there.

"Stu, do you think you and Junior can go find us some chairs?

"Be right back, Bonn."

They returned with a motley collection of seating, most of it a little small for a bunny, but all of it still workable.

Settling into a folding director's chair that Stu Jr. had found, Judy focused on her kid sister, who was currently occupied with tuning her bass guitar.

"Sooo, are we going to get a preview of your audition performance?" she teased.

The younger bunny looked up from her work with a slightly shocked expression.

"What, seriously? No way sis; do you want me to JINX myself?"

In the seat behind Judy, her sister Violet leaned forward. "Don't waste your time, Jude; she won't even tell us what she's going to play tomorrow."

"Couldn't pry it out of her with a crowbar, I don't think," Stu Junior posited from three seats over, and there were general murmurs of consensus all around the garage. Erin seemed to take it as a compliment.

"Okay, okay," Judy raised her paws in submission. Let the younger bunny have her superstition, if it would help to put her at ease. Heaven only knew, she was going to need all the peace of mind she could get when tomorrow came.

Something touched her knee, and when she looked down, a pair of winsome green eyes was gazing up at her, asking an unspoken question. "Sure, Cotton," she said, reaching down to help the little bunny up and onto her lap.

"Besides, Judy," Erin was saying, "Now that I finally got my audition tune down, I need to back off on it a little. You know, you can rehearse a song too many times."

"Right, or you'll get burned out on it." The older bunny nodded. She felt a sudden shift of weight, and looked down again. "Cotton, will you please quit squirming."

"Where's Nick?" the little bunny asked again, looking up with a pouty expression; this time it was almost a demand.

"Erin's face turned girl-bunny impish.

"Oh I think you'll know this one, Zoe." She turned and pressed the play button on the karaoke console, and then lit into the opening bassline of the old Furvana tune.

"Come…as you are.
As you were…
As I wannnnt you to be…"

She sang and played it brilliantly, so much so that when she finished, Stu Junior suggested she play it for her audition tune. Erin immediately shook her head.

"Ahhh no, I don't think so big bro'. Great song, but it won't let me strut my voice, if you know what I mean."

"Oh yeah, I got it," her older brother nodded, not about to argue the point. If Erin hoped to make it into ZAPA, she absolutely wanted to sing something that would show off her vocal range.

But then, to Judy's utter astonishment, she turned and pressed another button on the karaoke console. At once the lights all winked into monochrome.

"What, only one song, Erin? Aren't you going to play anything else?" It was her mother.

The response she got was delivered in a slightly exasperated voice. "Mommm, I just said I don't want to overdo it," She set her bass back on its stand, and then, as if their exchange just now had never happened, "Is there any juice in the fridge, did you see?"

Returning to the living room, Judy fell into step behind her mother, unable to keep from shaking her head in wonder. "Okay, let me see if I got this straight. Erin lugs a karaoke machine the size of a tram-car all the way from Bunnyburrow to Zootopia. She won't let anyone help her with it—which not only increases the chances of her hurting herself, but also of her breaking it—and then after she gets it set up, she plays one song and walks away. Honestly Mom, how the heck do you put up with it?"

"Wellll, it's nothing I haven't seen before," her mother replied…looking over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow. It took the younger bunny a moment or two to catch onto the signal, but when she did, she immediately threw up her paws.

"Ohhhh no…no way Mom, I was never that random when I was her age."

"No dear," her mother agreed, smiling almost beatifically, "you were at least ten times worse."

"Ohhh-kay," Judy wisely chose to drop the subject. Besides, she had something more important on her agenda. "Did you see which way Stu Junior went?"

Bonnie stopped in her tracks, turning and taking hold of her daughter's shoulder.

"If you're planning…what I think you're planning, I-I don't know if now is a good time."

Judy sighed and puffed out her cheeks. "Honestly Mom. I don't much like the idea myself, but Junior and I are going to have to clear the air sometime." Putting her paws in her pockets, she began to rock back and forth on her heels, "And I'd rather make it now; you saw how touchy he was when he got off the train. We need to have this talk before Erin's audition, and the sooner the better.

"Yessss, I suppose," her mother replied, nodding in tentative agreement, "But before you see Junior, there's something you ought to know. He and your father got into a big argument last night."

"What, now?" Judy's ears were standing up and pointing at the ceiling. If that was true it would mark the first time that her father and elder brother ever had words—at least that she knew of. "What the heck were they quarrelling over?"

Bonnie's nose began to twitch and she sucked at a corner of her mouth. "About…one of, erm, those videos Rock Hardesty broadcast on his show. Mmmm, the one that turned out to be…Mmmmm, what did you call it again? Oh, yes a 'deep fake.'

Judy felt her own nose starting to twitch…but then her eyes went wide and her paws flew up to her face, barely in time to stifle a gasp.

"Ohhh no; don't tell me Junior still believes that thing was real."

"No, no…nothing like that," Her mother was waving her paws as if trying to ward off an evil spirit, "But he does think that putting it on the air was a perfectly honest mistake on Mr. Hardesty's part."

"Like HECK it was," Judy thought but didn't say. What she did say, cautiously, was, "But Dad…doesn't think so?"

"No, he doesn't," her mother replied. And from the look on her face, and the way her paws had gone to her hips, it was obvious that she felt the same way as her husband. From there, she proceeded to recount how the disagreement between Stu and Stu Jr. had unfolded.

Junior: "Anyone could have made that mistake, Dad."

Stu; "Except Rock Hardesty isn't just anybody, son. He's a big time radio and cable TV host. He has the resources to have checked out that video before he put it on the air, no two ways about it. So, either he didn't have it checked out or whoever he gave it to did a sloppy job. In any case, that's unacceptable."

Junior: "Oh, come on Dad. That video fooled you completely the first time you saw it."

Stu: "I'M not an expert on video technology, Junior…and by the way, neither are you."

Junior: "And neither is Rock Hardesty."

Stu: "No, but he has mammals working FOR him who are—and if he doesn't, then he should."

Junior: "All right, but don't forget he's the one who broke the news that video was a fake—before anyone else found out; no one made him do it. And then he apologized for having shown it."

Stu: "Yes he did…right before a commercial break at the very end of his show. And you know what that apology of his sounded like to me? 'Okay Dad, I'm SORRY already; now can I go hang out with my friends?'"

And that was when the real argument had started, coming this close to a shouting match before Bonnie had intervened.

"They only started speaking again after they boarded the train," she was saying. "That's why I don't know if you and Junior having a talk right now is such a wise idea."

Judy drew in a breath and let out a rough-cut sigh.

"Mom, I hear what you're saying, but if we don't clear this up now, it's going to be hanging over our heads like a vulture all day tomorrow. That's the last thing I want…and the last thing Erin needs. I-I hope you understand."

"I…I do, dear." Her mother replied, offering the most reluctant nod that Judy had ever seen. "Just please…please don't make it worse, all right?"

"I won't, mom," Judy answered, raising her paw in a bunny scout salute—not certain at all if she'd be able to deliver on that assurance.

Bonnie nodded, sighed, and pointed up the hallway. "He's probably outside. I think I heard him saying something about going to pick up some provisions."

Uh-oh…

"Thanks Mom," Judy gave her mother a quick peck on the cheek and took off at a fast bound. Moving quickly in such a narrow space was no mean feat, but it was that or find her brother gone when she made it outside.

She barely pulled it off; catching up with Stu Jr. just as he was cranking the engine of bus number two and preparing to depart. She rapped on the door; he didn't seem to hear her. She rapped again, harder, pounding with the flat of her pawlm.

The door opened and he looked at her.

"What is it, Judy? I'm kind of busy right now."

"So, take a break," she said, and hopped up the steps.

"All right, what is it?" He queried, laying an arm across the steering wheel and waiting.

Before answering Judy checked to make sure they were alone.

"I just want to ask you something Junior," she said, brushing at an ear and immediately wishing that she hadn't. She did that sometimes when she was nervous—and Stu Jr. knew that she did.

"And that would be…?" he asked, rolling his fingers in the air.

Judy folded her arms. Okay-y-y that was something he did when he was on edge; they were at least meeting on equal terms.

"Just this," she said, "What else do you want from me?"

"Huh?" Junior's nose was twitching and his right ear was pointed at the roof of the bus. "What the heck are you talking about, Jude?"

"I mean," she said, "By mutual agreement Detective Wilde and I have formally ended our partnership. We haven't spoken or communicated once since then…not even by text message. Bottom line; we have nothing to do with each other right now. It's over between us." She felt her face hardening and tried to fight it, "So my question to you, Stuart Hopps Junior, is…what more do I have to do to get you to stop treating me like knotweed?"

Now he was the one folding his arms.

"Yes little sister, you broke up with that fox…but you haven't let go of him; there's a big difference."

"I…" Judy started to raise a finger but her brother wasn't finished yet.

"And don't try to tell me it was just police business, because I know better. I saw you Jude; I saw you holding paws with him when we were sitting around the Carrot Days bonfire. And I saw the way you were looking at each other, too. I didn't say anything about it at the time…but if I'd known then what I know now, you better believe I'd have spoken up. Okay, maybe you never acted on them, but you DO have feelings for that fox. And even I know you can't just make those kinds of feelings go away. That takes time…and even then, it doesn't always happen." His mouth had pinched inward, and he looked for a second as if he was going to spit on the floor. "And that's just wrong Judy. Predator and prey species don't belong together; it's unhealthy, it's unnatural, and there's only one way it's going…"

That was as far as he got before her angry foot-thump cut him off at the pass. Oooo, she had promised herself that she wouldn't bring up he-who-should-not-be-named—but this was going too far.

"Don't you DARE quote Rock Hardesty at me, Mr. Stuart Francis Hopps!"

His ears turned instantly backwards. "Rock Hardesty is a great mammal, little sister. He speaks the truth, and if you can't handle it…well, I feel sorry for you."

Judy almost went off on him then; she came that close to saying something she couldn't take back. Luckily, the better angels of her nature came to her rescue.

"Hold it, bunny; you PROMISED your mother you wouldn't make it worse. Just take a deep breath and calm down."

Judy did, but it wasn't easy; the air in her lungs felt as thick as molasses—and it wasn't because of the heat either; Stu Jr. had the A/C going.

"'Kay, I'm not going to get into an argument with you about that hyrax, big brother…but I will say this. If it hadn't been for the fox you want me to stay away from…oh, heck, I'll say it, if it hadn't been for Nick Wilde, you'd be bald as an egg right now and probably have health issues for the rest of your life—and so would half of Bunnyburrow. Think about that for a minute before you brand me with a Scarlet Letter—over whatever feelings I may or may not have for him."

Stu Jr. only gestured over her shoulder towards the door. "Do you mind? I need to get moving." But this time there was a quaver in his voice and he was unable to meet her gaze. She had gotten to him; their issue was by no means settled, but she had gotten to him. It was a start, and it would do for now. One other thing that Judy knew about her eldest brother was that he was a good rabbit at heart. He'd come around; it might take a while, but he'd come around eventually.

And the issue was not going to come up again tomorrow.

She watched as he drove off and hurried back into the hamada.

No sooner had she entered the dwelling than she felt her ears shooting upwards. Out of one crisis and into another one; somewhere, someone was crying their eyes out, a little girl bunny. Judy didn't have to guess who it was—or why she was so upset.

By the time she got to the living room, little Cotton's sobs had subsided into blubbering against her grandmother's shoulder.

"Oh dear," Judy sighed and then looked at Bonnie, "Let me guess, she found out Nick's not coming?"

She was answered by a tight-lipped nod from her mother and a whimper from her little niece, "not fair!"

Judy held out her arms. "Give her here, Mom."

A short moment later, she was seated in a recliner with Cotton propped on her knee, drying the little bunny's face with a tissue.

"Awww Sweetie, I know you were looking forward to seeing Nick again, but he's a police fox, remember? He has a case to crack right now."

"Can't he come and see me when he's done?" the little bunny sniffled hopefully.

Judy sighed and shook her head. Eventually someone was going to have to explain to her niece that she and Nick had gone their separate ways.

But not right now.

"Ahhh, I'm afraid not Cotton; he has to fly all the way to Zoo York City to investigate that case. He's probably on his way there right now.

The little bunny sniffled and whimpered again, "not fair..."

At that moment Nick Wilde would have heartily agreed with her; he was going exactly nowhere, stuck in a line of mammals that seemed to stretch away up the concourse to infinity and beyond. It reminded him of a scene in an old silent movie, the Gold Rush with Charlie Catlin, the endless parade of prospectors snaking through the snow, all the way up to the summit of Chinchillakoot Pass.

Aggggh, grrrr, dang it all! Even though it had been years since his last airline flight, he had known the drill and been a good little fox; he'd gotten packed the night before and risen early in order to make sure he'd have time to shower before leaving his flat—and also have time for breakfast. The food at ZTP Airport was actually pretty good but, as with all airports everywhere, you had to practically qualify for escrow to afford it. In the end it had been a worthy effort; he'd arrived at the baggage check-in clean, fed, and with at least two hours to spare.

And…a fat lot of good it had done him! Here he was, suspended like a bug trapped in amber, waiting to pass through the MSA checkpoint. Those extra two hours he'd saved now seemed pitifully inadequate. With every passing second, he was feeling more and more tempted to go to the head of the line and flash his badge at whoever was in charge.

The only problem was, that might work...or it might not. Migration Safety Administration animals were known to be a law unto themselves. And if his detective's shield failed to impress whoever was running the checkpoint, he'd be sent all the way back to the end of the line. And that line was now twice as long as it had been when he'd first arrived. Should he roll the dice or stand pat?

Just then, the procession of animals moved, perhaps three steps forward before it stopped again. Ohhhh, what the heck was the hold-up? At this rate, by the time he got to Zoo York City, the suspect he was looking for would be confined to a wheelchair in a retirement home.

From somewhere up ahead, he heard a low, lupine growl.

"What the heck is taking so long up there?"

"Hey, what do you expect, with sloths running the show?" Another voice answered, bitterly. "I swear, this is worse than the DMV."

At once, Nick felt his ears prick up; sloths…DMV? Noooo…no way; he could never get that lucky…could he? What were the odds? Well, what did he have to lose by trying? Raising his muzzle, he inhaled deeply through his nostrils, scenting the air and searching for a familiar odor. No…nope…YES! Holy foxtrot, it was him; he was HERE!

With a yip of delight, Nick grabbed his carryon and got out of line, hurrying towards the front and either ignoring the cries of protest from the others or flashing his badge at them. Coming around the bend he saw the checkpoint up ahead; metal detectors, conveyor belt, and a new addition, what appeared to be a...revolving door? No wait, that was an X-Ray scanner; he'd read about them on his morning newsfeed. And yep, the animals in charge were sloths all right. Only where was…? Dangit, Nick had smelled him; he had to be here somewhere. Wait, yes, there he was at the head of the conveyor…currently in the process of making certain that a beaver couple had completely emptied the contents of their pockets into the ubiquitous gray tub. As always, he was moving with all the blinding speed of a brain-surgeon on tranquilizers. But who cared, he was stationed outside the perimeter; Nick wouldn't need to ask to see him, he could just walk right up and start talking.

He was smart enough to wait until the sloth had completed his task before making his move, and then he was rushing forward and waving a paw.

"Flash, Flash….hundred-yard-dash! Heyyyy, looking good, old buddy; long time no see, huh?" Just to give himself a little insurance, he pulled out his badge and held it up for the other animal to see.

For an agonizing second, Flash didn't seem to recognize him; and then his eyes widened slightly, and a smile of recognition split his face.

"Niiiiiick."

"Yep, it's me." the red fox winked and cocked a pair of fingers. "Listen, Flash…"

"You…"

Nick went instantly mute; if he didn't know how to converse with a sloth by now, he never would. And so he waited.

"Had…Me…"

Without warning, Flash stopped talking and fell silent—or maybe that was just a sloth being a sloth. In any case, even Nick had his limits; he winked again and pointed with a pair of fingers.

"Had you fooled for a second eh, buddy? Yeah, I get that a lot…ME as a police detective. Hey listen though, can you do an old friend a favor and get me through this…?"

"…Fired…"

"Huh?" Nick's pitch halted in its tracks.

"…From…"

"N-Now wait a minute, Flash," Nick raised his paws in a hurried, placating gesture. Ohhh, foxtrot...he could see where this was going.

"…My job…"

"Hold on a second!" The fox tried to protest; something heavy and sour had dropped into the pit of his stomach.

"…At…"

"Wait, I had nothing to do with that!"

"…The …D…"

"Dangit Flash you were caught street racing; dismissal was mandatory!" Nick was beginning to raise his voice; he couldn't help it.

"…M…V…"

"Listen, you couldn't expect to keep working there after pulling a stunt like that!" Several animals were staring now, but the fox didn't care.

Flash said nothing to this; only drew an item from his pocket, something silver and shiny and…wait, was that a…police whistle?

"Aw. C'mon buddy." Nick was nervously backing away with a pair of raised paws, "You wouldn't do that to your old pal."

Flash pegged the whistle in his mouth. For a long moment it just sat there, while the fox grinned helplessly.

"Ha ha…Okay, good one, amigo. You really had me going there for a…"

That was all he managed before Flash blew the whistle…hard, loud, and piercing. At once another pair of animals appeared on either side of Nick—not sloths, but sloth bears.

Flash meanwhile was leveling a clawed finger at him.

"This…fox…"

"Awww, come on Flash, don't do this."

"…just…tried…"

"Dangit I'm a Police Detective!" Nick almost screamed,. He was speaking to the bears, not to Flash—who didn't seem to have heard him anyway.

"…to…hustle…"

The bears only rolled their eyes at each other. Nick could almost hear their thoughts. 'Fox-cop…yeah, riiiiight.'

"…me."

"Flash please no, come on." Nick fell to his knees, clasping his paws like a kit. "You want me to beg? Look, see…I'm begging."

"We'll take care of it," the larger of the two sloth bears nodded, and then reached down and hauled Nick to his feet. "Come on, it's the secondary search area for you."

"Wait, stop!" Nick struggled out of their grip, pulling out his badge again, and brandishing it like a cross against a demon, "Look, Look…see? Here's my badge."

It was immediately snatched out of his grip.

"Yeah, surrrrrrre." The smaller bear rumbled in what might have almost passed for a feline purr. "Which Dollar Cave store did you buy this from?"

And with that, Nick was once again seized by the arms, just in time to stop him from face pawlming himself. "5 zillion MSA agents…and I have to deal with the only two that didn't get the memo about ZPD hiring a fox."

Hoisting him upwards by the armpits, the bears half-carried, half dragged the hapless Nick in the direction of a set of double doors. He squirmed in their grip, trying to point behind him.

"Wait, I left my carryon…"

"Come on, keep moving."

When they reached the door, the larger bear held him, while the other one knocked. After a second or two it opened and Nick instantly resumed his struggles. No sloths here; the secondary search area was crewed by…

"No please, not porcupines, not porcupines, not….!"

His words were cut off as the door slammed behind him. The smaller bear grabbed him and spun him around.

…And gave him back his badge. "All right Detective Wilde-thing, you can go."

Nick grabbed at the badge as if it were a lifeline.

But then…hey-y-y! His ears shot backwards as if fired from a slingshot

"Wai-i-it a minute, how do you know that nickname?"

Both bears assumed smug expressions, and then the smaller one reached up and undid the top three buttons of his uniform shirt. Underneath was a T-shirt with a faded, indiscernible design. The words above were still visible though. They read 'Fast Animal Automobile Club.'

"How do you think we know, pal?" he winked.

It took a long time for the light-bulb to come on over Nick's head; he might almost have been a sloth himself. But when it did he was almost apoplectic.

"Why that sneaky, sluggish, back-stabbing…! He HUSTLED me!"

"That's right bub," the larger bear was cocking a finger, "He's had this in the works ever since he started here."

"And YOU played right into his paws, when you tried to cut to the front of the line," his companion added, showing a toothy grin, "so much for the clever fox."

Nick jammed the badge back in his pocket.

"Yeah, yeah…just let me out of here, okay?"

The smaller bear pointed at the door.

"You can pick up your carry-on at the checkpoint," he said.

"And THEN you go back to the end of the line," the larger one growled, "And don't try to take cuts again. Unless it's an emergency, everyone waits their turn out there, cops included."

Nick glared at the sloth-bears for a second and stormed out the door.

When he returned to the MSA checkpoint, Flash was wearing what had to be the most perfectly innocent expression ever created. Snatching up his carry-on, the furious fox laid back his ears and snarled over ill-concealed fangs.

"Har hardy-har, really funny there Captain Slowpoke; just wait 'til the next time you get pulled over for speeding, just wait!"

He turned and stalked away, muttering oaths to himself.

For a long moment—although probably not that long for a sloth—Flash just stared wordlessly after him.

And then, with deliberate slowness, his long arms wrapped around his midsection and he doubled over…even more slowly.

"Ha…

…Ha…

…Ha…

…HA!"

---

…And the moral of this story, dear readers, is that revenge is a dish best served in a Provençale manner, with shallots and aubergines, garnished with truffle pâté and brandy and with a fried egg on top and SPAM!

Chapter 16: Meet on the Ledge (Part 1)

Summary:

Audition day begins.

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Now I see I'm all alone
That's the only way to be
You'll have your chance again
Then you can do the work for me

Richard Thompson

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Chapter 5—Meet on the Ledge
(Part 1)

"And I'm breaking out,
Escaping now,
Feeling my faith explo-hode!"

Erin hit the last riff of Hysteria like a battering ram smashing down a castle gate, finishing up with a slap against the strings. The Mews tune had been a tempting choice to play for her audition—it had an absolutely killer bassline—but again, it was a piece that wouldn't allow her to show off the full range of her vocal skills.

Contrary to her sister Judy's impression, the young, white-furred bunny hadn't quit rehearsing for good after playing just one song. She'd gone back several times to her karaoke machine, playing for just as long as she felt like it, and then switching off again. It was a variation of the method she'd used to get ready for her performance later today. She would rehearse for as long as things were going smoothly and then, if she began to feel frustrated, she'd stop, go do something else for a while, and then come back to it later. After one particularly long and intense practice session, she hadn't returned to her bass for three whole days…but when she did, she found that her performance had improved almost exponentially. Pacing yourself; that was the ticket, learning to pace yourself. She wondered if that was what…?

"Nooo, don't think about HIM."

"Erin?"

Oops, was someone calling her? She plucked out her earbuds and yep, it was her big sister, Violet

"Erin...Errrrinnn!"

Hmmm, that sounded kind of shrill. Dangit, was her practice session bothering somebody? She'd had no such problems earlier—but then the last time she'd rehearsed it had been just after 9:00 last night—and this was 7:00 AM, the next morning.

"Aw the heck with it," the young bunny decided, "everybody ought to be up by now."

She set down her bass and called through the door. "Yeah Vi; what up?"

"Mom wants to know if you feel like eating some breakfast."

Erin's stomach responded before she could, offering up a low grumble

"Oh yeah, I'll be right there, thanks." She turned and switched off the Karaoke machine, smiling self-assuredly. "See, I told you they'd all be up; we're a farm family...DUH!"

When she got to the living room, most of the others had already started eating. That was also standard procedure. In farm country, you didn't wait to eat breakfast; your chores were out there, waiting for you.

In the center of the table, she found a bowl filled with a Hopps breakfast staple—and something highly appropriate for Sahara Square, Jordan Valley Carrot Salad; shredded carrots in orange juice with raisins and cinnamon. Arranged in a semicircle around the bowl were platters of clover and alfalfa sprouts, and a bigger one piled with Timothy hay. The sight and smell made Erin's tummy start to grouse all over again.

Seeing her coming, Stu Junior stood up and got a chair for her, something he almost never did. Erin let him but there was something about his unexpected deference that just didn't sit quite right with her.

"Morning everyone," she said, pulling herself up to the table.

"Morning, Erin!" the others responded in chorus. It was more of a cheer than a greeting—and also a little perplexing. What the heck was up with everyone this morning?

But now…decisions, decisions; what should she have for breakfast? Nothing heavy, but she didn't want to starve herself either.

She elected to split the difference. "Ahhh, can I get some of that hay and some of those clover sprouts…and just a little of the carrot salad?"

"No alfalfa sprouts?" her sister Zoe asked, surprised; they were the younger bunny's favorite. "Are you sure sis? They're really fresh."

Erin felt her mouth twist into a wry expression. "Ahhhh, no thanks, Zoe" she said and patted her tummy. "I-I-I kind of think I need to lay off the legumes this morning."

"Ohhhh, right," the older bunny replied, nodding over a knowing expression.

Instead of passing her the platters however, three different Hopps family members got up from the table and brought them to where she was sitting—after which they insisted upon serving her. "Say 'when' Erin." her sister Violet told her.

Again, the young, white-furred bunny allowed things to run their course; but, ohhh-kay-y-y-y, now she understood what the heck was going on—and it was time to nip this in the bud. Standing up on her chair, she cleared her throat and made a spreading motion with her paws, as if parting a curtain.

"Hey, everyone…hold up for a second, 'kay?"

At once, all conversation around the table ceased and every eye in the room was upon her.

She took a small breath, holding it in for a count of two.

"Look, I know this is a big day for me, and I love you all very, very much…but please stop treating me like I'm a princess or something, 'kay? It's really kind of uncomfortable; I'd rather be just another member of the Hopps family right now…and by the way, I'm GOING to help clear the table when we're done."

The next thing she did was slap a paw against her face. "Oh, sweet cheez n' crackers, did I really just say that?"

"Yes, you did, dear," her mother replied, smiling and lacing her arms together, "and I'm going to hold you to it, too."

"D'ohhhh!"

They were about midway through the dishes, when Erin heard a noise coming from the front of the hamada, something like an especially loud wind-chime. "What the heck...?" she wondered, feeling her nose twitch, and then realized it was the front doorbell. Okay-y-y, but now who could that be at this time of the morning? It wasn't Judy; she was supposed to meet the family later at…

"Never  mind , dumb bunny; here's your chance to ditch the KP duties for a while."

"I got it," she said, tossing aside her drying towel.

Too late…and too slow on the draw; her mother was already striding past her, pointing with a finger as she went, "No, I'll get it. You just keep to your work, Erin."

"Ahhhgggg." The young, white-furred bunny would have face pawlmed herself a second time, except—had mom been trying to keep a straight face just now?

Before she was able to decide one way or the other, Bonnie called to her from the front of the house, "Erin, dear? It's for you."

This time, she didn't toss the towel aside, she dropped it in surprise.

"For me…NOW? Who in the name of…? Never mind; do you LIKE drying dishes? Move your tail, bunny-girl!"

Erin hurriedly untied her apron, "Be right there."

When she got to the front hallway, she was unable to see who was there at the door. Her mother was standing in the way, blocking the view. What the…? Was she doing that…on purpose?

"Mom, what's going on?"

By way of response, Bonnie swung herself out of the way…and at once Erin's paws were flying up to her face and her mouth was falling open with a gasp. There, gathered in front of the door, was ..."

"Hiyeeeee, Erin!"

"Oh my God, GUYS!"

It was her posse, all six of them, Terri Blackburn, Cara Combs, Jill Pepper, Tawny Lloyd, Sue Cannon and, last but not least, her BFF, Lisa Chatterton, currently seated on Sue's shoulder.

Sniffing back the tears, Erin threw her arms wide and rushed forward. In mere microseconds she and her buds were packed together in a tight group-hug.

"Oh guys, guys…I can't believe you're here!" the young bunny almost sobbed. She'd had no idea that her friends were coming, although looking back on it, she was more than a tad certain that her mother had known. Of course, having them here would only increase the amount of pressure she'd be under for her audition performance. But that was cool; this was the kind of pressure she liked.

"When did you get here?" she asked, when they finally let go of each other.

It was Sue who answered her. "Last night; my dad drove us."

Erin's eyebrows went up and her nose began to twitch, "What, he drove you…all the way from Bunnyburrow?"

"Aw, he was coming here anyway," the young bobcat explained, waving an airy paw. But then for some odd reason, her eyes moved away and she began to chew on the corner of her mouth. When she spoke again, it was in a hushed, hesitant tone, "He's here to see…to talk to…"

"Craig Guilford…right, I get it," the white-furred bunny finished for her. Strange that the mention of that rogue coyote's name didn't bother her as much as it used to.

"Anyway," Cara Combs said, hastening to break the ice, "we're staying with my Dad's cousin's flock, up in the Meadowlands."

"The Meadowlands," Bonnie Hopps observed from behind Erin, "That's kind of a ways away, isn't it?

Cara flipped a hoof back and forth.

"Well yes, Mrs. Hopps…but beggars can't be choosers, y'know."

"Yes, of course," the portly doe-bunny agreed with a nod…and then she was the one with her nose twitching uneasily, "Listen," she said, focusing on Sue and Cara, "I'd love to invite you in, but. erm…"

"We'll manage it," the young sheep replied, offering a raised thumb and nodding at Sue over shoulder..

They did, but it wasn't easy. The Hopps bunnies had to clear the halls to make room for the pair…and even then, Cara left several tufts of wool on the walls behind her. Fortunately they were nothing that couldn't be easily removed with the swipe of a paw. It was only when the young ewe and bobcat had reached the living room that they were able to stand up straight again.

For the rest of the posse, the going was much easier. Jill and Tawny were both rabbits, so negotiating the hallway was as easy for them as it was for the Hopps bunnies. For Terri, a black-footed ferret, it was almost like being at home. Lisa, the only rodent in the group, simply rode in on Erin's shoulder.

After setting the little Douglas Squirrel down on the dining room table, Erin turned to her mother with her paws on her hips. "All right mom, fess up; you knew all along that my girlfriends were coming, didn't you?"

As always, Bonnie Hopps remained completely unflappable. "Of course I did, Erin…but you wouldn't want me to spoil the surprise, would you?"

No, the young bunny decided...no, she wouldn't have.

"Hey, Erin. Where's your sister Judy?" It was Lisa Chatterton, talkative as ever, looking around the room with her tail flipping.

"She went on ahead, Lisa," The young bunny explained, "gonna meet us later at the Performing Arts Academy." Dropping into half crouch, she laid a paw upside her muzzle, leaning in close and lowering her voice, "She's going to, um, 'reserve' us a couple of parking spaces." By way of demonstration, she flipped open an invisible lapel, as if to reveal a badge,

---

Judy wasn't the only one planning to get to the amphitheater early. Conor Lewis had been there for nearly an hour already, in the tunnel beneath that led there from the Lionheart Auditorium. At the moment, he was crouched at the foot of the stairs leading up to the hidden door on the right side of the stage—and standing on his tail to keep from fox-screaming in frustration.

In the beginning, it had all gone like clockwork. He had arrived on campus shortly after 11:00 and set to work at once on his preparations.

First, he had installed a pair of web-cams, the first one providing a view of the tunnel entrance in the wings just above him, and the second one offering a wide-angle view of the entire stage. Next—well, the ZPD cops weren't the only ones bringing drones to the party; his miniature aircraft was currently parked in a niche of the overhead theater pavilion, battery charged and awaiting his command. In another niche, at the opposite end of the bandshell, he'd installed a gadget resembling a walkie-talkie with ten different antennas; the mil-spec big brother of a device highly popular with cowboy truckers and car thieves. Needless to say it was flatly illegal to possess one of these babies. However, given the charges already pending against him, the fugitive young silver fox was not all that concerned. Besides, he almost certainly wouldn't need to make use of the thing; it was strictly a fail-safe option. Last, but not least, he had run a splice into the wires leading from the soundboard to the PA speakers. The controls and mikes weren't hooked up as of yet, and it wasn't plugged in either, but no matter. Conor had seen the Academy's soundboard put to use many, many times, and had even been recruited to run it once or twice. That was how he knew that it was equipped with a Wi-Fi interface. With a little luck the password wouldn't have been changed, and even if it had, it would slow him down for a few minutes at most.

With all of these tasks completed, he'd returned to his hiding place in the Lionheart Auditorium, making a final check on his appearance before turning in. The really nice thing about having lightened his fur to resemble that of an arctic fox was that it had more or less turned him into a blank slate. White fur is easily altered to just about any color you like. And so, with the judicious application of some steel grey fur-tint, and a few orange highlights, Conor had transformed himself into a Crab-Eating Fox, a coastal species from south of the equator. As the name implied, these foxes dined largely on crustaceans, fish, and mollusks—as had he, ever since his escape from jail. No one catching a whiff of his scent would find anything peculiar about it. Of course, he smelled that way, why wouldn't he? That's how crab-eating foxes are supposed to smell, dude!

His disguise had needed only a few small tweaks to get right. And so, when he'd curled into a circle for the night, it had been with no small measure of satisfaction. Everything was going according to plan.

And then lo, there came the breaking dawn of the morning after.

And THEN…!

Awakening early, Conor had enjoyed a quick breakfast of energy bars and apple juice before setting off for the Gazelle Amphitheater through the underground tunnel.

But when he got there…no, no, no, no, NOOOOOOO!

Booting up his laptop, the fugitive young silver fox had seen—nothing, nothing but a milk-white screen imprinted with the words, 'No Internet'.

At first, he had thought something was wrong with his computer. But then he'd realized…there was no Wi-Fi service down here; none, zip, nada, forget it.

"Aggggh Grrrrrr, I hate EVERYBODY!"

His day had only just begun and already he'd hit a major snag.

"Like the Tigeranic hitting that stinkin' iceberg!" Conor raged under his breath, speaking to nobody in particular.

This was worse than bad, try catastrophic. Without access to the internet, he couldn't activate his webcams, he couldn't tap into the ZPD database, he couldn't operate his drone, he couldn't hack into the soundboard; he couldn't do stinkin' ANYTHING. He wasn't just blind right now; he was blind, deaf, and dumb…dumb, dumb, dumb fox!

That was the worst part.

"I could have checked last night to make sure I had internet access down here; it would have taken me like two stinkin' seconds, but NOOOOOOO…!"

It was useless for Conor to remind himself that nothing like this had ever happened before—not in any of the other tunnels that ran beneath the Performing Arts Academy. He was determined to beat himself to a pulp and nobody was going to deny him the satisfaction.

A few minutes later, his fury at last spent, he plopped down at the foot of the steps and cast a mournful eye upwards at the secret door leading out onto the stage wings.

For all he knew, the place could be swarming with cops. Without access to the net, there was no way to tell…and if the ZPD was out there, no escape either. He dared not show his face upstairs, no way Renee. The best thing he could do right now was just bag the whole thing and head on home. Sorry Erin, I did my best.

Padding silently up the stairs, Conor tensed, crouched, and muttered softly into the darkness. "Please…don't be out there." He then leaped up, grabbed the door handle and pulled. When it swung open, the noise was like a boulder being dragged across rough concrete… to his ears, anyway. He winced and gnashed his teeth together. If there were any cops within hearing range, they'd be on him before he had time to breathe.

But then… ohhhh, thank you, thank you, THANK you, the stage was completely deserted, nobody here but us foxes—eeeee-yes!

Flipping open the laptop, Conor was euphoric when he saw the view from his webcams on the screen. At last things were looking up…and speaking of up…

He stashed the laptop back in his pack and sprinted for the lighting gantry steps taking them two at a time. A moment later he was huddled in the lee of that… whatever-it-was disk. "Please, let's make this the last little surprise of the day."

---

In another part of the school, Dr. Carl Vignius was dearly wishing he'd left his pickle-ball paddle in the car—because right now he was barely restraining himself from grabbing it and swatting the animal sitting atop his desk like a bedbug. If this nut-cracking little jerk wasn't a cop…!

"I'm sorry, but that's out of the question, Lieutenant."

Carl Vignius was an arkar, a species of bighorn sheep whose long, flowing chin hair gave him an air of sagacity. It was an apt assessment; for more than thirty years, he'd been one of Zootopia's most esteemed theatrical producers, staging far more hits than flops. The entire back wall of his office was given over to the awards he'd collected over the years. He knew more about the theater—musical in particular—than most other mammals in the biz had forgotten. Three years previously, he'd announced his retirement…and within six months found that was bored out of his mind. When City Hall had offered him the Presidency of Zootopia's new Performing Arts Academy, his first instinct had been to grab it like a winning lottery ticket.

Except…

"Are you sure you want ME, Councilmember? I've got exactly zero experience in academia."

"Perhaps," Claudia Nizhang had replied, "But you've also got a reputation for having a can-do attitude and for turning things around…and that's exactly the kind of President that the Academy for the Performing Arts needs right now."

As things turned out, the red panda's assessment of the situation was, if anything, a grand understatement. No sooner had Dr. Vignius taken up his post, than he'd found himself engulfed in an amorphous blight of nethermost confusion; unfinished classrooms, unfilled teaching positions, and a school administration that was about as organized as the average ragbag.

In other words, it was exactly the kind of challenge the arkar sheep relished, and he'd jumped in with both hooves.

He hadn't been able to fix everything of course. For example, the school had only just now broken ground on the first of two dormitories, a project that should be more than halfway completed by now. Still, no one could deny how much he'd accomplished during his time in office. It didn't hurt that he genuinely liked the students and they liked him in return. He couldn't make it halfway across the campus without one of them waving and calling out a greeting.

Of course there'd been setbacks; there were always setbacks. Only a short while ago, one of the school's most promising students—the holder of the Gazelle Scholarship no less—had been arrested for biting a police officer, and then compounded his mistake by breaking out of jail. With no choice, and with a heavy heart, Carl had signed the papers formally expelling Conor Severus Lewis from the Zootopia Academy of the Performing Arts.

That episode had been a savage blow, but not nearly as heavy for him as for the lady seated in the chair on his left.

Moving on from the issue of Conor Lewis was not an option however…and for that they could thank the animal currently perched on Dr. Vignius' desk-blotter, Detective Lieutenant Albert Tufts, ZPD. Heading up the Department's Cybercrimes Division, he had come here in pursuit of that selfsame young fox—and he seemed to take for granted that the primary purpose of today's auditions was to help him achieve that goal.

Now the Kaibab squirrel spread his arms open, pawlms up, in what he must have supposed was a pacifying gesture.

"Professor Vignius…"

"It's DOCTOR Vignius…"

"Very well, Dr. Vignius, please be reasonable. We know why the Lewis boy is coming today."

"IF he's coming…"

"…and we also know that once he has what he came for, he'll be gone." Tufts refused to be interrupted a second time. "So, the longer we can keep him here, the better our chances of apprehending him. You understand that, don't you?"

No, Dr. Vignius didn't understand, but before he could say anything, Gazelle was already halfway out of her seat, "The only thing I understand, Lieutenant Mechones, is that your demand is both unfair and completely unreasonable; sabotaging today's auditions so that you can go tilt at your windmills. How DARE you?"

In response Tufts glared at her for a second and then looked towards Dr. Vignius with a questioning eyebrow. The arkar sheep immediately leaned forward and thrust out his chin. "Don't look at me, Lieutenant; I completely agree with her."

This time the reaction from the squirrel was a barely repressed smile, one that sent a chill crawling up Carl's spine. Veteran of many a backstage poker-game he knew that look, all too well. It was the face of a player who knows he has the winning hand—and who doesn't care if you know.

Now Tufts leaned forward with his elbows on his haunches.

"Is that your final word on the matter?" he asked, his features empty of expression.

Carl Vignius managed to keep a straight face while nodding, "Yes," and so did Gazelle, though she was clearly every bit as perturbed as he was.

The sigh from Tufts that followed was clearly of the theatrical bent—who'd know that better than a former stage producer? And the look of more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger that came over him was an even more obvious bit of fakery. It was nearly enough to make the arkar sheep roll his eyes.

Nearly…because he knew what was coming next; the look on his visitor's face said it all.

"I had hoped this wouldn't be necessary, Dr Vignius." Tufts voice was as brittle as old shellac, "but I'm afraid you leave me no choice. Officer Swinton?"

Wearing an unhappy expression, the pig-cop stepped forward with a document in her hoof, holding it shakily, as if it were some unclean thing. She unfolded it, took a breath, began to read aloud and then took another one.

Tilting his head slightly, Dr. Vignius held out a hoof of his own, motioning for her to give him the document.

"Allow me to spare you such an unpleasant task, Officer."

Swinton looked at Tufts, who nodded, and then she set the papers on the arkar's desk.

Reaching for them with one hoof, Dr. Vignius extracted a pair of reading glasses from his vest pocket with the other. Affixing them to his muzzle with a small flourish, he held out the document at arm's length, and began to read.

He was looking at a search warrant, signed by the Honorable Judge George P Schatten, Zootopia Criminal Court.

Setting the papers down again, he peered over the rim of his spectacles at Lieutenant Tufts.

"Fine, as soon as today's auditions are over, you'll be granted full and complete access…"

"I don't think you understand DOCTOR," Tuft's angry chitter cut him off at the knees, "By that time, our suspect will be long gone." He had dropped all pretense of civility

"If he shows up, which he won't," Gazelle hissed acidly from the sidelines, "Taking that kind of risk…just to watch…why would he DO it?"

Tufts folded his arms, looking pleased with himself. "Because he's a 14 year old boy, Ms. Gazelle…and if there's one thing that will prompt a boy that age to do something stupid, it's a girl." Waving a dismissive paw, he turned in Dr. Vignius's direction again. "But never mind about that for now. If you'll read further sir, you'll see that this warrant gives us the right to begin our search immediately, and to make it as thorough as we wish." He assumed that sorrowful look again. Carl Vignius would later say it was the closest he came that morning to swatting him into the desktop. "I'm afraid it's going to take a long time—all day today and probably into the evening, possibly even tomorrow afternoon."

"Wha…? Are you serious? What about the auditions?" The arkar's apprehension had given way to horror…and also hate; hatred he directed at himself for letting this bushytailed upstart finally get to him.

Tufts responded with yet another exaggerated sigh.

"Ah. I'm afraid they'll have to wait until our search is completed, sorry."

"Oh no, you can't!" Gazelle was out of her seat again, this time wringing her hooves in anguish. "The kids auditioning today have been practicing for...you can't do this. Many of them came from out of town; some even came here from out of the country. Their parents will be expected to be back at their jobs on Monday. We CAN'T postpone, not now!"

Her plea left Tufts completely unaffected. "Take that up with the young felon preparing to show his face here today. If it weren't for him, none of this would be necessary. Heck, he's probably somewhere here on campus already."

Carl Vignius took off his glasses, polishing them with a microcloth.

"And if we agree to your, errr, change of schedule, you'll call off your search?"

Tufts sat back and tapped his fingertips together, "Well—that and a few other conditions. If we could count on your full cooperation, in that case it would be counterproductive to conduct a full search of the Academy campus. It would alert our suspect to the fact that we're laying in wait for him."

In response to this Gazelle almost said something, but instead only cleared her throat. Dr. Vignius, on the other hoof, still had his voice in good working order.

...And more than a little experience at bargaining with a hard-nose.

"All right Lieutenant, let's skip the jabber and get down to cases. What is it, exactly, that you want from me?"

Tufts' tail flipped twice and he again leaned forward with his paws on his knees.

"First, I still want to conduct a search of the Gazelle Amphitheater; just the theater, and I promise that we'll finish before the auditions start."

"Agreed," Dr. Vignuis answered, tersely.

"Second, I want at least four undercover officers in the audience."

"What?" the arkar sheep's bushy eyebrows turned upwards in surprise, "Why are you…? I'd have agreed to that anyway."

The squirrel didn't seem to hear him.

"And I want four more officers stationed backstage," he continued smoothly…and this time he ran straight into a roadblock. At once, Dr. Vignuis's face stiffened and with it, his back.

"Absolutely not; you can have one officer backstage and that's all."

Tufts' tail turned into a bottle brush.

"Four officers, Doctor." He chittered, nodding at the warrant sitting patiently on the arkar's desktop.

"ONE," Dr. Vignius countered, regarding the Kaibab Squirrel with look of cold venom, "or you can go ahead and make your stupid search. That many police officers backstage would likely ruin the auditions anyway."

"What…how?" Tufts expression had shifted from cross to confusion.

"One," the sheep repeated, leaning across his desk for emphasis.

Tufts' mouth pulled inward, as if he'd eaten a sour cherry. "All right, I'll settle for three officers backstage."

Vignius pretended to think this over for a second-and then he said, "I'll allow two but that's it."

For the next three seconds, he and Tufts regarded each other silently, eyeball to eyeball as the expression goes.

"All right Doctor, two." The squirrel chittered through clenched teeth, and then leveled a finger at him. "But if our suspect gets away because of that restriction, I'm holding you fursonally responsible."

"As you wish," Dr. Vignius shrugged indifferently, "all right, what else?"

"Since there are no surveillance cameras inside the amphitheater, we need to install some of our own," the squirrel said.

"No problem, as long as you keep them out of sight."

"And we also need to deploy a pair of police drones over the amphitheater."

"I'll agree to that," the arkar said, "as long as you keep them at least 10 feet back from the audience…and I don't want anyone to be able to hear them either."

"Yes, I understand," Tufts nodded. "That's acceptable. And I also want any faculty and/or staff in attendance to be notified that our suspect may show up here today, and to be on the lookout for him."

"I'll take care of it," Dr. Vignius assured him, "Anything else?"

"Nooo, I think that about covers it," Tufts slapped his knees and stood up again, "For the present anyway, though I may think of something else later. Right now, my team needs to get cracking on that search." He reached out and offered a paw to the arkar sheep, smiling warmly for the first time since entering his office. "The ZPD thanks you for your cooperation, Doctor Vignius. Good luck on the auditions; I hope they go well."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Vignius reached out with a fingertip and allowed Tufts to shake with him—but then, as soon as the squirrel's back was turned he wiped it on his desk blotter with a look of loathing.

For a long time after the Kaibab squirrel's departure, the office was as silent as a sealed crypt. Then Carl looked over at Gazelle with a weary expression on his face.

"So, do you think I'm a sell-out?"

She only smiled forlornly.

"Have you forgotten who you're talking to, Doctor? I haven't lasted this long in the entertainment business without having to make a few hard choices of my own."

"Nobody does, not in this profession," Vignius shook his head knowingly, "And that's one lesson that can't be taught; the only way to learn it is the hard way."

"Ai, si," Gazelle replied.

"I'll tell you this much, though." The Academy President's face had frozen into flint. "If that bushytailed little tyrant somehow does manage to disrupt today's auditions—in any way, shape, or form—the ZPD will be hearing from our attorneys."

Gazelle clenched a hoof against her chest, as if preparing to swear allegiance

"And I will cover your legal fees," she said, and then tilted her head slightly. "But did you notice something Doctor?"

"What's that?" he asked.

She waved a hoof at the office door.

"The whole time el Tentiente Tufts was in here, he never once referred to Conor Lewis by name."

"Yes, I did notice that," the arkar sheep replied, and then his face assumed a plaintive expression. "Why, Gazelle?"

Her dark eyes narrowed and she chewed her lip. "I…don't know, but I get the feeling that el ardilla arrogante is just a little bit afraid of…"

"No, no," Carl was waving his hooves. "I meant the Lewis boy; he had everything going for him and he just threw it all away…WHY?"

"That, I don't know," Gazelle admitted, slumping in her seat and crossing her arms. The look on her face was one of 'you had better not come near me.' "And we're not going to find out either, at least not today. As far as I am concerned Senor Tufts is only wasting his time—and everyone else's. If Conor Lewis has even a shred of common sense, he won't come anywhere near L'Academia today." Her eyes narrowed once again, "And if there is one thing that young zorro plateado is NOT, it's estupido."

"This is true." Dr. Vignius almost smiled, but then something Tufts had said to her came back to him.

"…there's ONE thing that will prompt a boy that age to do something stupid…"

---

Truer words were never contemplated. At the moment, the fugitive young silver fox had no idea how badly he'd blundered in coming up straight up here after exiting from the underground. True, he couldn't be seen from the stage below, but with the ZPD preparing to make a full sweep of the Gazelle Amphitheater, that made little, if any, difference. No way would Tuffguy Tufts NOT send someone to check out the lighting scaffold. And when that happened, Conor would be, as Danny Tipperin might have put it, caught in a sucker box. He'd spotted at once, and then trapped, with nowhere to run when the cops blocked off the stairs. As for making his escape by sliding down one of the curtain ropes, yeah, that'd work—if he could manage it without being seen. On a stage soon to be crawling with police officers, the chances of pulling that off were about as likely as jumping into the ocean without getting wet. Instead of rushing to his vantage point after leaving the tunnel, he should have paused to consider his next move. Under a different set of circumstances that was exactly what he'd have done.

Not this time; when Conor had opened that hidden door and found nobody waiting to nab him…brother that was all she wrote. The heady combination of relief and elation had propelled him up the lighting gantry like a bottle rocket. Even now, he might have stopped to consider the precariousness of his situation. In the present moment, however, he had only one thought on his mind.

"Agggggg, grrrr…why didn't I go BEFORE I came up here? Dumb fox!"

It was lucky for him that none of his buds were present to hear that thought. More than likely they'd have razzed him for sounding like his dad—unaware that the fugitive young silver fox had never met his father.

It was no good trying to fight it; he could hold out for ten, maybe fifteen minutes tops. And for all he knew, it might be another five hours before Erin Hopps took the stage. Blankety-blank bunny, this was all her fault! The nearest privy to his perch was all the way down backstage, just off the rehearsal room.

And the ZAPA kids didn't call that particular restroom Barf-Bag Central for nothing; the stench inside was 'enough to gag a dung beetle', as his friend Jason m'Beke once so aptly put it.

But what other choice did he have? The nearest alternative was more than twice as far away, by the amphitheater's front entrance...and that one was probably still locked.

With a sound that fell somewhere between a groan and a sigh, Conor stood up, cracked his knuckles over his head, and prepared to climb back down again.

He was three steps down the catwalk when he remembered something, the gas-mask tucked inside his backpack. Should he…? Nah, it wouldn't be that bad in there…would it?

He turned, went back, and snatched up the pack. Maybe not, probably not...but why take chances?

As it turned out, bringing the pack along was a wise choice. Before Conor was even three steps away from the restroom door, his eyes were watering and his nose seemed to have shrunk to the size of a gumdrop. Aggggh, grrrr, it was times like this that he hated being a species with a keen sense of smell. The stench beyond that door was way worse than the last time he'd been here. He started to unsling his pack, but then hefted it back on again. "Ahhh, let's just get this over with," he muttered, speaking to no one in particular.

He was in the midst of zipping himself up again, when he heard it; the sound of a door opening, coming from somewhere outside of the bathroom, and then another …and another. And then voices, first one, then two, and then several, followed by the crackle of a radio.

That last noise was the one that tipped it; the cops were here—lots of cops, and HE was…

Conor might not have understood how vulnerable he'd been when he was crouching behind that weird-looking disk on the lighting gantry…but he sure as heck understood the situation now. There was exactly one door in or out of this place, and as for the windows…narrow slits, too slender to accommodate anything bigger than a hamster, and they probably didn't open anyway. To make matters worse, there was no place to hide in here, no concealed spaces of any kind; he was trapped. His only option would be to duck into one of the stalls and pull the old hop-up-on-the-toilet-tank ploy…and even then he didn't dare shut the door. If the cops came in here and found every stall door open except ONE—what would be the obvious conclusion?

Oh foxtrot, he could hear footsteps coming…at least three different animals, two of them larger species; tigers or maybe…no, wait, they were moving off in a different di..rect…noooo!

His mouth had begun to water uncontrollably and throat was trying to run backwards. "Oh God, no…don't let me puke NOW." No way would the cops outside miss hearing that sound, but it was no use trying to fight it. Between the stench—which seemed to be getting worse with every passing second—and the tension of knowing that the ZPD was out there, his breakfast was exactly T-minus ten seconds from liftoff…nine…eight…seven…

Wait; the backpack!

Conor tore it open like a birthday present, nearly breaking one of the fasteners in the process. Dangit, where was that thing? Had he forgotten to bring…no, wait, there it was; his gas mask. But…would it work? He had brought it along as protection against tear-gas, not the stink of sewage... "Never mind, dangit! Get that thing on your head already—quick, before you hurl all over the floor!"

It was a little snug, but still a decent fit, and while it didn't completely alleviate the stink, it was enough to render it at least tolerable—for now anyway. What wasn't so tolerable was the sound of more footsteps approaching. And this time, the young fox knew that they weren't going to go away. With no other option, he bolted into the nearest large-mammal stall.

Oh, foxin'-A…this thing had no toilet-tank, only pipes and a toggle-handle.

"Of COURSE it does, you stupid fox-kid," his inner voice scolded, "this is a public restroom!

With no alternative, Conor hopped up onto the rim of the toilet bowl, and then clambered up onto the pipe assembly. Leaning back against the far-inside corner of the stall, with one foot braced on top of a pipe, he tried to make himself as small as possible. It was a precarious balancing act at best, and he didn't know how long he could hold it. Well, somehow he'd just have to make it last. At least the doors to these stalls only swung open by maybe half an inch when they … "Aw nuts; my tail!"

It was dangling beneath the edge of the partition easily visible to anyone bending down for a look-see. Conor reached down to scoop it up, nearly losing his footing, and then pulled it tight against his chest.

At that instant, the restroom door slapped open.

Immediately, he heard a growl. "Ewwwww, oh, my GAW!"

The voice was high, disgusted—and distinctly lupine. So was the voice that answered.

"What the heck? Holy wolfsbane, Griz!"

"Tell me about it, Wolford. This is worse than that exhumation we had to attend, remember that?"

"Don't remind me, I couldn't eat for two days." A few seconds of silence followed and then the voice spoke again. "Okay, he's not in here, let's go."

Conor almost breathed a sigh of relief...until he heard, "What? We barely poked our heads in the door. Come on, we have to give this place at least a quick look around before we go."

"Oh for the love of Black Pete, Ford…no way is that kid hiding in there; a fox's sense of smell is almost as good as ours."

His companion was having none of it.

"Okay, fine, let's just go…but then what happens if Lieutenant Nutzi finds out?"

"All right, all riiiight. Call…"

"Heads."

"Tails; you're up Griz."

"Two out of three?"

"Quit stalling, you're the one that said we have to at least make the effort...so go on, get in there!"

"Grrrrr-Yip! Me and my lofty principles."

The next thing that the young fox heard was sound of more footfalls, on his side of the door...getting closer and closer, seeming to come straight at him.

He held his breath as he heard the cop approaching, unconsciously pressing himself deeper into the corner of the stall. It was almost as if he was attempting to will himself through the wall and into the next room.

And that was when he felt his foot beginning to slip—and his balance starting to give way.

AND... Like all good public restrooms, this one had a nice, white-tiled floor that basically turned the place into a low-grade echo chamber. The slightest noise and those two cops would be all over him like a boiler-suit.

The wolf—Conor assumed it was a wolf—was close now, less than five feet away. He could feel his foot continuing to give way, slithering down the length of the pipe. When it reached the bend, where the chrome turned downwards, it would be good-bye perch, hello floor.

And he couldn't stop it; not without shifting his weight and causing the stall partition to creak...and alerting the wolf-cop, who was now only three feet away from his hiding place.

Correction, he was only two feet away. Conor bit his lip and stifled his breathing, listening and trying to keep his foot from slipping any further.. It refused to cooperate, continuing to slide with the juggernaut inevitability of an advancing glacier. On the other paw, the staccato hiss of an animal scenting the air never came to the young fox's ears. Instead, all he heard was a sudden expulsion and intake of air.

He wasn't the only animal in here holding his breath...thank GOD.

A sliver of dark blue appeared in the crack of the doorway. The wolf was directly in front of his stall now. Conor braced himself, waiting for the door to be thrown open. Instead, the shard of blue dropped downward and a shadow spread over the floor of the stall.

In spite of his terror, he couldn't help noticing the shape; yep, it was a wolf out there all right.

And he also couldn't help wondering…why the heck was he looking under the door instead of simply opening it? The answer came when a snow-white paw reached through the gap beneath the doorway and snatched up something from off of the floor.

Another wave of panic washed over the fugitive young fox. "Oh, no…what'd I drop?"

But then he heard, "Ahhhhhh heck!"

"What is it?" queried the voice of the other wolf, the one outside by the restroom entrance.

"Old breath-mint package," his partner replied disgustedly, "Thought it was a memory stick."

"Well, hurry up and finish, will you?"

"You want to come in here and help?"

He stood up and moved on…but Conor still didn't allow himself to breathe. The wolf at his door had two more stalls to go—and his foot was continuing with its inexorable slide. He heard footsteps moving further down the line, heard the sound of the door to the last stall, opening and falling shut again.

And now he could feel his foot beginning to turn downwards. It had reached the bend in the pipe. Any second now, he'd go tumbling.

Then the wolf spoke again, "All right Wolford, there's nobody in here; happy now?"

"Hey, it was your idea…"

"Let's just get out of here."

A blue and white blur went past Conor's stall, moving at a brisk pace, and heading towards the exit. Come on, come onnnnn, how long does it take to…? Oh no, his foot was off the pipe; there was nothing beneath him but air…air and the floor of the bathroom stall.

He hit the tiles just as the exit-door slammed shut.

At once, he was on his feet again, tense and waiting…waiting for the pair of wolf-cops to come crashing in and take him down.

He was finished; this was the end. Even if he managed to dodge those two, there was a roomful of more police officers, right outside the door. Ohhhh, he had WARNED himself not to underestimate Tuff-Guy Tufts—and then he'd up and done it anyway. Of all the…hey-y-y, wait a minute!

Nothing was happening; no footsteps were approaching the door; as a matter of fact, the noises outside seemed to be growing fainter.

Conor propped himself against the rim of the toilet bowl…at last allowing the air to escape from his lungs. He had just gone from a very bad place to a very good one. As Danny Tipperin had once told him, 'Any time the cops are looking for you, a good place to hide is always somewhere they've already searched.'

"Just don't stay there too long." The lenses of the young fox's gas-mask fogged up as he recited the rest of the homily under his breath. He was safe…for a while anyway. "Unless some other cop hears the call of nature," he reminded himself, harshly. "Whoa, if Danny could see me now, he'd slap me around from here to Pawkeepsie."

Giving his head a small shake, Conor stuffed the thought back in its box and closed the latch. He could kick himself later, but right now... okay, the situation was what it was—so what was he going to do about it? First order of business, he needed to get his wits about him.

Pulling his legs into the closest thing he could manage to the lotus position, he laid his paws on his knees, pawlms up, breathing in stages of four; breathe in, hold, breathe out, hold, and then repeat. This was something he'd learned from Kieran…who wouldn't be a whole lot happier than Danny if he knew of his protégé's predicament. "Never mind, don't think about him either, just...stinkin'...breathe."

Conor did, but made certain to keep an ear cocked in the direction of the door.

It wasn't easy with that ever-present stench in the air, but he managed it. Slowly, gradually, he felt the racing of his heart beginning to ebb and his head starting to clear. All right, the next thing he needed to do was figure out just what the heck he was up against. Quietly removing the laptop from his backpack, he propped it between his knees and opened it. He did not, however, take the next, obvious step of logging on to the internet. If Tufts was smart—and by now, Conor had no illusions as to his adversary's intelligence—if he was smart, he'd be hooked into the Academy's DSL lines and Wi-Fi routers, watching for any unusual activity. "I just hope he wasn't doing that the first time I booted up." the young fox silently beseeched of whoever might be listening…and then he waved the thought away like a pesky moth. If that had been the case, he'd be in custody already.

Still, he didn't dare try it again. But that was okay because he had an alternate route to the web, one that—ah, the irony—one that the cops had unknowingly bought here with them; he would log on to the net by way of their Wi-Fi router.

They were bound to have one, he was sure of it. They'd had one the day that Nick had caught him inside of that alleyway...and that had been without Tuffguy Tufts running the show. This time the Kaibab squirrel was in charge...and so it was a slam-dunk that there'd be a ZPD router somewhere close by—a router for which he had the passwords.

The gambit was not without its risks, but they were risks were more than worth taking in the fugitive young silver fox's opinion. Number one, with Tufts at the helm—that one wolf's remark about 'Lieutenant Nutzi' had all but confirmed it—with him in the big chair, there'd be a truckload of stinkin' tech gear set up around the amphitheater; laptops, tablets, bluefangs, maybe even a server or two. With that many active computers in the vicinity, a little extra activity on the ZPD network would be barely noticeable. Number two, instead of having to go in by way of The Beast, he could hook up with the Department's mainframe almost directly.

Number three...Ahhh, never mind; two was plenty.

Entering the access code, Conor quickly established contact with the ZPD database, and then instructed his laptop to do three things. First, it was to locate and track any ZPD computers within a 1-block radius of the Gazelle Amphitheater; second, it was to locate and interface with any police surveillance cameras within the boundaries of the Gazelle Amphitheater, including drone and body cams. Third, it was to monitor the police database and alert him to any new references to 'P-Fish,' his latest ZPD code-name.

The response to this third command erased any and all remaining doubts; Tufts was here all right, no question about it…and he wasn't here to watch the show. In the last ten minutes alone Conor's nom de guerre had come up at least six times in various text messages—and twice more over the police band.

When he checked the view from the ZPD surveillance cams, the shock nearly blew him through the back wall of the restroom. Holy foxtrot-on-a-magma-floor, there were so many views from so many different cameras, none of them were discernible; to accommodate them all, his laptop had been obliged to shrink them to the size of thumb-claw icons.

Conor fell back against the rim of the toilet-bowl completely, dumfounded. No way could he make Erin's performance with that many cameras watching the action…

Wai-i-it, hold that thought.

Minimizing the page containing the camera views, Conor called up the controlling app and clicked 'sort by source.' Ah-haaa, just as he'd suspected; most of what he was seeing was the view from the ZPD's body-cams—all of them, every single one that was currently active, not just the cameras inside the Gazelle Amphitheater. When he filtered out the excess, he found himself left with a much more comfortable number of fifteen POVs. Two of these views, it turned out, were from drone cameras and those he could also eliminate; he had no intention of moving out into the open.

At least three of the remaining surveillance cameras were trained on the spectator seats. Tufts apparently thought that his target might be planning to infiltrate by way of the incoming crowd. Given the amphitheater's proximity to the street, it wasn't a bad thought, but Conor had long since rejected that idea; there were just too many dang variables. He filtered those cameras out as well…and also most of the others. The surveillance-cams he was interested in were the ones watching the stage area.

There were three of them, "So far," the fugitive young silver fox archly reminded himself. But for now, at least, the underground passage's secret entrance wasn't visible in any of them. The first camera was trained on the left side wings where the kids would gather before going onstage to perform. No worries, he wasn't going anywhere near that place, but the other two…ahhh, now those might be a problem, they had almost the entire stage area covered in an overlapping field. Avoiding their all-seeing eyes would require some seriously artful dodging.

Conor set the computer aside and got up again, flexing his arms and stretching his legs. He was contemplating, not for the first time, just bagging this gig and bolting back to his loft. Admittedly though, his motivations were somewhat different than they'd been in the previous instances.

Tuff Guy Tufts had invested a heckuva lot of the ZPD's resources in trying to catch him here. Imagine the reaming-out that bushytailed little dirtbag would get if it all turned out to be for nothing. He could almost hear the squirrel's voice in his head now, stammering out excuses while pitifully wringing his paws... "Now Chief, I-I can explain everything…" The thought was nearly enough to bring on a fit of giggles.

Ahhh, but there was that promise he'd made again.

Ohhhh-kay…he'd stay.

Chapter 17: Meet on the Ledge (Continued...Part 2)

Summary:

The perils of Conor Lewis--and the arrival of Erin Hopps

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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I have stood here before, inside the pouring rain
With the world turning circles, running round my brain
I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign
But it's my destiny to be the king of pain

The Police

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Chapter 5—Meet on the Ledge
(Cont'd…Part 2)

At this point, Conor finally understood something; he needed to stay the heck away from that lighting scaffold—but he also understood that just as necessity is the mother of invention, so too is desperation the mother of the Hail Mary.

While waiting in the restroom for the cops to depart—hoping they'd depart, if the truth be known—he had used his time to great advantage, keeping watch on their activities by way of their surveillance and body cameras. From this, he had deduced their strategy in trying to locate him. Instead of sweeping the theater from one side to the other, as in normal police procedure, they had started at either end and were working their way in towards the center. That told him yep, Tuffguy Tufts definitely thought he was here somewhere; it was exactly the right tactic for him to employ in such a scenario. The idea was that if the suspect tried to flee from either search group, he'd run right smack into the other one. And any lingering doubts that the ZPD thought he might be lurking in some hidden corner of the amphitheater were all too easily dispelled; did you notice that pair of police drones hovering over the theater seats?

"And how about those guys, at the edge of the lawn with spotter scopes?" the fugitive young silver fox lamented to himself. "Ohhh I was soooo wrong about those cameras covering the theater seats. They weren't put there to catch me sneaking into this place; Tufts is figuring to maybe nab me on my way out of here."

If that was true, it had been yet another smart move on the ZPD squirrel's part. Up until now, Conor had been holding that escape route in reserve, in case the tunnel entrance was compromised.

Not any more, he couldn't.

Puffing out his cheek, he let out a long, slow breath, once again fogging up the lenses of his gas mask. By this time, he had ceased to be amazed at his adversary's level of intelligence.

But foxin' A, how the heck had that bushy-tailed little jerk managed to dragoon THIS many cops into his operation? "All these guys…just for ME?" Conor shook his head in astonishment. The only thing he could think of was that somebody way, way up on the food chain must have that squirrel's back—somebody with a LOT of clout—and whoever that somebody was, they were about as easygoing as a drug cartel; 'Bring me the head of Conor Lewis!'

As of yet, he hadn't stopped to consider just who his nemesis' sugar-daddy might be; in the present circumstance, it didn't matter. What did matter was, how the heck was he supposed to make Erin's audition performance with a whole foxin' army of cops looking for him? For a moment he considered a little good ol' SWATTING; create a false alarm, somewhere else in the city, and draw off some of that army to another location, the further away from here, the better.

Nice idea…except, "What, are you THAT dumb, fox? Do you seriously think the head of ZPD Cybercrimes never considered that possibility? Lil' clue-by-four, smart guy; it's only been done about a zillion times already."

No, Conor had had to admit; Tufts wouldn't have overlooked that gag. He might even have figured out a way to turn it to his advantage.

Several more moments of wrangling with his situation and/or conscience followed—after which the fugitive young silver fox was forced to come to a bitter decision.

It was time to get his tail out of here.

Yes, he'd made that promise and yes, he'd come here with the understanding that the cops might be waiting for him—and yes he'd resolved to stick it out only a few minutes ago.

But that had been BEFORE he'd seen how many officers Tuffguy Tufts had looking for him. Jiminy Foxin' Christmas, he'd never expected that geekwad squirrel to show up with half the stinkin' force in tow!

"All right, you little nut-cracking slimeball; you win this one, but I promise you, you're gonna pay for it later—BIG-time."

Okay, fine...having, at last surrendered to the inevitable, he would head on back to the secret tunnel entrance; take that tunnel to the Lionheart auditorium, and then Sayonara ZAPA.

There was just one, teensy-weensy, but ever-so-crucial, tiny, little detail…

First, he had to GET to that tunnel-entrance—without being spotted by the cops, or overheard by them; that hidden door wasn't exactly the quiet type. Thanks to hacking into the ZPD surveillance cameras, and the two of his own that he'd planted, he would at least be able to tell when the coast was clear…he hoped.

But other than that, where was he hanging, right now? Oh yeah, in a restroom, backstage by the Gazelle Amphitheater's rehearsal area. And how was he supposed to get from here to that tunnel entrance? Lessee, there was no way to access the right side stage-wings from here; there was a door, but it was padlocked from the other side. Sooo, the only way to get there was to go back the way he had come. In other words, he'd have to return to the left side of the stage and cross to the other side—in full view of not one but two ZPD surveillance cameras and those spotters in the back of the seating area.

Unless…!

Conor could only shake his head at the thought. That stinkin' lighting gantry! It wasn't visible from either the theater seats or the ZPD surveillance cameras—and that included the stairs at either end. If he took the high-road and did it real quiet-like, then he might, just might, make it back to the tunnel entrance without being noticed.

But if he was spotted while crossing the lighting gantry, he'd be the proverbial sitting duck.

It was not an attractive option; in fact, he hated the idea of going back up there. But what other choice did he have? Bottom line, playing it safe was no longer an option if he hoped to make it out of here without getting caught. It was roll the dice or nothing.

But before he could even pick up those dice, he'd have to wait until the cops were finished with their sweep of the amphitheater. Conor didn't allow himself to dwell on what would happen if they discovered his secret tunnel entrance; if they did, they did. Of much greater concern was the possibility that ZPD might find his drone, and/or that other gadget he had stashed upstairs in the pavilion. Neither one could be used to trace his location, BUT...

As of right now, Tuffguy Tufts couldn't be 100% certain that his suspect was here in the amphitheater; all he had was a hunch. If his guys found either that drone or the other gadget however, then that hunch would be confirmed. And what would happen next was something that the fugitive young silver fox REALLY didn't want to think about.

Of the two, the drone was the bigger concern. The second device was well camouflaged; you could look straight at it and not know it was there. The drone, on the other paw, had been all but impossible to keep hidden. Cats 22, concealing that thing to the point where it couldn't be spotted would have rendered it unable to become airborne. And so all the young fox could do was mentally cross his fingers and wish for it not to be found. If he got lucky and the cops didn't disvcover it, then it might turn out to be a useful item later—but in the meantime, don't get your hopes up, kid.

Conor's biggest worry however was—he could only make his move between the time of the ZPD's departure from the amphitheater and the arrival of the academy staff, stage crew, audition judges, etc.…and of course the participants and their families. Once they showed up, no way could he make it to that tunnel entrance without being noticed. Even in a best-case scenario, he was going to have an escape window the size of a postage stamp. At worst… "Window, WHAT window?"

What made the whole thing really galling was that it was something over which he had absolutely zero control. The only thing he could do right now was to keep an eye the cameras and to try and keep his finger off the panic-button.

Like a receding tide, the officers combing the stage area went away very gradually. First there were at least a dozen of them, then only several, then a few, then two, then only one, a police pig, and then finally none at all. Conor forced himself to give it an extra minute or two, and then went to the door of the restroom, took a short, hard breath and opened it.

Once again, he found himself alone—but this time he felt no sense of elation, only urgency. More than anything else, he wanted to run like Hell for that tunnel door. While he knew he wouldn't, the sensation was enough to make him queasy all over again.

And, speaking of queasy, now that he was at last free of Barf-Bag Central…

First order of business, get that dang gas-mask off. Conor did, and then raised his forearm, sniffing at the crook of his elbow. He had brought out only a hint of the stench of that restroom with him—but that'd be enough if he got within olfactory range of either one of those wolf-cops he'd dodged earlier. Wolves had not only a killer sense of smell, but an awesome scent-memory. A wolf could encounter an odor for only a second or two and ten years later, still be able to remember where and when he'd smelled it. One little whiff of a certain, young silver-fox, and those lupines would know in a flash that there'd been someone else in the bathroom with them…and also right where to look for that certain someone. He was going to have to deal with that issue before he moved on again.

Setting down his backpack, Conor opened it again, this time carefully. After first returning the gas-mask to its hiding place, he unzipped one of the side pouches. Inside was a plastic spray-bottle about the size of a pepper-mill, filled with a semi-translucent, teal-blue liquid. The label read, Medi-Hare Biological Odor Eliminator.

A good spritz later and the bottle went back in its pouch, after which Conor was sniffing at his arm again. There, that was better; maybe now he could finally get a move on.

But first, one last check of the cameras; okay nothing showing, there still might be some cops out there, but…

"Shut up and get GOING!"

Conor did, and did.

When he came through the door to the stage area, there weren't any officers around here either—but there were still those stinking security cameras. He had to practically perform a limbo dance to get to the foot of the lighting gantry without being spotted by either of them—and even then he couldn't be 100% certain that he hadn't been seen. Well, no time to worry about that now; he needed to get to his hidey-hole and pronto.

Dropping down on all fours, Conor ascended the stairs as stealthily as he could, trying to keep a low profile. Normally that would have been easy-peasy, but not now; that stinkin' pack on his back felt as conspicuous as a camel's hump. When he reached the catwalk, he continued to keep his head down, moving in a low crawl. He was about a third of the way across when he heard it, a whirring buzz, like the sound of someone blowing across a sheet of waxed paper.

He stopped, tensed, and flattened himself into the floor. He knew that sound; he ought to. He had one of those babies of his own, parked in a niche upstairs.

Carefully, silently, he undid the Velcro closure of a shirt-sleeve pocket and pulled out a dental mirror, holding it just over the rim of the catwalk. His paw was trembling and so was the image, but never mind, there it was, about six feet below him—a ZPD police drone.

Conor tensed again and hurriedly withdrew the mirror, struggling to keep his teeth from chattering. His tail felt as if it had been charged with static electricity.

"Easy…easy, get a grip fox; that thing can't see you from down there."

True enough…but what if it had a microphone?

"Cool your jets; even if it does, it won't be able to hear you over the sound of those rotors, not as long as you keep..."

The rotors… Oh foxtrot, the noise was getting louder; the drone was rising upwards, coming right towards him. And when it came level with the catwalk, oh yeah, then the cops would be able to see him; he'd be right in their stinkin' faces.

What could he do? Wait…that disk at the center of the scaffold; get moving, hurry!

No time to put the mirror away, Conor stuck it between his teeth, and bolted for the disk on all fours…as fast as he dared without making a racket. Flattening himself against its surface, he noticed for the first time that the edge of the thing turned inwards, like the lid of a prescription bottle. It offered perhaps an inch or two of concealment and/or foothold; pitiful, but he didn't have a whole lot of choice at the moment. He also noticed that in spite of its shiny appearance, the disk was actually constructed of painted wood and plaster, and that the interior surface was uneven—would you say sculpted? And not only that…

"Knock it off and listen for those ROTORS!"

Conor dutifully obeyed, cocking an ear and tilting his head, barely able to hear anything over the sound of his own labored panting and the galloping of his heart.

Finally…yes the drone was still there; it had slowed its ascent but it was still coming. Agggh grrrr, and here was something else he hadn't considered. He had assumed that Tuffguy Tufts would never dare to send a drone up here—and he'd been half right at best. No, the ZPD wouldn't run a drone over the stage while the auditions were happening, but before the show?

Ohhhh yeah, there was something that blankety-blank squirrel would do.

Now Conor could hear the miniature aircraft getting closer, almost level with the scaffolding. The noise was barely above the beat of a hummingbird's wings, but to his ears it was like the roar of a turbofan engine.

He pressed deeper into the disk, knowing it wouldn't help but unable to stop himself. And then he watched as the drone lifted into view.

It was tiny, nearly small enough to fit in the pawlm of his paw. A casual observer might have found it ludicrous that even a young fox could be so terrified of such a puny, little machine. This young fox, however, was nobody's casual viewer; he knew a thing or two about surveillance drones—and he also knew this particular model, an Ottrel Evole Dual 640, popularly known as 'the orange brick.' At the moment, its camera pod wasn't facing in his direction, but if it did…

The Dual 640 got its name from the fact that it was fitted with two different types of cameras, one optical; the other one infrared. It was this second one that was turning Conor's tail into a bottle brush. Even if he'd been able to get completely under cover—which he couldn't—the infrared camera would still be able to detect him by way of his body heat. AND it could use his heat signature to tell not only where he was, but also where he had been.

His only advantage was that the Dual 640's camera pod was mounted on a fixed rather than a swivel mount; in order to see anything around its periphery, the entire aircraft was obliged to pivot. Okay, that was one small thing in the young fox's favor. Wait, it was moving again, rising up into the rafters…what the heck now? Sure, it was a small-size drone, but to maneuver in a space as tight as that... whoa, whoever was flying that thing must have some serious piloting skillZ.

Or…not necessarily, now that Conor thought of it; the Dual 640 also came with a wicked-good obstacle avoidance system. It was even more popular as a tool for performing infrastructure inspections than it was as a law-enforcement drone.

All right, but didn't this machine have a downside…hadn't he heard Kieran getting mental over it once? Come on fox, THINK…that camera pod may not be able to pan from side to side, but it can sure as heck pivot to look downward. And if it turns and looks down with that infrared camera…wait, he had it; the thing about this particular drone that had nearly driven his sea-mink mentor postal. Shedding his backpack ever-so-carefully, Conor opened it and pulled out his laptop again…and also his miniature 'Borg Cube.' After nearly causing the death of those two gerbil jerks, he had sworn never to use it again, a vow that was quickly downgraded from 'never again' to 'except in case of emergency.'

And the term, 'emergency,' fit his current situation to a T.

Accessing the police drone's control module took him all of ten seconds; easily done when he was already inside the ZPD's database. Taking actual command of the miniature aircraft was out of the question however. THAT would blow his cover straight into orbit. Heck, for all that he knew, Tuffguy Tufts might be counting on him trying to jack one of the ZPD's police drones.

But a drone-jacking was not what the fugitive young silver-fox had in mind. What he did instead was order the Dual 640's control console to contact the Ottrel website and make one, simple inquiry.

In less than a second, he got a reply…exactly the one he'd been hoping for. But would it work? Only one way to find out; moving the cursor to 'Yes', he clicked and then hurriedly disengaged from the control module.

Then he settled back, mentally knocked on wood…and waited.

A minute passed…two minutes passed…

And then his ears pricked up as he heard the Dual 640's rotors changing pitch. Did that mean…?

It did. Without preamble, the little drone dropped out of the rafters and flitted away in the direction of the amphitheater entrance. Its movements were jerky, disjointed, as if the machine had become afflicted with a stammer.

Conor wanted to laugh, but settled for a smile instead. Somehow, his ploy had worked. Though he couldn't see or hear it, he knew—he just knew—that somewhere right now the ZPD's resident drone jockey was one step away from having a conniption.

After all, that was what Kieran had nearly, done the first time HE'D flown one of these puppies—and he was usually the Rock of Gerbaltar when it came to matters of self-control.

"Y' stupid little perisher! " The sea-mink had screamed, clutching the miniature aircraft as if preparing to choke the life out of it, "Oi ought t' use yer for a real brick!"

"What's the matter?" Conor, then known as Dylan, had asked him.

Kieran had promptly wheeled on him, waving the drone like a signal flag.

"What's the matter? What's the matter! I'll tell ye what's the matter, boy. Seems this silly little twit's got a firmware update available…an' now the stupid website won't leave the stupid control console alone 'til I upload it."

"So click 'No." Conor had shrugged, and the effect had been like dropping a lit match into spilled gunpowder.

"Oi did, y' little idiot...'bout a dozen times! And every single one of 'em, the enquiry window came right back again, 'Would yer' like to upload now?' Piece o' junk, it's loike a bratty little kid's what it is; 'Are we there yet, Daddy? Are we there yet, Daddy? Are we there yet, Daddy? '"

"Okay-y-y, so...upload the firmware…and be done with it." This time the young fox's suggestion had been delivered a lot more cautiously...though you'd never have known it from Kieran's reaction. Not to put too fine a point on it, he'd come halfway out of his pelt–snatching the up control console and all but shoving it in the young fox's face.

"What d'ye think I'm DOIN' then, boyo? Here, 'ave look at this, why don't yer? Foive stinkin' minutes, and it's not even a third o' the way done."

After that, Conor had wisely chosen to clam up and keep his opinions to himself. By then he'd known that to a cyber-warrior like Kieran McCrodon, five minutes was an Ice Age. Even so, who would have thought that what he'd learned from the sea-mink's meltdown that day would come in handy sometime in the future?

He'd had no way of knowing whether or not that update inquiry would work. It might trigger the Evole website into demanding an upload right NOW…or it might do nothing at all. The latter possibility was anything but a remote one while the drone was in active flight, but it had still been worth a try. After all, there were plenty of other apps that refused to take 'later' for an answer if you inquired about an update—or sometimes, even if you didn't. In the end, the young fox's ploy had worked, but there'd be no such thing as patting himself on the back. The fact that this particular drone had chosen THIS particular moment to insist on a firmware update might be just a little too much of a coincidence for Tuffguy Tufts to swallow.

Well, that was just another chance Conor would have to take. After all, what else was he supposed to have done, just sit here and hope that the drone pilot would get bored or something and call back the machine on his own?

Come to think of it, why was he just sitting here now? Yeah right, time to get moving again, but first…

Returning the dental-mirror to its pocket, Conor used his laptop to check the view from both his and the ZPD's surveillance cameras. It occurred to him then that he could use that hack to see if the drone had noticed him earlier, simply play back the footage from its cameras for the last few minutes. That should really wait until he was inside the tunnel though… Aggggh, grrr, no it couldn't, there wasn't any wi-fi down there. He'd have to wait until he made it to the Lionheart Auditorium before he could review that drone footage.

Except… it was going to take him a while to get there and what about that stinkin' infrared camera? The Dual 640 hadn't turned its camera-pod in his direction after climbing up to where he could see it, but what about before then? Could that thing have picked up his body heat even through this whatever-it-was disk? Dangit, he had to know.

Okay, one quick playback before he pulled out. Moving the cursor to the appropriate window, Conor clicked on it, watched it expand, and hit rewind. Right away he knew he was safe; there was the disk, as seen from slightly below, as clear as a full-moon on a cloudless night…but with no outline visible of anything behind it.

But then he noticed something else; some kind of design was etched into the surface of the disk…only barely visible in infrared, but there it was all right.

Without thinking, he switched over to the other camera and…

Ohhh, so that's what this thing was for…it was actually an oversized medallion, done up in faux-gold and embossed with the school crest. Dumb fox, he should have known all along. There'd been another one just like it, hanging over the stage for last year's auditions…

Waitaminnit…hanging over the stage?

Conor looked up fast, and for the first time, saw the cable running upward from the top of the disk. Looking up even further, he saw the pulley assembly.

"Ohhhh, fox…!"

His thoughts were cut off as, somewhere below, an electric motor hummed. And then the medal detached itself from the scaffold and began to drop downwards, taking him with it.

No time to think, only to act; Conor snapped the laptop shut and heaved it up onto the catwalk. It landed square in the center, bounced once, skidded a couple of inches and then stopped. Pulling himself into a crouch, he leaped up after it in a fox pounce...only realizing his mistake after it was too late.

Between having only an inch of purchase on the rim of the disk—and forgetting about the weight on his back—Conor badly miscalculated the jump. Without those two encumbrances, a soft landing on the catwalk would have been a slam-dunk. Instead the only thing that slammed was his chest into the guardrail—at full force. When he hit, the air exploded from his lungs, and a swarm of charcoal specks filled his vision. Dazed and unfocused, he reached up blindly, grabbing at anything. His paws closed on empty air, and then something was sliding up his arms…No, his arms were sliding downwards; he was FALLING!

A lightning bolt of adrenaline shot through the young fox's body, jolting him instantly alert. The railing; grab the railing before…

Too late…he felt it skitter off the pads of his paws. He flailed desperately, claws extended, even though he knew there was nothing between him and the floor. In his mind's eye he saw it rushing up to meet…

He felt his left paw smacked against something flat and metallic…and rough; the latticework floor of the catwalk. Dig in with your claws; grab it, and hold on...OW!

His arm seemed to have been wrenched from its socket…but at least he wasn't falling any more. It wouldn't be for long though, not unless he did something and did it fast.

Swinging upwards with his other arm, Conor scrabbed frantically with his claws, and felt them dig into the floor's gridwork. Slowly, laboriously, he pulled himself upwards, rolling onto the catwalk and coming to rest, face down and panting.

Below him the medallion continued its descent. Wait, where was his tail, was it dangling beneath him again? No, there it was splayed out on the catwalk behind him. Ohhh, if he ever got out of this place...

Getting up on his elbows, Conor raised his eyes and…Aggggh grrrr, willya gimme a stinkin' break already! All that futzing around, jumping onto the scaffold and trying to pull himself back up again had caused his laptop to slide around the floor like a hockey puck—and now there it was, about three feet in front of him, teetering halfway into space on the edge of the catwalk, almost seeming to mock him.

"Thought you were outta the woods huh, fox-boy; well-l-l-ll, guess WHAT?"

Forcing himself not to growl, Conor got to his feet…or tried to. The motion caused the catwalk to sway just ever so slightly—and the laptop to tilt sideways, in the direction of the floor below.

"I-I-I wouldn't do that if I were you, kid."

Conor stopped what he was doing and very gingerly lowered himself onto all fours. He was absolutely certain that NOW was when the cops would show up. After the way everything else had gone south this morning, why wouldn't they catch him looking like THIS?

Muttering silent curses, the fugitive young silver fox began a slow crawl towards the errant laptop, making his way with the stylized, deliberate movements of an actor in a Kabuki play.

Inch by inch, he crept towards the precious notebook computer…watching it tilt and teeter with every little movement that he made. He was two feet away now, a foot and a half…Dangit, this was taking forever! He had less than a foot to go when the laptop decided that was close enough and slid off the edge of the scaffold again…and this time, it wasn't just teasing.

Lunging desperately for the runaway computer, Conor grabbed for anything within reach—and this time he got lucky, catching it with both paws and…

…And now HE was starting to over the edge; in his desperation to retrieve the laptop, he had overshot the mark and there was the floor again, coming up…!

Conor jerked to a halt as something caught him from behind. For a second, he felt the old rage rising up again, but then quickly realized nobody was there.

Cautiously pulling himself backwards, he managed about an inch of movement, before something yanked him a halt again. But this time he was able to pinpoint the thing that was holding him; it was just in back of his right shoulder. His backpack had gotten snagged on something. He pushed back a little harder; nothing happened. He tried again, at the same time wiggling his shoulders.

That worked; he came free again, falling backwards into a sitting position on the catwalk floor. If front of him, he could see a bolt protruding from the underside of the guardrail…perhaps a quarter of an inch, but enough to stop his fall.

Wait, the laptop…had he…?

No, it was still there in his paws. Pulling it in close to his body, Conor held on tight, wanting to let out a righteous fox-scream and knowing he didn't dare.

He stayed like that for perhaps half a second, and then bared his fangs, holding the laptop at arm's length, staring and snarling under his breath.

"Whose stinkin' side are you on, anyway? And as for you…" he turned his eyes upwards, towards the ceiling, "alright, I get the message already, I'm outta here. Now will you PLEASE cut me some foxin' slack?"

So saying, Conor took off his backpack again and opened it. After unceremoniously jamming the laptop back where it belonged, he closed it up, hefted it and continued on his way, no longer moving on all fours. The heck with that; enough was enough. If somebody spotted him, if another drone showed up, if the cops were already waiting for him downstairs…well then, that was what was gonna happen. He was fed up to HERE with all this frinkin', stinkin', Mission Impawssible garbage.

That did not, however, prevent him from climbing down the stairs on all fours. It wasn't that he was any less conspicuous this way; it was just that all fours allowed him to move a whole lot faster. Right now, the only thing he cared about was getting back inside his tunnel and ditching this crummy funhouse, once and for all.

When he made it down to ground level and stood up again…wonder of wonders, he still had the stage to himself—or did he? That medallion hadn't lowered itself after all; there had to be somebody else around here somewhere.

Maybe…but wherever they were, it wasn't on this side of the stage. Otherwise they'd already be yelling for the cops.

Remembering to keep clear of the surveillance cameras, Conor edged his way along the back wall of the right-side stage wing…and then Hallelujah, there she was, the secret door leading down to the hidden tunnel and still no surveillance cameras pointing at it. Yeah, it was going to make a racket when he opened it, but right now it could set off a siren for all he cared; he just wanted to get the heck out of here.

Padding silently over to the hidden doorway, he felt for the sweet spot, pressed once on the left and then…

…And that was when he heard the wee voice coming from behind him, "Hey you, what are you doing back here?"

Conor froze in his tracks. His first instinct was to throw open the hidden door, duck though, close it behind him, and chock it shut. The animal speaking to him was obviously a rodent; even without the door being braced, they'd never be able open it without somebody bigger to help them.

His second thought was to turn and attack; any day, he couldn't take an animal this small…

"Don't…EVEN…!" his inner voice growled.

The third notion to cross his mind was…except for Tuffguy Tufts, the closest thing to a rodent on the ZPD payroll was Judy Hopps. And that obviously wasn't her voice speaking—or the squirrel's.

So it wasn't a cop, but…heyyyyy, it was a voice he knew the young fox suddenly realized. That knowledge brought on a strange sensation, a curious mixture of rising hope and a heavy heart. He could still make it out of here without the cops nailing him, but now there'd be a price to pay.

…And it wouldn't be on his tab.

He turned around and dropped his gaze.

There, in front of him, perched on a rolling stool, was a young Asian black rat, clad in black pants, a white shirt, and a burnt-orange vest, topped off by a black tie, worn at half-mast. Affixed to his ears was a seriously spendy-looking, rodent size headset. He was seated in front of a pint-sized control console…and he looked more than a little bit frightened.

"Wh-What are you doing here?" he asked again, pushing back against the edge of the workstation.

For a moment, Conor was puzzled. What the heck, why didn't he…? D'ohhh, right…of course; his friend hadn't recognized him through his disguise. Raising his paws to the side of his head, he pushed upwards, indicating for the rat to remove the headset. Mike Daehan complied with trembling fingers, and the fugitive young silver fox dropped swiftly into a crouch.

"Easy bro'; it's me, Conor."

Mike said nothing to this. But his twitching whiskers and furrowed brow told the fugitive young silver fox that the changes he'd made to his appearance—and his scent—were turning out to be even more effective than he might have imagined.

As for the rodent's skepticism, no worries, that was easily handled.

"Remember the first time we jammed together Mike? It was on Firth of Fifth by Genetsis." He allowed his nose to wrinkle and his ears to turn backwards. "I wanted to keep going, even after I broke that guitar string, but noooooo, you made us stop until I fixed it and then we had to start all over again."

Mike's whiskers stiffened, along with his tail.

"Oh, give it up already Conor; nobody can play that solo with only..." He gasped and his eyes and mouth flew open. "Oh my God, it IS you!"

The young fox only grinned, and his friend's incredulity vanished in an instant, replaced by an expression half aghast, half bewildered.

"Wha…what the heck are you doing here? Are you crazy or something?"

Conor felt his grin turn lopsided. "You're only just NOW figuring that out?"

Mike's paws clenched and went to his hips.

"Don't make jokes, this is serious. There was a cop here only a couple of minutes ago and they're almost ready to start letting mammals into the amphitheater." His whiskers stiffened, along with this tail. "Jimminies Conor, the ZPD'S expecting you!"

At once, the young fox felt his ears beginning to wilt. That wasn't anything he didn't already know, but hearing it from Mike was like a smack across the chops. He really had messed up that badly in coming here.

But then the young Asian black rat did something odd. Dropping from his stool he beckoned with a paw, "C'mon, hurry!" and got down on all fours, skittering across the floor of the stage wing. For one, incredulous second, the young fox thought he might be making for the hidden door. Not quite; about a third of the way there, Mike stopped, stood up on his haunches, and pointed at the ground, "Quick, over here."

Conor went over to where the rat was pointing and what now? It looked like there was a handle embedded in the floor, of the kind seen on roadie cases.

"Don't just stand there, grab it and pull!" Mike's voice was an imperative hiss…and Conor's head was reeling; his friend had never sounded this forceful before. He reached down and yanked; nothing happened.

"Not that way, the other way. Pull it to the left, not right."

Growling in annoyance, the young fox complied and this time, to his immediate surprise, a section of the floor gave way and came upwards…but only by an inch or two before he had to let it down again. Whatever the heck this thing was, it was obviously geared towards a larger species than a fox.

Grabbing the handle again, this time with both paws, Conor braced himself with his legs apart. At first the section of floor came up only grudgingly—very grudgingly. It felt as if he was in a tug-of-war with a rhinoceros. However, he was also beginning to feel the same sense of urgency as his friend…because now he realized that what he was pulling on was the lid of a trap-door. What he wasn't so certain of was whether or not he could get it all the way open. But then, at a little past the halfway point the going became easier, much easier, and the trap door practically fell open on its own.

Peering over the rim, Conor saw a flight of steps leading downward, much shorter than ones in the hidden tunnel, but still…

A thousand questions bloomed in his mind, but only one of them made it to his lips. "What the HECK?"

Mike's whiskers went rigid again.

"Shut up and get DOWN there!"

Conor did, but then looked up again, thoroughly baffled.

"How'm I supposed to shut this thing?"

Mike's face appeared in the hatchway with all four of his incisors showing

"Oh for…there's a crank right next to you, don't you see it?"

"No, I…wait there it is." It was embedded in the wall on his right and smaller than the young fox expected, just his size in fact. There was also a two-way toggle switch, but that wouldn't matter 'til later. What mattered now was that his bud was right; he needed to get this door shut, and right now!

Closing it turned out to be a lot easier than opening it; the crank turned almost effortlessly in his paws. This thing might need a larger species to open it from the outside, but from down here almost anyone could manage it. That was hardly surprising, Conor realized, as his eyes began to adjust to the dimness. There wasn't enough space in here for anything bigger than a coyote or a jackal.

But…what the heck was this place?

Any further thoughts along these lines were preempted by the soft thump of the trap-door closing—causing Conor's heart to answer with a thump of its own. Had anyone heard that? Cocking an ear, he listened carefully. The only sound was the scurrying away of tiny feet, and he immediately gave himself a mental kick.

"Awwww NUTS! I never even thanked him!"

---

As one door closes another one always opens—or so the old chestnut goes. Right then, a pair of buses parked in the service area of the Gazelle Amphitheater, were disgorging a steady stream of bunnies and other small species.

The first ones off, as befit their station, were Bonnie and Stu; followed by Stu Junior and the older Hopps children, with the youngsters bringing up the rear. As the rabbit of the hour, Erin could have claimed first exit privilege, but had insisted upon waiting her usual turn. Besides, she wanted to stick with her posse.

When she finally stepped off of the bus, she noticed something that made her ears prick up and her nose begin to twitch. Parked just up ahead was an oversized utility van, emblazoned with the words, 'Benjamin Furnklin – The Punctual Plumber.' Underneath was a caricature of the famous portly beaver and beneath this was a slogan, written in Olde Colonial Script. 'If There's Any Delay, It's You We Pay.'

"What now? What the heck is THAT doing here?" She hoped it didn't mean…

"Hello-o-o? Ground control to Major Erin… Come in, please; you're holding up the line."

"Oops, sorry Jude," she said, moving out of the way with a nervy grin. In the background several of her girlfriends were giggling behind raised paws.

"What is it, Sis?" the older bunny asked, still curious about her sister's unexpected hesitation.

"Ohhh, nothing," Erin shrugged and waved a paw at the plumbing truck. To her considerable surprise, Judy's ears shot to full attention.

"Oooo, I see what you mean. That's not a city truck; it's from a private plumbing company. There must be something pretty serious going on here for them to get called out on a Saturday."

"I know, right?" Erin replied, trying not to speak too quickly. "I just hope it won't affect the auditions." She tried but was unable to keep her foot from thumping.

Judy clapped a paw on the younger bunny's shoulder. "Don't worry Sis, I'm sure the school's on top of it. Now c'mon," she smiled, "let's go find our seats."

Not…quite; just inside the theater lobby was a sign, written in several different languages. The only message that mattered to Erin was the one up top.

'Attention: All Admission Applicants – Please Sign In At The Registration Desk.' Next to these words was an arrow indicating the appropriate direction.

Erin stopped and turned to the others looking slightly embarrassed, or maybe she was just a little nervous; who wouldn't be after all?

"Oops, looks like I need to go get registered."

"Want me to go with you?" It was her sister Violet, who seemed to have taken note of the younger bunny's mild case of anxiety.

Erin considered the offer for a second and then shook her head.

"Noooo, I got this," she said, and then held out the cases she was carrying in the direction of her posse. "Can you guys take care of my bass and pedalboard while I go get signed up?"

"No problem," Sue Cannon answered at once, stepping forward to take custody of the cases, along with Jill and Terri.

"Thanks guys," the young doe-bunny replied, passing them over. She was just about to go, when she became aware of something. What were Mom, Dad, and Violet looking at her like that for?

"Uhhh, what?" she said, turning in their direction with a twitching nose.

"What!" Her mother's foot was thumping like a telegraph key. "You wouldn't let your father or me anywhere NEAR that guitar last night."

"Or me," Violet chimed in, equally perplexed.

Erin just stared curiously for a second. "Well, yeah," she said, wondering what the heck the big deal was.

The other three Hopps bunnies just looked at each other. And then Bonnie sighed and waved a paw.

"Never mind, go ahead Erin. We'll see you down at our seats in a few minutes."

There were actually three registration tables, set up at the far end of the foyer and arranged by species size. They were all doing a brisk business, with a line-up of at least ten kids apiece. It was the middle table that interested Erin, the one reserved for Small Mammals. Taking her place at the end of the queue, she could only marvel at the number and diversity of applicants hoping to be accepted for admission into the Zootopia Academy of the Performing Arts. Sweet cheez' n' crackers, there were just sooo many kids here—and from so many different places and walks of life. Here was a young wallaby, done up as if for the red-carpet at the Pawscars. Whoa that dress she was wearing looked like it cost more than the Hopps Family Farm made in a decent season. And check out the Tasmanian Devil in the double-breasted blazer and mirrored shades standing beside her. Was that her—what did they call it, her fursonal assistant—maybe even her bodyguard? And now look at the coati-kid over there. He was practically in rags, with rips in his jeans that were obviously not a fashion statement; the shirt he was wearing could have had thrift-shop written all over it.

And these were only two of many, many young hopefuls; before another minute had passed, Erin's sharp rabbit-ears had heard voices speaking in maybe a dozen different accents. Twice, at least, she picked up on conversations taking place in a language that she couldn't understand. And that wasn't even mentioning the myriad of different species strewn throughout the theater lobby; from towering elephants all the way down to pygmy opossums no bigger than a gumdrop. It was thrilling, and at the same time daunting. The greater the number of kids trying out today, the lesser the likelihood that any one of them would be accepted for admission to ZAPA. The number of open slots for this year's incoming class was a fixed figure; it would not increase in proportion to the number of applicants.

Well then, Erin decided, she would just have to give it everything she had; heaven only knew, she was as ready as she was ever going to be.

The line she was in was long, but fast moving. In less than five minutes, the young, white furred bunny was only one animal away from getting registered.

And that was when everything ground to a halt amid a din of raised voices.

"What do you mean I CAN'T try out?" The jaguarundi in front of her demanded. Moving his legs apart and planting his feet like a sentry, he capped the statement with small growl

"I'm sorry," a patient young female voice responded, "but these aren't open auditions. First you have to…"

"No way!" the feline interrupted and then leaned forward. Erin heard a banging noise and then "I saw online that anybody's welcome!"

"To watch, not to participate," the female speaker replied, beginning to sound irritated. Erin could sympathize; the idiot standing in front of her looked like he belonged here about as much as a polar bear belongs in the Amazon jungle. His studded jacket was missing half its studs and was decorated with a crude anarchist's 'A'. The lime-green dye-job on his head fur had been applied so clumsily that it looked as if he was suffering from radioactive mange. It was a near no brainer that the trio of piercings in his ears, and the two in his tail were only the tip of the iceberg.

"That's it, snot-nose," he snarled, "I'm not talking to you anymore. Go call your supervisor…right NOW."

"Oh, I'll call someone," the unseen speaker snarled right back, having obviously had her fill of this pinhead. "Jason? Got a problem over here."

"Be right thea'," a curiously melodic voice answered from behind, and then someone strode past Erin, excusing himself as he went. "Beg pardon."

She immediately felt her ears rise up. Uh, ohhhh…an Afurican Wild Dog; there was another animal you didn't want to mess with—because you never messed with just one of them; you'd invariably have to take on their whole pack. These guys had the most tightly knit social structure of any canine species; one for all, and all for one, that was their creed and their lifestyle.

Moving swiftly around to the front of the line, the wild dog got between the jaguarundi and the table, speaking in hushed tones. Even with her keen hearing, Erin was unable to make out what he said, but the feline apparently got the hint. Moving swiftly out of line, he headed furtively towards the exit. Midway there, he stopped, turned around and raised his paws, making devil's horns with his fingers, and screeching like a set of claws dragging on a corrugated roof.

"Good luck, LOSERS!"

And then he was out the door, pursued by a chorus of derisive laughter and catcalls from the kids still waiting in line.

Erin wasn't able to join them; it was her turn next at the registration table.

Except…now she could see who was running that table, and of all possible animals... Ohhhh, Sweet Cheez' n' crackers, she was a coyote. Uh, what was it the young doe-bunny had had said to herself earlier—something about no longer being bothered by the mention of Craig Guilford? Uh-huh, riiiiight, nooo problem…until she found herself face-to-face with another member of that creep's species.

Oh great, and now the coyote-girl was beckoning to her. "C'mon hon, you're up.

She had high cheekbones and a broad face for a member of her species. She might almost have passed for a smallish wolf. For the occasion she was wearing a loose-fitting, rust-colored shirt with a wide, matching bandanna wrapped around her head. Draped around her neck was a necklace of turquoise disks strung together like a roll of coins, and above this, she wore a tiny bark-skin pouch, held in place by a simple cord.

"Hon?" The coyote girl was looking at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh, quit being such a wuss already," Erin's inner voice rebuked her. She swallowed and stepped forward.

"Okay," the coyote girl asked, looking up with her fingers poised over her laptop. "Name…full name please?"

"Hopps…um, Erin Janelle Hopps." the young bunny answered, mad at herself for being so nervous.

The girl 'yote seemed not to notice. Looking down at her computer screen, she typed in Erin's name and after a short pause, smiled and nodded.

"Okay, there you are. Do you have your letter of invitation with you, or some other form of ID?"

Erin wanted to groan; the letter inviting her to audition today was back inside of her guitar case. Dangit, she knew she'd forgotten some…wait, hadn't the coyote-girl also said, 'or any form of ID?'

"I have my student identification card. Will that work?"

"That'll work just fine," the young canine said, holding out a paw.

It took Erin less than a second to find her ID, but then why not? There it was, right in her wallet where she'd left it.

After only the briefest of examinations, the coyote-girl smiled again and gave it back, at the same time consulting her screen again.

"Okay-y-y, it says here that you'll be both singing and playing an instrument for your audition today, buuuut…" Her eyes found Erin's again, "it doesn't say which instrument."

"Oh uh, bass guitar," the young bunny answered. The coyote girl nodded and entered the info, but before she could say anything else, another voice joined the conversation.

"What, play bess guitah you say?"

Someone moved around behind the table, the Afurican Wild Dog Erin had seen chasing off that punk/metal Jaguarundi a moment ago. He was dressed in jeans and a long, midnight-blue, collarless V-neck shirt with a sunset-yellow tribal design stitched around the neckline and the hem of his sleeves. On his face he wore the pearliest grin the young doe bunny had ever seen.

"You name Erin, right? You de bunny Conah was talkin' 'bout, the one he played with at Carrot Days fest?" His accent was rich with the veldt of his homeland.

"Yeah, that's me," Erin answered, twitching her nose in surprise—not so much at the wild dog's question, but more over the fact that…why the heck was that coyote girl looking as if she'd just stepped on a piece of broken glass? "How do you know Conor?" she asked, the inquiry seeming to come out of nowhere.

If such a thing were possible, the canine's smile seemed to broaden even further.

"Oh we know Conah real well, Dana and me; went to Academy wid' him last year." He said this while laying a paw on the coyote-girl's shoulder. She stiffened as if a chunk of dry ice had just landed on it. "We jam togeddah many, many times."

"Jason…" the coyote girl said…in a very even tone.

"Conah tol' us all 'bout you…said you got a great singing voice…"

"Jasonnn…" Her voice had risen slightly.

"Said he couldn't wait to see you audition…"

"Jason!" This time it came out as an angry bark—and it had the desired effect. The wild dog stopped and stared at her in confusion.

"Eh, what then?"

She responded by hissing at him through a wall of bared teeth and drawing her thumb across her throat.

"Well, 'scuse ME, missy," the wild dog growled. And then straightening up and thrusting out his chin, he turned and walked away, all dignity.

Dana watched him go with a shaking head, and then turned her attention back to Erin.

"Sorry about that, now how many pieces of gear do you have with you today?"

"Uh, just two, my bass and my pedalboard," the bunny girl responded, and then snapped her fingers, "Oh, and my bag with my stage outfit, too."

"Don't want to forget THAT," the coyote replied, her smile reminding Erin that she too, had once auditioned here. And then reaching under the table, she produced a trio of tags on elastic strings. At the same time, with her other paw, she moved her laptop's mouse and clicked. In the background, a printer began to buzz back and forth. While this was going on, Dana reached under the table again, this time coming up with a clear, plastic cardholder, skewered through the top by a safety pin. When the printer ceased its motions, she got up and came back with a stiff, business-card-sized piece of paper which she slipped into the cardholder.

"'Kay, here's your badge," she said, passing it to the young doe-bunny, "make sure you don't lose it." Erin nodded and saw the young coyote pointing at the three tags. "Those are for your gear. You'll want to put your ID number on them along with your name. It's printed there on the upper right side of your badge."

"No sweat," Erin replied, raising a thumb. She was about to say thanks, but stopped, sensing that Dana had more to tell her.

She did, but for some reason, her mouth had angled sharply to the left.

"All right, now it may be a while before they're ready backstage; there's, errr…a problem with the restroom back there. They'll make an announcement over the PA when everything's good to go. When you hear it, you'll want to report to the left side stage entrance—which will be on the RIGHT side as you're looking towards the stage." She allowed herself a small grin, "Confused yet?"

"Nawwww, I think I got it," Erin answered, flipping a paw back and forth. Craig Guildford's species or not, she was beginning to like this 'yote-girl.

Dana flipped her paws upwards, "Okay-y-y then, you're all set. Good luck, bunny."

"Thanks," Erin smiled and got out of line. She would have liked to say more, but there were others waiting behind her.

Passing by the female's restroom on the way to find her family, two things occurred to her. Number one; there was trouble with the restroom backstage? Ah-haaaa, so that's what that plumbing truck was doing here. Number two; if that was the case, perhaps she'd better go now while the going was good.

There was a line-up for the stalls inside of the restroom… long, but no worse than anything Erin had to put up with at home; coming from a family as big as hers occasionally had its advantages.

Exiting the restroom a minute later, she halted in her tracks beside a door marked, 'Staff Only', feeling her ears rise up. Somewhere on the other side, a familiar voice was speaking.

It was Jason, the Afurican Wild Dog that she'd encountered a while earlier. His tone was wheedling, almost a whimper.

"All right, tell me what I did, then."

Dana's answer was taut and high with annoyance.

"Ohhh, are you really going to make me spell it out, Jason m'Beke?"

Erin leaned back against the wall, pretending to study her cell-phone screen, at the same time keeping one ear turned in the direction of the door. She knew she shouldn't but…

"Yes…okey, I'm stupid, okey," the young wild dog was beginning to sound almost as exasperated as her, "So tell me, what did I DO, then?"

The answer came in that same, very even voice coyote girl had used before.

"If there is one day…when you do NOT want to bring up Conor Lewis's name…it's today!"

"What, then?" Jason's voice had gone from inveigling to incredulous, and perhaps even a little scornful, "What, you think he's goin' to appeah out of nowhere if I say his name?"

"No," Dana told him, this time in a crisp growl, "But some COP might. Maybe you didn't notice, but there's a whole raiding party of them here today. No? Well I sure as heck did, and I have better things to do than go through another inquisition with thatdlodziłgaii jerk, Toffy…or whatever his name is. And don't you DARE make that joke, 'nobody expects The Inquisition'…again!"

Erin bit her knuckle, giggling in hisses through clenched teeth. She could almost picture the girl-coyote, thrusting a finger in Jason's anxious face. If the next thing he did was apologize, her suspicions would be confirmed.

"Okey, Okey Dana. You're right, I'm sorry, I didn't think. Forgive me?" He was speaking in that puppy dog whimper again.

That was good for another stifled snigger from Erin. Yep, she'd been right about these two…but it was hardly surprising; they were both canines after all.

"Mmmm, I'll think about it." Dana replied. HER voice had turned playfully coy—which meant that yes she'd forgive her guy, but it was going to cost him. That was something about which the young, white-furred bunny was 100% certain.

And on that note, she pushed herself off the wall and went on her way; it was time to go find her family and her girlfriends.

Chapter 18: Meet on the Ledge (Continued...Part 3)

Summary:

You got problems? Everybody's got problems!

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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He came from somewhere back in her long ago
The sentimental fool don't see
Trying hard to recreate what had yet to be created...

The Doobie Brothers

---

Chapter 5—Meet on the Ledge
(Cont'd…Part 3)

"Hello…this Dr. Vignius." A deep frown creased the arkar sheep's face as he listened and he pressed the phone a little closer to his ear. "I'm sorry, this isn't the best connection…can you speak up, just a little? Yes, well I was just wondering… do you have an update for us?"

Watching him, Claudia Nizhang was also frowning, albeit for a different reason. She had never lost the old policemammal's intuition; knowing without knowing when someone was holding out on you. And it had been shrieking like a smoke-alarm ever since she'd entered this office. There was something Carl Vignius wasn't telling her—and whatever it was, it had nothing to do with either that malfunctioning restroom or a plumbing company called in to deal with it. The actual source of his reticence—the red panda was all but certain of it—was related to something she'd become aware of within seconds of passing through the entrance gate. The ZPD had the Gazelle Amphitheater staked out from here to downtown Meowria; plainclothes officers all over the place. A regular animal would never have noticed them—but to a former ZYPD sergeant of detectives, they'd been about as unnoticeable as fireworks in a funeral parlor. She'd even recognized two of them; members of the ZPD Cybercrimes Unit…and there could be only one reason why those nerdniks were here today.

So the rumors she'd heard were true. Okay, fine…it was a lead she'd have followed up on herself back in the day. But wǒ qù, THIS many officers…all to nab a 14-year-old fox-kid? It made her want to hunt down a certain Kaibab squirrel and give her an extra-large piece of her mind. "This is a student audition, you stupid turtle-egg, not a Cosa Nostra social club!"

She would do no such thing of course, but she was absolutely going to pay a courtesy call on Attorney General Sayanov's office, first thing, Monday morning. Unlike a few other mammals she could name, Claudia had a fairly good idea as to why he was backing Albert Tufts to the hilt.

But that was for Monday; this was today.

It should have been no surprise to anyone that Zootopia City Councilmember Claudia Nizhang was here. Had, or had she not been instrumental in bringing the Zootopia Academy of the Performing Arts to fruition? Heck, the arkar sheep sitting on the other side of the desk had taken the job as Academy President at her request. He had then promptly returned the favor–which was the bigger reason why she was attending the Academy tryouts.

It had started the year before, when she'd gotten a call two weeks before the student auditions were set to take place. "I want one animal on the judge's panel that's never in their life had anything to do with the entertainment business," Dr. Vignius had explained, "Just a regular mammal but someone who knows what they like."

Claudia had, at first, been dubious of the idea–but how could she refuse his request? On the actual day of the auditions however, her reluctance had vanished with the first performance and she'd loved every second of what followed. When Carl had asked her to sit on the judge's panel again this year, she'd said yes before he could finish even half a sentence.

"I see," the arkar was speaking into the phone again, his mouth becoming a thin, straight line. "Well please…keep me posted. The first guests are already starting to arrive. Yes, I know; I understand. Good-bye."

With a deep sigh, he rang off the call, tossing the cell-phone onto the desktop as if it were a losing poker hand.

"How bad?" Claudia asked him, already suspecting that the news was anything but positive.

Dr. Vignius let out a long, snuffling breath. "They say at least an hour, probably longer."

"Oooo," Claudia winced, and then decided she might as well get it out of the way. "I-I-I suppose someone has to say it, Carl. The City isn't going to like it when they find out you called in a private plumbing company to fix that problem—on a Saturday, no less."

The arkar-sheep only grunted, folding his hooves across his midsection.

"The City's got nothing to do with it, Claudia. I'm paying for those plumbers out of my own pocket." At this she felt her eyebrows jump, and it was an expression not lost on her host. "Penance for my sins, Councilmember; I should have had that restroom taken care of as soon as classes let out for the summer. But no, I was in a hurry to see the grandkids—and so, here we are."

More than ever, Claudia Nizhang was glad the Performing Arts Academy had this mammal as its President.

However that did not resolve the more immediate issue. Fortunately, she thought she had an idea.

"What say I go find Gazelle? Maybe she can keep the crowd entertained until the plumbers are done."

Carl Vignius grinned in spite of himself. "Are you sure you were never in show business, Ms. Nizhang? That's an excellent idea; go ye forth then, and seek out our champion."

Seek…and ye shall find. But that doesn't necessarily mean ye shall have immediate access. Claudia was able to locate Gazelle almost immediately. "She's in Dressing Room 'C' backstage," an okapi, one of the janitors, told her.

When she got there however, she found the pop-star's fursonal assistant, with her feet planted firmly in front of the door. Her name was Mirasol Jácara and she was an Olingo, a broad-faced cousin of the raccoon and a favorite of the employer to whom she was fiercely loyal. As always, she was decked out in a brightly colored dress and round-rimmed spectacles, a size too big for her face. Upon noting the red panda's approach, she swiftly held up a paw.

"I am sorry, Señora Nizhang," she said, as bubbly as if she were delivering the best news of the day, "but Señorita Gazelle is busy at the moment, speaking with her manager on the phone. A private matter and very important; I'm sure you will understand."

"I do," Claudia nodded. While never one to be overawed by celebrity, she understood that even public figures were entitled to a private moment every now and then. "Should I wait or come back later?"

Mirasol cocked her head towards the door before answering.

"It shouldn't be much longer; you can wait if you like."

Inside the dressing room, Gazelle was speaking on her cell-phone while pacing back and forth across the floor. This wasn't her being skittish; as an antelope from the plains, it was simply a habit of her species.

"All right Bert, when are they planning to air it?" Listening to the answer, she halted in her tracks and shut her eyes, taking in a slow lingering breath. When she spoke again, her voice was dripping with battery acid; "Ahhh, tomorrow night… how considerate of ZMT to wait until today to notify us! Have you spoken to Geoffrey yet?" It was a silly question and she knew it. Of course Bert would have consulted with her attorney; he was ever the soul of efficiency. Still, she had to be certain.

The koala's response made her wince yet again, although his answer was hardly unexpected. Yes he had spoken with Geoff—and the reedbuck had said, point blank, that she had no legal recourse to stop the piece from being broadcast. She could have flung her phone across the room. Ohhh, why did this have to happen now?"

Oops, Bert was speaking to her again. "No…no, I should be the one to tell Renato," She said. "Yes, I'm sure. All riiiight, so now…what should I do after that? Should I just keep quiet and wait until….?" Her left ear began to flicker. "Eh, try to get out in front of it…mmm, what do you mean?"

There was silence in the room for a moment, with Gazelle drumming her fingers on a knee as she listened.

"Come on Bert, you know the Academy auditions are happening today; I can't just walk…Yes, I know you're not asking me to…All right then, what ARE you suggesting…?" She stopped, listening for a moment, but this time with a thoughtful expression. "I-I see what you mean, Bert. Yes, but…I don't see how I would be able to… Well, we're on a very tight schedule…many more young mammals auditioning than last year. All right, I'll try. Yes, I know…be subtle…" Her ears locked in place and her brow suddenly furrowed. "What? Yes, I'm still here but I just thought of something. Someone needs to figure out what we are going to do when that el loco Guinea pig gets wind of…" She stopped, drumming fingers again, and this time rolling her eyes. Taking the phone in both hooves, she held it in front of her face, as if preparing to tell it off. "Yes, I know he's not a Guinea pig; does it make a difference? When he latches onto this story, he'll be all over it. Look at all the mileage he got out of… YES, exactly! " The phone went back to her ear again. "Yes, good…see what you can do. In the meantime, I'll try to figure out if there's any way that I can, er…get in front of it, as you say. Only please understand, I will not do anything to jeopardize the auditions. Yes, I know you wouldn't ask that of me, but I needed to say it, just the same. All right Bert…I will get back to you later. If I'm not able to get in touch myself, I'll have Mirasol call you. All right then, Adios for now."

She disconnected and immediately punched in another number; one that, once upon a time, she'd had on speed dial, though not anymore. In fact, this was the first time she'd called it in more than a year. When the line connected, Gazelle knew right away that she'd gotten his voice mail. She sighed with relief—through clenched teeth—as the away message played. Though he needed to know sooner, rather than later, she had no wish to speak to him directly. Those feelings were buried, let them stay that way.

The line beeped and she spoke hurriedly in Spanish. "Renato, es Gazelle. Tienes que escuchar esto, así que, por favor, no pases al siguiente mensaje..."

When she exited the dressing room a couple of minutes later, there was Mirasol, waiting patiently as usual. Ah, and there was Zootopia City Councilmember Nizhang. Hmmm, she would have to wait until later to tell Milagro about her conversation with Bert—and the message she'd left with Renato.

The look on her face did not escape Claudia's notice, and once again the red panda felt her cop instincts kicking in. Whatever Gazelle had heard from her manager just now, it had not been good news.

It was also nobody else's business…and so she turned to the subject at paw.

"Hello Gazelle, have you got a moment?"

"Yes, certainly," the pop-star replied, her smile appearing just a little bit forced. "What can I do for you?"

Claudia swiftly decided not to beat around the bush.

"Well, I'm sure you heard about the trouble they're having with the privy over by the rehearsal room."

Gazelle's mouth crinkled and she reached up to pinch at her nose.

"I not only heard about it, I smelled it when I came in. Uf, Hermano…did those plumbers El Presidente called ever get here?"

"They're working on it now," Caudia answered, suppressing a smile. She could not have asked for a better opening. "But it's going to take them a while, and that's why I wanted to talk to you. Dr. Vignius and I were wondering if you could see your way clear to, erm, extending your performance until they get things squared away."

"Hmmm," Gazelle thumbed her chin, looking thoughtful. "I only have the one recording with me today, so it would have to be unplugged… Ai, I haven't done a solo acoustic set in a long time…not since…" Her musings halted and she looked to her assistant.

"Milagro, I will need a guitar. Can you go find one for me, a six string acoustic…in large-mammal size?

At once the olingo's face lit up. It reminded Claudia Nizhang of a feline species, catching sight of laser-dot—or Dr. Vignius, contemplating the new school year.

"Leave it to me, Señorita Gazelle, there must be one around here somewhere."

She was gone without another word.

Claudia watched her go and then turned to the pop-star with a raised eyebrow.

"Milagro?"

"That's what I call her," Gazelle replied, in a voice rich with affection, "She is my very own miracle worker." Her ears flicked and her expression turned serious. "Just don't ask me to hold the crowd for more than two extra songs, three at the most. I've seen some of the kids coming in to perform today, and they're…ah, how do you say it? They're raring to go."

"Just like last year," Claudia answered with a knowing nod, "But you know who won't be unhappy about the delay? A certain ZPD police Lieutenant."

"Ah yes, him." Gazelle responded with her brow and mouth both flat-lining. For just a hint of a second, her eyes darted up and away to the left—and once again Claudia Nizhang was left with the distinct impression of someone holding out on her. Odd that she should be getting that vibe when she hadn't even asked a question.

Her best move, she quickly decided, would be to go off on a tangent.

"You know, there's one thing I just can't figure out," she said, "I know why Tufts is here and who he's looking for. What I can't figure out is, why does he think the Lewis boy is planning to attend today's auditions?"

Once again, Gazelle's eyes made a quick left turn, but this time her answer came forth at once.

"Because apparently, el zorrillo plato made a promise to one of today's applicants, swearing that he would be here to see her performance."

Claudia's eyes widened and she felt her ears go up. "Really…who?" She did not expect an answer and when she actually got one, it came almost as a shock.

"A young conejo from Bunnyburrow, Erin Hopps is her name."

If it were possible, Claudia's ears went up even further; now she was certain that Gazelle was keeping something back from her.

Because…"Hopps, you say? Any relation to…Judy Hopps?"

The pop-star's ears flicked once again.

"Yes…I-I think so, though I'm not certain. Umm, why do you ask? Do you know Judy Hopps?"

It was perhaps the clumsiest way possible to turn a conversation around; Claudia had seen it perhaps a zillion times while interrogating a suspect. In this instance, however, she was willing to go along with it

"We've met," she said, "and I like her…a lot. " She felt the corners of her mouth turn downward, "That being said, I find it hard to believe that the Lewis boy is going to risk showing up here today over a promise."

Gazelle only shrugged, looking mildly exasperated.

"Si, I agree…but El Tiente Tufts seems to be under the impression that he has a very big crush on the Hopps girl."

"Well if he does," Claudia snorted derisively, folding her arms, "he couldn't have picked a worse time for it."

"How do you mean?" Gazelle was lifting an eyebrow.

"I mean," Claudia answered, unwinding a paw and turning it upwards, "right after all that hype and hysteria on the TV and the radio...you know, 'pred and prey—keep away,' all that silly nonsense. That fox kid won't just be asking for trouble if it gets around that he came here to watch a bunny-girl perform, he'll be begging for it on bended knee. And it'll be just as bad for…Erin, did you say her name was? And it'll be just as bad for her as for him. Look at what happened to Judy Hopps; she and her partner had to quit working together because of that mud-storm. And now they can't see each other, even on a casual basis….all because he's a pred and she's a prey species."

It was meant as nothing more than small-talk…but for some reason, Gazelle appeared more uncomfortable than ever. Not to put too fine a point on it, she looked almost ready to bolt for her life. Claudia quickly decided to give her an out…or at least what she hoped would be an escape hatch.

"And if Erin Hopps is Judy Hopps's sister, the Lewis kid has to know it. He won't come anywhere near the Academy today, not if he has half a brain."

"Even if he does, he won't stay long enough to watch her perform." Now it was Gazelle folding her arms and nodding grimly. "I've met young Señor Lewis and trust me; he has MORE than half a brain in his skull. When he sees how many policias are here searching for him, he'll be gone like that."

And to emphasize the point, she slapped her hooves against each other.

---

Gazelle was almost right; that was exactly what the fugitive young silver fox would have done if he hadn't bumped into Mike Daehan. And right now, sitting back against the wall of this…whatever-it-was, beneath the stage, he was wondering; why hadn't he bolted for home when he'd had the chance? Was he afraid that his rat-buddy would give him away?

Whether or not that had been his motivation, Conor's inner voice had a few choice words to say on the mater.

"Well, if he gives you away NOW, ya dumb fox, you'll  really  be caught in a sucker-box. At least back there in the tunnel, you had a way outta here. But now…heck you don't even know what this place  is.  All you can do here is sit tight and hope that the ZPD doesn't decide to lean on him. Jiminy-Criminy, you KNOW how scared he is of the cops."

"Maybe," the young fox countered, answering back for once, "But at least now I'm not flying blind. Inside the escape tunnel, he'd been cut off from the internet…not so this time; he had full Wi-Fi access here.

Still…his inner voice did have a point. Mike was way scared of the police; it was almost a phobia with him. If Tuff Guy Tufts decided to haul him in and tighten the screws, he'd crack like a rotten peanut shell.

Or…would he? That stinkin' squirrel had already questioned his rat-buddy at least once, and he hadn't come away with anything of significance—at least not as far as Conor was aware.

True enough, but Lieutenant Bushy-Tail hadn't had any juice to play with that first time around. This time…welcome to Mr. Tufts' neighborhood; can you say 'aiding and abetting a known fugitive?'

Agggggh, grrrrr… Why did it have to be Mike? You could shove Dana Alchesay's tail in a furnace and she wouldn't talk; ditto for Jason m'Beke. Of all his friends, why did it have to be..?

Wait, what? His phone was buzzing; good thing he'd set it on vibrate.

When he picked up, well speak of the Devil, it was Mike on the other end.

"You okay, fox?"

Before answering, Conor opened his laptop, double-clicked the TAUR Icon, and then opened up his backpack. Now, where had he put that headset? Ah there we go.

Smoothing down his head-fur, he fixed it in place, and replied to the rat—via text, not voice.

"M OK, Do U have Ur laptop?" He thought he had seen it, lying atop the control console, but couldn't be certain.

Mike's reply was both short and sweet…and also via text, "Ys."

Conor quickly thumbed his cell.

"Gt off phne. ZPD mayB wtchng. Go 2 Slype N wait. Wll cntKt U thr."

Without waiting for a reply, Conor disconnected the call and—and just to be doubly certain, powered off his cell. While his phone had been modified and encrypted to make it almost untraceable, his friend, Mike's was likely another matter.

"Looks like I'll have to talk to The Beast after all," the young fox muttered, flipping open his laptop. At first glance, his wisest course of action would be to avoid any and all further communications with Mike Daehan—except that his earlier declaration about not flying blind hadn't been entirely truthful. There were so many things he didn't know…and that he would need to know if he hoped to make it out of here without getting busted. At the very least, he needed to find out where the heck he was right now.

It took a minute or two to set up the connection, but when it was done, Conor couldn't help feeling a sense of smug satisfaction. He immediately shoved it back in its box. That kind of overconfidence was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place.

He moved the cursor and clicked; Mike's face appeared in a corner of the laptop screen.

He did not look happy.

"Conor?" he said, peering so closely that only the top of his head was visible. "Conor, I can't see you; you're all blurry."

"That's the general idea," the young fox informed him, expanding the window to fill the screen. "If the cops show up and start peeking over your shoulder, you don't want them seeing MY face on your laptop screen."

In response, Mike quickly pulled back from his webcam; his whiskers were twitching and his right eyebrow had pulled up until it was barely visible.

"Wha…? If you're that worried about the cops, what the heck are we talking on Slype for?"

Uh-ohhhh…now, where had Conor seen this before? His rat-buddy wasn't quite ready to go into panic mode–but he needed coolin' and I'm not foolin'.

"Because the ZPD can't track us from my end," the young fox replied, getting his Zen on as best he could. "Trust me; if they could, we wouldn't be chatting here." He allowed himself a hint of a smile. "And if they try to trace it from your end, it'll take 'em to a server in Gwangju; they'll think you're talking to one of your relatives or something."

"What the…?" Mike was staring into the screen with big, wide eyes. "I don't HAVE any relatives in Gwangju!"

Conor flipped a paw even though he knew the rat couldn't see it. "Sure…but Tuffguy Tufts won't know that?"

"Who?"

"Never mind…listen, I…"

"And it's three in the morning in Korea, you dumb fox. Who the heck in Gwangju's going to want to talk on Slype with me now?"

Oops, good thing Mike couldn't see his face; he would have been treated to the spectacle of a young fox with his eyes screwed shut and a paw planted firmly in the middle of his face; smooth move, chump. "D'ohhhh-okay, shake it off and get down to business."

"Listen Mike, I don't have time for this. First thing; we're gonna need a safe word."

Mike looked at him with his whiskers quivering.

"What do you mean a safe…?"

"If you see the cops coming, say 'wicked-sick' and shut down your laptop. And shut down right now if you hear ME say it. Does your computer have a fail-safe key?"

"A what?"

"Never mind, hold on a sec."

He typed a fast round of instructions and then spoke again.

"Okay, it does now. If you see the cops coming, hit 'tab' and 'backslash' at the same time. That'll shut down your laptop and wipe this conversation from your hard drive. Got that? "

"Tab…and backspace. Okay, I got it."

Conor felt his ears prick sharply upwards. Huh? 'Okay, got it', that was it? Mike should be drenching him with questions right now. 'How the heck do you KNOW all this stuff?'

"Never mind, just be glad he ISN'T bugging you."

For once, the young fox chose to heed his inner voice.

"Okay Mike, first thing's first; where the heck am I right now?"

"What, you don't know?" The black rat's nose and whiskers were twitching faster than ever. But then he winced and slapped the side of his head. "Oh right, right, right; you didn't work on Phantom of the Opera."

"No, I didn't," the young fox answered, nodding. Ahhhh, that was good for at least a partial explanation. As part of the school curriculum, every student at the Zootopia Academy of the Performing Arts was required to pull stage duty on at least two productions in which they, themselves did not appear. It was not a popular assignment and for Conor Lewis, it had been a decidedly mixed bag. He had loved every second of helping out on Spam-a-Lot, but his stint working on A Chorus Line had been a season in Purgatory. When that play had finally closed, he had almost gone out for a private celebration. "Sooo, this is where they run the theatrical FX from?" he asked.

"That's it fox," his friend answered, smiling. "There's two more trap doors, right under the stage." His whiskers began to quiver again. "Uh…dumb thing, but I have to say it..."

"I won't go near 'em, don't worry." Conor answered, drawing an invisible 'X' across his heart. He had to admit though; something like that would have come in seriously handy for a stage production of Phantom. He almost wished he could have seen it…almost.

Whoops, Mike was talking again.

"There's another door, like the one where you entered, at the other end of the stage, opens up onto the left side wings. But stay away from that passageway, just left of center. That leads up to the prompter's box. You stick your head up there and whoever's onstage will be able to see you, no problem."

"Well DUH!" Conor almost groaned. What the heck was a prompter's box for?

Mike did not appreciate his tone of voice.. "Hey Conor, I'm trying to help you, 'kay? Would you rather have found out the hard way…while there's a cop onstage?"

"No, no you're right, I'm sorry," the young fox answered, feeling his ears droop like melting candle-wax. Dangit, what the heck was the matter with him today? Ohhhh not much, except for nearly having been… Never mind, there was the first puzzle solved anyway.

Before he could get to the next one, Mike beat him to the draw.

"Okay fox, I answered your question but you never answered mine. What the heck are you doing here? Is this about that doe bunny, Erin Whatever-Her-Name-Is, the one you played with at the Carrot Days Fair…or however you called it?"

Conor grimaced and his head snapped sideways. An observer might have concluded that something particularly grisly had just appeared on his computer screen.

...Which, in a sense, was exactly what had happened; dang that rat and his perceptive insights.

Even though Mike couldn't see him, he seemed to take the fox's response for a 'yes'.

"Mwong-mi, dude…a rabbit-girl…seriously…NOW?"

At once Conor's ears went stiff again—at the same time turning backwards. When he spoke, his words came out as a near growl.

"Mike, I better not be hearing…what I think I'm hearing. You follow what I'm bringing out?"

"Oh give it up, bud." The young black rat looked mildly disgusted. "You know I'm no speciest. Rats are wangtta animals, same as foxes." He closed his eyes, seeming to compose himself. "But come ON…right after all that crazy stuff about preds and prey keeping away from each other? Fox, this is no time to get a crush on a bunny."

Hoo boy, that did it…

"I do NOT have a crush on her!" Conor was barely able to keep his voice down.

Mike only smirked. "Yeah, suuuure you don't. The ZPD's looking for you and—like I said—they expected you to be here today and they're waiting for you." His dark eyes narrowed into needle slits. "And, you know what I think? I think you knew they were going to be here, but you showed up anyway. Noooo, you don't have a greenlight for that Hopps girl…and when did you put that check in the mail again?"

Conor felt his fangs unsheathe.

"Hey smart-guy, lemme tell you something. I was on my way outta here when I ran into you. If that hadn't happened, I'd be long, foxin' gone by now!"

"Then why aren't you?" Mike demanded, showing all four of his incisors, "I wasn't stopping you."

Conor ceased his tirade and took a long, slow breath. Loathe as he was to admit it, that last rejoinder had hit dead center. Had he gone for the tunnel when he'd first had the chance, Mike would have stepped aside in heartbeat. But then, THAT wasn't why he hadn't bolted for it in the wake of their encounter; there'd been another, harder reason.

Ohhh, this was so going to sting; is there anything harder than delivering a painful truth? He coughed into a fist.

"Mike, right now nobody knows how I got in here—or how I'm planning to get out. But if I'd made my escape right after I ran into you, there's no way you wouldn't have seen which way I went, and… Look, you're one of the best friends I ever had, and I love you like a brother, but …oh heck, everyone knows how scared you are of the cops…"

"No way fox; I'd never snitch on YOU." Mike had caught the drift immediately and he sounded more than a little hurt.

Ohhhh, why did it have to be him?

With a foot already in it, Conor knew he had no choice but to press forward. So saying, he summoned up every last ounce of his resolve.

"Bro', listen to me. I wouldn't call you a snitch no matter…"

"I'd never give you up, Conor…NEVER!"

What the…? It had been a total no brainer that Mike wasn't going to like this—but holy foxtrot, he was practically in tears.

He was also getting a little too loud for comfort. Conor lowered his own voice to a guttural growl.

"Chill dude; you're gonna give me away without even trying."

That put a cork in it. Mike shut up and looked away shamefaced, muttering something under his breath, over and over, like a meme. It was clearly not meant for anyone but himself—but if a fox's ears aren't exactly as keen as a rabbit's they're still pretty darn sharp in their own right.

"You know…what, bud?"

Mike turned back to face him. His eyes were moist and glistening and his whiskers were quivering in a way the fugitive young silver fox had never seen before.

"I know," he sniffled, quietly wiping his nose with the back of his paw. "I know where my dad got that money when no one else would give him another loan."

Conor's head slammed back against the wall as if yanked by an invisible cord; his thoughts were a ragbag, let loose in a whirlwind.

Mike…KNEW about that? How the heck had he found out? It had been more of an investment than a loan, really; a completely different script from the young fox's other lending sorties. For instance, it had been the first and the only time when he hadn't worked with Guild. And it had also been the only instance when his actions were perfectly legal, no computer hacking required and…speaking of hacking, so that was why Mike hadn't been surprised when he set up that fail-safe-key.

Mother-foxin'-A, he knew!

"If it hadn't been for you and The Phantom, Impawssible would have gone under," Mike was staring into the screen, with a trembling chin. "No WAY would I sell you out to the police."

Conor reeled back again, but more slowly this time. He had known Impawssible Meats was in trouble when he'd fronted them that money…but they'd been teetering on the edge of bankruptcy? Okay, THAT was something new in the mix.

"Mike," he said, trying to keep his voice on an even keel, "You and your dad don't owe me a thing, you follow what I'm bringing out?"

His friend only sniffed and nodded—and that was probably the most blatant lie the Asian black rat had ever told him.

And there'd be no such thing as talking him out of it, at least not in the next five minutes…and right now, they had more pressing issues to discuss.

"Are any of the other guys here?" the young fox queried. Mike would know who he was talking about.

"Everyone's here," the young black rat replied, offering a small shrug; he seemed genuinely startled by the question.

Not as startled as Conor was, when the news hit him. Ouch, he was going to get a concussion if his head kept banging against the wall like this. "What, all of 'em?"

Mike twitched his whiskers again, but this time it wasn't a sign of apprehension. "Yeah, all our guys; Dana and Jason are working the registration tables, and Saad's helping out as a translator."

"Right," the young fox nodded, for once unsurprised. His sand-cat buddy spoke something like four different languages. Something else, however, was a surprise.

"So…you're all here today; s'okay if I ask what for?"

For the first time since Conor had stumbled into him, Mike's face broke open in a toothy grin.

"School says we can check off one of our stagehand requirements if we help out here today."

Conor laughed, clapped, and threw up his paws. "Whoa, say no more my rodent, I get it." Oh yes, that more than explained it; he'd have volunteered himself if he wasn't on the run from John Law. Whoops, bad thought; it wiped the smile right off his face. He refused to let it go any further that that, however; what was done was done. And now that he knew the gang was all here…

"Mike, I want you to promise me, right now, that you won't tell anyone else you ran into me, especially not the guys in our crew."

His friend looked away for a second. "Conor, I can't…"

"Be quiet and listen to me, rats. If the cops find out you helped me, they're gonna throw the book at you. Their guy in charge wants my pelt REAL bad. That's reason number one why you gotta keep it zipped. Reason number two, if you tell the others you saw me, they'll probably want to help out too—especially Saad; he still thinks he owes me for helping to get his guitar back." He felt his neck stiffening, and with it, his resolve. "Nuh-UH…no way; I am NOT putting anyone else's tail in a sling. So you keep this to yourself, got that? Swear you won't tell anyone else you saw me; do it now, Mike."

At first there seemed to be no reaction; his friend only sat there motionless. If Conor hadn't seen him blink, he might have assumed his screen had locked up. But then, finally, he saw the black rat raise a shaky paw.

"I swear…I won't tell anyone I saw you, not just our crew but anyone…so help me…"

"Ever, bud," the young fox cut him off, "You can't talk about this, ever…not after the auditions are over, not at your graduation party; you can't even tell your grandkids about it, got that? No one word to anyone—ever; let's hear it."

"I promise, I'll never tell anyone, ever, that I ran into you today," Mike's voice was a choking squeak—but then he cleared his throat. "But I'm still helping you, fox."

Conor growled a sigh and rubbed his eyes. Who'da thunk this loyalty thing could be such a pain in the tail?

"Mike," he started to say, as patiently as he could, but this time, his friend shut him down.

"If the ZPD's going to throw the book at me anyway, what else do I have to lose by helping you some more?"

That put things into neutral for a minute; like it or not, Mike did have a point.

But still…the more his rat-buddy tried to help him, the better his chances were of leaving here in the back of a police cruiser.

All right, Conor decided, he wouldn't refuse the offer outright, but at the same time…

"Okay, Mike…if I need your help, I'll call you. But please, please, down-on-my-knees, don't you try to contact ME. I don't care if the stage collapses, don't try to call me again, okay?"

"Okay," his friend nodded unhappily.

"And one more thing; when you see Erin's performance today, trust me, you'll know why I had to be here." Whoa, where the heck had THAT come from?

Again, the black rat hesitated, but this time for a different reason.

"Wow," he said, "wicked-sick, dude," and then his face disappeared from the screen.

Conor instantly closed his laptop, sending it into shutdown mode…and then he was sitting back against the wall of the tunnel, thinking.

He might as well forget about watching Erin's audition performance; that was off the table. But from right under the stage, he'd sure as heck be able to hear her. With a little luck, he might even be able to see her through one of the surveillance cameras. It wouldn't be the same thing as watching her in furson, but at least he'd be able to say that he'd kept his promise.

And at this point it was a promise he'd have no choice but to keep. No way in heck could he make it to that hidden tunnel with the auditions about to get under way; maybe later, when they were done, but not now, he couldn't.

"Unless…!" the thought came down like a crushing weight, "unless there's a way to get into it from HERE."

Ohhhh…Aggghhhh, grrrrr, Conor wanted to slap his inner-voice from one end of the stage to the other. That not being possible, he slipped his laptop back in his pack and prepared to go have a look-see.

"Dumb fox; you should NEVER have promised that bunny-girl you'd be here!"

---

Right then, 'that' bunny-girl was feeling every bit as frustrated as he was.

"Dangit, where are they?"

Shading her eyes with a paw, Erin looked out over the gathering crowd, feeling her foot trying to thump. The amphitheater was only about a third of the way full, but that was enough. There was no sign of her family and friends anywhere, at least not that she could recognize; the only things visible from where she was standing were the backs of numerous heads. Here and there, the young doe-bunny thought she saw rabbit ears sticking up. But not in any bigger gatherings; the largest group she saw was a party of three.

Dangit, where were her folks and the others? A bunny-herd that size should be easy to spot; instead there was nothing.

It was Erin's own fault, and she knew it. She should have found out where they were planning to sit before she'd left them. But no, she'd just been so eager to go get signed up…DANGIT!

The most frustrating part was that she had a lifeline available but didn't dare use it. If she really wanted to find her group, all she had to do was grab her cell phone and bingo; she'd know exactly where they were. Yeah…and then get teased by her girlfriends from here to Podunk. Ohhh, she was beginning to wonder if bringing her posse along today had been such a good idea.

"Dangit, where ARE they?"

Okay, this was getting her nowhere, so…time to put her thinking cap on. Alllll right, quite a few of the animals seated down below her were members of a large-mammal species; perhaps they were blocking the young bunny's view of her group. So…obvious solution; hop on down to the front of the theater, turn and look upwards and then she'd be able to search for some faces in the crowd. Good thought, girl.

Erin was eight rows away from the stage when she stopped in her tracks and began looking over the crowd.

But not to search for her family and friends; something here was…she didn't know what, but it was making her nose want to twitch.

A whole lot of seats on either side of her were occupied by kids—kids ranging in age from about the same as her to…she wasn't sure, high school seniors, maybe? They came in just about every size and species and were dressed in even more diverse fashion; emo, punks, metal-heads, gangstas, sidewalk surfers, you name it.

And yet…something here was tying them all together, something they shared—but what the heck was it?

Never mind; she could worry about that after…hey-y-y, waaaaait a minute; no adults. That was what these kids had in common; they were all here by themselves.

What the heck, now? Why were there so many young mammals in the audience without any grownups accompanying them? Had they come to cheer on one of their buds, the same as the young bunny's posse was here for her? Nooo, there were way too many of them here for that; at least half the kids she'd heard talking while waiting to get signed up had hailed from somewhere other than Zootopia—or at least that was how it had sounded to her. These kids weren't here because they knew somebody performing onstage today.

So what were they doing here? The ZAPA auditions were hardly the sort of place where a young mammal might choose to spend their Saturday–at least without any adults riding shotgun. Had the word gotten around; something awesome was about to go down here? Erin frowned at the thought; it was like the most super-mega-farfetched possibility she could think of–but it was also the only game in town.

Angling her head a little, she scrutinized the crowd a little more closely, watching them from the corner of an eye, an easy feat for a rabbit. Hrmmm, what now? Quite a number of these kids were carrying backpacks. And those that weren't seemed to be either cradling bundles in their laps or else had them parked beside their seats. Here and there, the young doe-bunny's eyes caught sight of a splash of bright chartreuse. What the heck; were all these kids packing safety vests or something? No wait, look there…about three rows down, a skunk and a muskrat, both of them wearing hoodies in that same loud color.

Erin felt her nose begin to twitch even faster. Hoodies…in the middle of summer; what the heck was…?

"Excuse me, can we get by here?"

Oops, she was blocking the entrance to one of the seat-rows. Muttering a fast apology, Erin moved out of the way to let a quintet of rodents pass. As they trooped on by, the young white furred bunny noted that at least three of their members were adults—and that none of them seemed to be toting packages.

That meant something but she had no idea…

"Oh, get OVER it and go find  your  mammals."

Thumping her foot in concurrence, Erin turned and headed once more for the front of the theater, moving at a brisk pace. When she got there, she turned a quick about-face, looking up at the rows of seats. There; maybe now she could…Nooooo!

"Stupid sun, get out of my EYES!" The young bunny grimaced and turned hurriedly away. Great, fine, now what…oh wait, over there…by the far left side of the stage; there was shade in that area. From that spot, she should be able to find what she was looking for.

Eager as she was to locate her family, Erin didn't put a rush on it. As long as she was down here, she figured she might as well take the opportunity to scope out the stage where she'd soon be playing. And so she moved at a leisurely pace, giving it a close inspection, close enough so that her scent would be detectable by anyone on the stage above her—or hiding beneath it.

The Gazelle Amphitheater's stage-front wasn't quite as broad as the one erected for the Carrot Days Festival…but what it lacked in breadth, it more than made up for in depth. Erin might almost have been staring into the mouth of a cavern. The construction here was a lot more solid as well, but then that was hardly a revelation. The Carrot Days stage went up with the festival's advent and came down as soon as it closed, whereas this was a permanent structure. Angling her gaze upwards, the young, white-furred bunny took note of a lighting scaffold, and what looked like a giant coin hanging beneath it. Hmmm, what was that all about?

Coming to the end of the stage, she stopped in her tracks and felt her ears shooting upwards. Wha…what the? That noise; it was a sound familiar to any rabbit, but…here? And where, exactly, was it coming from? Wait a sec, that clump of bushes by the corner-end of the pavilion; yeah, that was it.

Pulling the foliage aside with her thumbs, Erin peered within, feeling her nose start to twitch. The digging noises had ceased, but now she could hear someone talking. She was unable to recognize the voice and couldn't make out the words—but whoever it was sounded seriously bummed and appeared to be speaking to themselves.

But where the heck was the hole? Shouldn't there be a…? Wait, there it was.

At that instant, someone emerged from it.

Suppressing a gasp, Erin hurriedly pulled back and let the branches close behind her—but not before catching a glimpse of deep-gray fur, frosted with white, creating the effect of a silvery coat.

Silvery, as in… Oh-me-GAW, it couldn't be—could it? No…it wasn't quite right, gray where it should have been black, not the same as she remembered from Carrot Days, and yet… Could it BE? It had been a while; he could have changed his fur color since then.

Without thinking, she pulled the branches open again. And this time he heard her, spinning on his heel with his mouth agape.

"What the…Erin ?"

Erin winced, grimaced, and thumped her foot. "Ohhh, NO!"

The color phase known as silver fox is not, in fact, limited to foxes. On rare occasions it shows up in other species…such as bunnies, for example.

That was what Erin Hopps was looking at right now, a silver-fox buck-rabbit; a bunny from the Burrow by the name of Zack March. It wasn't HIS presence that was making her wish that she was somewhere else however. Zack was okay, but wherever he went, there went his cousin…

"Max!" He was calling down the hole through a cupped paw, "Max, c'mon up, you're never gonna believe who's here."

Erin could have booted him over the band-shell. It took every ounce of her self-control to keep from turning and running away when Max March's head popped out of the opening.

Max was big for a bunny. His rangy frame and long ears occasionally caused him to be mistaken for a hare instead of a rabbit. He was lean, and hard muscled, with not an ounce of fat to spare. He had fur the color of oat-straw, dusted with brown around his eyes, ears, and muzzle; his rugged, chiseled face was guaranteed to melt the heart of almost any young doe bunny–almost.

He was dressed, as always, in a soccer jersey, this one in the familiar red, white, and yellow of Hamchester United. It was an entirely appropriate piece of clothing; he was the star player on the Rogers Raiders, the team representing both his and Erin's school.

Opinions regarding Max March were as sharply divided as the Grand Canyon; there was no middle ground here. You either worshipped the ground he walked on, or else you wouldn't touch him with a 100 foot pole. Erin had initially been part of the first camp, but after getting to know the bigger bunny a little better, she had quickly gravitated to the other side. Simply put, Max was an arrogant jerk; the jock who's managed to figure out that his status as a star athlete is basically a get-out-of-all-responsibility-free card. It was Erin's GF Tawny Lloyd who'd best summed it up. "Like it or not, when he plays, the Raiders win; when he doesn't, things get iffy." That kind of prestige could convince a lot of animals to look the other way, and for a lot of different things.

If Max's ego was as big the average weather-balloon, it was twice as easily burst. The summer before this one, he'd competed in the Carrot Days Rabbithon, managing a fourth place finish. Considering that he'd been a first-timer, the youngest racer to finish, and competing against seasoned veterans, it had been an impressive feat to say the least.

Not to him it hadn't; Max had spent the rest of the festival cloistered in his hutch, sulking over the fact that he hadn't won.

But the thing that most aggravated Erin about him was…dangit, wasn't he supposed to be at soccer camp right now? Oh great, he'd just noticed her.

"Erin? Erin! Whoa, you're right Cuz, I don't believe it."

And leaping out of the hole like a jack-in-the-box, he came crashing out of the bushes as if rushing to save her. "Sweet cheez' n' crackers, angel-bunny, I never thought I'd actually run into you here. Yowza, is this like Karmen or what?"

"Heck yeah, Max!" his smaller cousin whooped; ever the faithful toady.

Erin didn't know in whose face she most wanted to plant her pawlm, Max's, Zack's, or her own. "It's KARMA, you jockstrap moron!" she thought, but refused to say, "And if it IS Karma, she's a stinking little psycho-snot from Hell!"

What she DID say was. "Max, what the heck do you think you're doing?"

It was spoken in exasperation but, judging from the bigger bunny's reaction you'd have thought it was a question he'd been hoping for all week.

"Hey," he said, leaning an elbow against the stage front, "You don't think I'd miss out on MY girl's audition, do you?"

Oh brother, not that…again! Erin wanted to scream in his face, "I'M NOT YOUR GIRL!" She would have too, if they'd been alone and if she hadn't been afraid for her singing voice. Besides, trying to discourage Max March that way was like trying to get rid of ants by painting the baseboards with maple syrup. So instead, she waved a paw towards the hole that he and his cousin had been digging. "Nooo, I mean that thing; what the heck were you doing back there?"

She might never have gotten an answer—at least not an honest one—were it not for the fact that Zack March, like all good stooges, occasionally had trouble keeping his mouth shut.

"Ahhh, we couldn't really see good enough from the theater seats, so…"

"…so you tried to dig a tunnel and go watch from backstage." Erin finished the sentence with her paws on her hips. Ohhhh, brother, who did these idiots think they were fooling? It had taken her all of three seconds to figure out their plan; tunnel their way backstage, hide in the wings, watch her performance from up close and fursonal and then surprise her when she came off again.

As!

IF!

Sweet cheez n' FIRE-crackers! She could only shake her head in disgust. "Bad idea, guys. Maybe you didn't notice all the police here today? You'll get caught and then get kicked out—if you're lucky," she nodded at the hole again, "And if you're not lucky and somebody notices your little excavation project…In that case, you'll probably both be arrested for vandalism."

The reaction to this was mixed. Zack tugged at Max's sleeve and his nose began to twitch, but the bigger bunny only folded his arms and thrust out his chin.

"And just how would YOU know that, little Miss Genius?" He was beginning to get angry with her–good!

Erin thrust her chin right back at him.

"Hello? My sister Judy's only a ZPD police detective—and guess what? She's here today. If you don't want to believe ME Max, go ask her!" It was pure bluff; the young doe-bunny had no idea if there was any kind of police presence here today.

HOWEVER…!

It was a pretty safe bet that Judy would be sitting with her mom and dad right about now. And while she might never have met Max March, THEY sure as heck had—and they took a very dim view of him. Not only did he like to put on airs, he also had a habit of grabbing carrots off the Hopps Family farm-stand without paying for them. 'Hey, what's the big deal? I only took ONE.'

Max would NOT be calling her out on her gambit; if he didn't know by now to steer clear of her folks, he never would.

In the meantime, Zack was pulling on his sleeve again, harder this time. "Uhhhm, yeah she's here, Cuz. I saw her sitting up yonder, with Erin's mom and dad."

He was pointing up into the audience, and while the young doe bunny pretended not to look, on the inside she was jubilant. Ahhh, so that's where they were; maybe this little groveler was good for something after all.

Max, however, remained unconvinced, regarding her with laid-back ears and a raised eyebrow.

No problem; she still had plenty of arrows left in her quiver.

"I mean it big guy, you're not in Bunnyburrow anymore; this is Zootopia." She waved a paw up into the crowd, "And these folks aren't going to care HOW many goals you scored this season."

That seemed to do it; Max threw up his paws in surrender…but then it turned out to be only a partial admission of defeat.

"Okay…Okayyy, no more digging back there, I promise" he said. And then cocking a thumb at the bushes behind him, he raised his other paw in a bunny-scout salute. "We're done with that, I swear; happy now?" Zack pulled at his sleeve again but this time got the brush-off. "Happy now?" the bigger bunny demanded again.

No…Erin wasn't happy, but that was all she was going to get out of Mr. Superstar and she knew it—and at least now she wouldn't have to worry about him turning up backstage. It wasn't much, but it'd have to do.

Besides, now that she knew where to find her friends and family…

"Yeah, okay. Gotta run Max; my mom and dad are going to be wondering what the heck happened to me. Talk to ya later."

"Break a leg, Erin." he answered, offering a thumbs-up. It was a heartfelt wish for good luck and from anybody else it would have been touching.

But Max March wasn't anybody else.

"Thanks," she told him, in a voice empty of inflection. And without another word, she turned to go.

The moment she passed out of earshot Max spun on his cousin with a thumping foot.

"All right, WHAT?"

Zack seemed to shrink down into himself.

"Wh-Why didn't you tell her about that wall we ran into down there?"

He was pointing into the bushes where they'd dug the hole.

Max batted his paw aside. "That's right, dumb bunny, show everyone what we were up to. Crikes Zack, why don't you put up a sign while you're at it?"

"S-Sorry," he was clutching his paws like a penitent in a confessional.

"And the reason I didn't tell her," the bigger bunny replied, nodding in the direction Erin had gone, "is because then she would have made me promise not to dig any more holes."

Notes:

Any similarities between Max March and Max, the bunny from from the Disney Silly Symphonies 'The Tortoise and the Hare' and 'Toby Tortoise Returns' are entirely NON-coincidental.

Chapter 19: Meet on the Ledge (Continued...Part 4)

Summary:

The auditions begin...and Judy gets an unexpected vote of confidence.

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

---

The Fire Triangle

---

Part Two:

Oxidizer

---

Hey you, standing in the aisles
With itchy feet and fading smiles
Can you feel me?
Hey you, don't help them to bury the light

Don't give in without a fight

Pink Floyd

---

Chapter 5—Meet on the Ledge
(Cont'd…Part 4)

"Erin...are you okay?"

No, not entirely...but she was getting there.

She'd made it most of the way back to her group when Cara, Jill, and Tawny caught up with her. Wondering where their friend had gotten to, they had left their seats to go look for her—and the minute they'd found her they'd known something was out of what. But that was okay; Erin she knew she could tell her girlZ anything.

"Yeah, I'm cool...except..." She glanced back over her shoulder for a second and then hunkered in close, lowering her voice to a near-whisper. "I just ran into Maximus Snobbius, down there by the stage front."

The reaction from her girlfriends was predictable.

"Baaaa-ewwwww!"

"Seriously?"

"No! WAY!"

"Yes...way." The young white-furred bunny sighed and pointed behind her. "He's got Remo with him too."

THAT came as no surprise. Out of earshot, Zack March was known by the nickname, 'Remo,' a tribute to his habit of playing Remora to his cousin's shark.

"What the heck?" Tawny's nose was twitching and her foot was thumping, "I thought he was supposed to be at soccer camp."

"He is," Cara Combs explained, "or he's close anyway. They're holding it over at Zootopia State University. Johnny told me." Johnny was her older brother—and a charter member of the Max March Detractors Club.

"Well yeah, but what heck's he doing HERE?" Jill Pepper was throwing her paws and ears in the air, "You can't just, like...take a day off from soccer camp!"

"Yeah, really," Tawny Lloyd agreed. "I'm betting he prolly snuck away. You know," she folded her arms and lifted her chin, allowing her voice to deepen. "'They won't kick ME out of soccer camp; I'm too goooood.'"

That was good for a laugh from all four girls....but only a very short one.

"'Kay, I get that, but why?" Jill demanded, still thoroughly confused. "I mean, like...why'd he come HERE, of all places?"

Erin knew why of course, but she was loath to repeat it. Her GFs might be wholly supportive—or else they might needle her for the rest of the weekend.

She decided to trust their sympathies.

"Well according to him, it's coz, "Hey, I'd never miss MY girl's audition."

That was good for a fresh chorus of 'Ewwwws'–but also a healthy dose of skepticism.

"Sweet cheez n' crackers girlfriend," it was Cara, "I mean...I knew he had KIND of a crush on you...but that serious? No. Shearing. Way!"

Erin jammed her foot down to keep it from thumping. Their conversation had just set course for a place where she absolutely did not want to go.

"Guys, can we just bag on talking about Max...please? If there's one day when having that stuck-up jerk in my head is the something I don't need..."

"No problem, Erin," Tawny was waving a paw as if polishing an invisible window, and the others quickly followed in similar fashion.

"C'mon, let's get to our seats," Cara suggested, and the agreement that followed was entirely unanimous.

Erin's mammals turned out to be sitting in row twelve, just left of the center aisle. She hadn't caught sight of them earlier because the next row back was occupied by a motley collection of larger species.

"Well, THERE she is!" Her mother had just spotted her and was standing with her paws on her hips. "Where'd you go, Erin?"

"Sorry Mom," the young doe-bunny replied, looking properly abashed, "I should have found out where you guys were planning to sit before I went to get signed up."

To her immense relief, her mother simply nodded and waved it off. Oh, good; no need now to tell her about Max—and no need to tell anybody about the hole he and his cousin had been digging. Erin Janelle Hopps was nobody's snitch.

Settling down in the midst of her family and friends, she quickly forgot all about him. He wouldn't dare bother her here, not while she was hanging with her folks and her posse.

So instead she talked about what she'd seen while waiting in the sign-up line. Everyone had a good chuckle over the head-banger feline who'd thought the auditions were open to all comers. The rest of what Erin had to say, however, was considerably more sobering. Nobody remarked on it, but everyone knew. That many kids trying out for admission to The Academy made HER chances of being accepted all the more slim. The only compensation was that every young hopeful here was in the same boat.

"How do they decide what order you go on?" her sister Judy asked, trying to break the mood, "Alphabetically...or what?"

"Not first come, first served, I hope." Sue Cannon cut in, a thread of steel running through her voice—and rightly so; picking the order that way would give an unfair advantage to the local kids, especially the ones who lived in Savanna Central.

Erin smiled and waved a paw.

"Nope, they draw names at random to see when everyone goes onstage." She explained. "It said so in the letter I got."

"Oh?' Judy's ears went up, but then she nodded approvingly. "Ah, I guess that's the only fair way to do it, sis."

"Except now you might have to go FIRST," Sue Cannon sniggered, eyes narrowed and stubby tail twitching. Like all felines, she could never resist a good tease. In this case, however, her seeds fell on barren soil. Erin only shrugged and raised a paw.

"Hey, at least that way, I won't have to worry about following a better act."

More laughter from the other girls, and Sue slumped in her seat with folded arms, and a grumpy expression; 'Feh, you're NO fun, bunny!' she seemed to be saying.

But then her sister Violet stood up and pointed. "Hey look."

Erin turned and saw that the center of the Amphitheater stage was now occupied by a microphone stand. That wasn't what had caught Vi's attention however; someone had just exited the stage wings and was walking towards it. He was an older mammal—either a sheep or a goat of some kind—and for an animal his age, he moved with a surprisingly jaunty step. As he came closer to the stage-front, he was greeted by a smattering of applause; at least a few of the animals in the audience had recognized him.

Their number did not include Stu Hopps; "Who's that?" he asked, speaking to no one in particular.

It was Erin who answered him, "I-I-I think that's Dr. Vignius, Dad," she said, reasonably, if not entirely certain of her conjecture, "He's the school president."

"Oh."

Her supposition was quickly confirmed as the arkar sheep stepped up to the microphone and introduced himself to the crowd. He followed up with an address that, while it could hardly be termed short and sweet, was by no means of the long-winded variety. And neither would anyone have called it tedious; Dr. Carl Vignius hadn't become a top theatrical producer by boring his audience to death.

"Looking out over this gathering I must admit to something; never have I seen so many anxious faces, so many wringing paws and hooves, so many trembling tails. Everywhere I look, I find lumps in throats, rapid breathing, and animals offering up desperate prayers for success."

Pausing in peroration, he gazed with a stern expression, sweeping his eyes over the crowd from one end of the amphitheater to the other.

And then he shrugged.

"But enough about your parents, kids; you're the ones I came here to talk to."

The crowd exploded into laughter, with the younger audience members leading the charge. Erin Hopps was laughing so hard she had to hold on to Sue Cannon to keep from falling over. In his space beneath the stage, Conor Lewis had to use both paws to keep his muzzle clamped shut. Mike Daehan's laughter was more of the uneasy variety; Dr. Vignius had just delivered an almost picture-perfect description of HIS folks' behavior at last year's tryouts.

"As I'm sure you're all aware." The arkar sheep went on, "the motto of this school is—Ah, I won't bore you with the Latin version—it's 'Many Are Called, Few Are Chosen.'"

He paused here, heaving a sigh and regarding the stage floor for a moment—and it was a good thing he couldn't see through to what was hiding beneath it.

"And that is what brings me to the one thing that I hate about this job." He lifted his eyes, taking in the audience once more. "There isn't a single one of our applicants that didn't work his or her heart out to be ready for today; I know that. You made the grade, you passed the entrance exam; you sent in the videos, you secured the endorsements. More than anything else, I wish that you could all be admitted to the Academy—but that simply isn't possible. There are only so many slots available." He paused for a moment, as if to allow his audience time to digest the news, and then went on. "And with that in mind, due to the very large number of animals competing for admission today, we will not—as we did last year—be announcing the names of those accepted at the end of the day's proceedings." A hubbub rumbled through the crowd and Dr. Vignius raised his hooves. "Yes, I know, and I'm sorry, but all things considered, it simply wouldn't be fair to everyone participating here today. We want to give each performance a reasonable and thorough assessment before we deliver our verdict...and that's going to take a little bit longer than just the shank of an afternoon. We'll be notifying you of our decision via e-mail and/or regular mail, sometime in the next two weeks."

Another murmur of displeasure rumbled through the crowd. In his cubbyhole beneath the stage, Conor Lewis could sympathize with their feelings; as if the tension of anticipation wasn't bad enough. Still...there were that many kids trying out today? Whoa, ZAPA must have built up some kind of formidable rep in the first year it had been open.

On the stage up above him, Dr. Vignius was preparing to wrap things up.

It was pretty much the same pitch the young silver fox had heard the previous year; wishes for good luck to all the applicants and high hopes for a great school year to those that made the cut.

Conor barely paid attention...until he heard, "And now, without further ado, I will turn over the microphone to one of The Academy's most important patrons, the lady responsible for having this facility renovated and for whom it has been renamed. Please welcome to the stage, ladies and gentlemammals...the one and only Gazelle."

A roar erupted from the seats as the popstar came out of the wings, none louder than from the section where the Hopps family was sitting. All over the theater animals were on their feet, cheering and clapping with raised paws and hooves. There was even some stamping of feet.

Gazelle was dressed in her usual two-piece ensemble, but in midnight blue rather than red, and with a few added accessories, elbow length gloves and stockings that came up to her hips instead of her knees. On her head she wore a gaucho hat, pierced by her horns. Everything was decorated in glittering silver sequins.

Inevitably, the audience members began calling out the names of tunes they wanted to hear.

"She-Wolf!"

"Try Everything!"

"Hips Don't Lie!"

"Try Everything!"

"Addicted to You!"

"TRY EVERYTHING!"

Strutting her way to the microphone, Gazelle stood for a second with a hoof on her hip, striking a sultry pose. One thing you had to give this lady, she knew how to make an entrance. Waiting until just as the acclaim had begun to die down; she reached up for the microphone stand and in a single, fluid motion, adjusted it to her height.

Watching from the wings, Dana Alchesay shook her head. That should have been handled by one of the volunteer stage-hands; somebody had missed a cue.

Thirty feet away from her, Gazelle was raising a hoof, as if holding a torch aloft.

"¡Hola L'Academia de las Artes Escénicas!"

She was greeted with another roar of approval and immediately switched dialects.

"Hello everyone...and welcome to this year's musical auditions for The Zootopia Academy of the Performing Arts," She allowed herself a smile and a wink, "Or...ZAPA as we call it. How many of you are here to try out today?"

All over the theater paws and hooves went up, accompanied by howls, trills, mewls, and roars...and from a young, white furred bunny, 12th row, left of center, a whoop and a binky; a leap, followed by a pivot in the air.

On the stage below her, Gazelle was nodding with an air of quiet satisfaction. Taking the mike from its stand, she intoned softly, and almost reverently, "This is for you."

That was Mike Daehan's cue, and he reached to punch a button on his console.

A few seconds of scratchy silence followed and then music began to play.

The tune opened on an acoustic Flamenco chord and scat vocal; from there it moved quickly to a thumping synth n' drumbeat, accompanied by a Spaghetti Western guitar. Gazelle's voice was soft and smoky as she picked up the vocals

"♪ Why do all my friends now want to be your lovers?
Your family got bigger when they thought you were rich... ♫"

Out beyond the stage, young animals of every shape and species were regarding each other with curious expressions. In the section where the Hopps bunnies were sitting, every nose was a-twitch. What the heck, now? This wasn't one of Gazelle's more popular numbers; it was a nearly obscure tune, conspicuously absent from her Greatest Hits CD.

And the lyrics only became progressively more bewildering as the song progressed.

"♪ I want to save you from...
...Save you from all that's vain
...Save you from the things that cause us pain. ♫"

"From WHAT things that cause us pain?" Erin Hopps couldn't keep it to herself any longer, "What the heck is she talking about, sis?" She was speaking to Judy, the bunny who just happened to be sitting next to her.

Her elder sister had no idea...but Conor Lewis could have explained it; so could all his friends, so could every student at The Academy for that matter. At the previous year's auditions they too had found the tune to be bewildering and not a little frustrating.

But then two months into the fall semester, the song's meaning had slowly begun to reveal itself...until now, finally, they understood its purpose—and why Gazelle had chosen to perform a practically unknown tune for them, rather than one of her hits.

It was a cautionary tale, a warning about the pitfalls of becoming a successful entertainer...

In crafting the song, Gazelle had missed none of the essentials; they were all here...the hangers on, the grifters—the handlers who stick with you only for as long as you're useful to them.

"♪ But someday when you fail
They put you on sale
And buy you by the inch. ♫"

It was not a message for the faint of heart...because as far as this animal was concerned, neither was the entertainment business.

"♪ With you I feel safe
There's nothing to fear from us
Away from the fangs...the fangs of the world
I may be a coward, but you are brave... ♫"

It was a lesson she did NOT want the prospective ZAPA students to learn the hard way.

"♪ Coz it's an animal city
It's a cannibal world
So be obedient, don't argue,
Some are ready to bite you, my love! ♫"

That was where she ended it, so abruptly that a moment of silence followed.

When the applause finally came, at first it was tentative and polite—but then it rapidly swelled to a torrent. Little-known track or not, there could be no denying the passion with which Gazelle had performed it.

And confusing lyrics or not, the kids in the audience had somehow sensed that something important was nestled within those words, a message they'd caught but could not yet decode. Erin Hopps was no exception and for the moment, she was applauding and cheering with the others. By the look on her face, she might almost have been mesmerized.

But then she took in a hiss of air, seeming to snap out of it; or perhaps she simply remembered something.

"Hey guys," she said, speaking to her posse. "Can someone snag my duffle and pedalboard? They're prolly gonna call us backstage now."

"Ahhh, I don't think that's going to happen just yet, sis."

It was Judy and she was pointing towards the stage. When Erin looked, she saw that a brightly bedecked—what was she, an opossum?—that somebody had just emerged from the stage wings with a guitar in her paws, an acoustic six-string. It was a bit large for her species and someone very quickly came out to help her, the coyote girl from the sign-up table.

"Hmmm, looks like Gazelle's going to do another song," Stu Hopps noted, an observation that would have earned anyone else a hearty, 'Well, DUH!'

Yes, but not right away; a few minutes of crowd-murmur followed while the popstar put her instrument in tune.

At last satisfied, she strummed a rolling riff, at the same time speaking to the audience.

"Not long ago, something happened in Zootopia." She paused here, angling her muzzle upwards just ever so slightly, "I will not bore you with the details—but I will say this. Whatever your species, that is not important. Whether you are predator or prey is also not important. And what anyone else may have to say about it is not important either. How you feel about each other—what you think—this is the only thing that is important. Nothing else matters."

She was greeted by sprinkling of applause...and a sea of bewildered faces, many turning to regard each other with wide eyes and raised brows. Just when it seemed that Gazelle had run out of surprises; was she really going to...?

She was...

" ♪So close, no matter how far
Couldn't be much more from the heart
Forever trusting who we are

And nothing else matters. ♫"

If the crowd had been bewildered a moment ago now, they were practically bowled over. In the space beneath the stage, Conor Lewis's jaw was nearly dragging on the floor. "Holy foxtrot, that's a METALLICAT tune!" Even unplugged, it was like Ozzy Osbear covering Destiny's Cub. And all over the theater, dozens of other animals were similarly blown away.

But none more than Judy Hopps; sweet cheese n' crackers, was Gazelle singing about—what it sounded like she was singing about?

" ♪Trust I seek and I find in you
Every day for us something new
Open mind for a different view

And nothing else matterrrrrs...♫"

It was as if Gazelle was singing the song to her...and one other animal...

" ♪Never cared for what they do
Never cared for what they know

But I know... ♫"

But then, something began to happen; as Gazelle got further and further into the song, so did the kids in the audience, singing along with the last line of each stanza.

On the final verse, they were shouting it out with raised fists

" ♪AND NOTHING ELSE MATTERRRRRRRRRSSSS! ♫"

Their number very much included a young, white-furred bunny that played bass guitar. When the tune ended, she and her posse were standing on their seats, and cheering their lungs out.

...Until Erin happened to glance down and to her left; uh-ohhhh.

Hopping down from her seat she rummaged feverishly in her pocket. Dangit, she could have sworn she had some...okay, there they were.

Sidling up to Judy, she nudged the older bunny in the ribs, "Sssst, sis...here!"

Judy turned with her nose twitching. Wha...? What the heck? What was Erin offering her a wad of tissues for?

In response the younger bunny pantomimed brushing her cheek with a finger, "Hurry up Jude...before Mom n' Dad see you." Her voice was an insistent whisper.

Judy didn't accept the offer right away, but instead dabbed at her face—and was surprised when her fingers came away wet. Now she took some tissues, grabbing for them frantically and wondering how she could have had tears in her eyes without even noticing.

Pivoting away so that no one could see, she hurriedly blotted the wetness from her cheeks.

Meanwhile, down on the stage, the 'opossum' had once more emerged from the wings. This time Gazelle took a knee at her approach and Erin saw the assistant whispering something in her ear. Even for a bunny, it was inaudible at this distance, but whatever it was that she'd said, it brought an immediate smile to the pop-star's face.

Standing up again, she took hold of the microphone.

"All right, I am pleased to report that the problem backstage has been taken care of. So...would everyone that's signed up to audition today please report to the right side backstage-access door. That's the door on your right," she added with a smile.

Needless to say, it didn't happen all at once; the news needed to sink in first. When it did, the reactions ranged from high fives and fist bumps to tearful hugs and expressions of parental pride...and, of course, the odd muttering of "about time!" In every corner of the amphitheater, mammals were offering wishes for broken legs to their friends, siblings, and children.

Among the Hopps clan, Stu, as always, was unable to stem the waterworks, while Little Cotton had to be literally peeled away from Erin's right leg. This was it, the moment she'd been working towards all summer.

And so, off she went, into the arms of fate–or whatever.

If nothing else, you had to admit one thing; the Zootopia Academy for the Performing Arts knew how to run a tight ship. They kept the line-up at the stage door moving at a steady pace, with nary a hold-up. As before, Erin allowed her girlZ to help with the rest of her gear, but insisted on toting her bass-axe herself.

When she got to the door, a young cow moose asked her to please show her badge. After only a quick inspection, she nodded, and asked if the young doe-bunny needed any assistance with her things, this being as far as her GFs could accompany her.

"Ahhh, I could use some help with these," she said, indicating the case containing her pedal-board and the bag with her stage outfit. At once, a bright-eyed desert cat darted forward.

"Have you got a back-up recording with you?" he asked, offering a slight bow. From any other animal the gesture would have been slightly ludicrous; from him it seemed just right.

Erin patted a pocket. "Got it right here on my iPaw; do you need...?

"No," the feline replied, "keep it with you until your name is called." and then turning on his heel, he beckoned with a pair of fingers, "Now follow me, please."

He led her down a hallway and into a big enclosure with a mirror lining one wall. This, Erin guessed, must be the rehearsal area. There were rows of folding chairs in the center of the room and tables of varying sizes occupying the rear, all of them stacked with cups and drink coolers. Piled against the wall opposite the mirror, she saw an accumulation of gear bags and cases...all of it under the watchful eye of several medium to large predators, including the wild dog she'd met at the sign-up table earlier. Seeing him there gave the young white-furred bunny a measure of reassurance, although she could hardly say why.

That, in fact, turned out to be her next stop. As with the sign up desks, the stacks of gear were sorted by species size, something that made perfect sense to the young doe-bunny. And who should turn out to be minding the small-mammal section but that wild dog again? When he saw her coming his tail instantly became a windshield wiper on overdrive.

"'Ehh, what you know, Saad?" he said, speaking to the sand cat accompanying her, "Dis here's de bunny I was telling you about."

He did not elaborate, and Erin had to suppress a snigger. She knew why he wasn't going into detail; his girlfriend would likely kill him.

Saad appeared to be none too thrilled about it either, offering the canine a reproachful eye for his troubles.

What came next was a seriously awkward moment. As much as Erin liked, errr...Jason, that was his name; as much as she liked this dog, she was still as reluctant as ever to commit her bass to another animal's care, even his. And so, when she handed it over, she almost had to struggle to make her paws let go of it. Another item, however, she did hold back—but for an entirely practical reason, "Ahhh, I'll keep that, it's my stage outfit."

And that brought up another question for the young, white-furred bunny; should she change now or wait a while? The longer she had her stage clothes on, the less fresh they'd be when she went out to perform her song. On the other paw, she positively did NOT want to have to throw everything on at the last second. Thinking it over for a minute, she decided to hold off for just a bit...at least until she found out if the dressing rooms were busy.

Finding a seat in one of the small-mammal rows, Erin immediately discovered that the one beside her was occupied by the biggest squirrel she'd ever seen, black on yellow fur and even larger than her sister Judy. At the moment, she was proceeding to ignore the rabbit sitting next to her, concentrating instead on a tablet clutched tightly in her paws.

It was not a snub however, as the young doe-bunny quickly discovered. Looking more closely, she saw that the squirrel-girl's lips were moving while her thumbs were staying put. Ohhh-kay, that wasn't a game-console, just your standard garden-variety tablet—and she was reviewing the lyrics of the song she intended to perform.

While Erin didn't necessarily agree with the idea—there's such a thing as over-memorizing your tune—she was anything but surprised. Her BFF Lisa would have done the same thing. Hrm, were all squirrels so obsessive?

---

Maybe not all squirrels, but there was at least one other member of that species for whom the word fit like a favorite pair of PJs. And he was less than a block-and-a-half-away from where Erin was sitting right now.

Considering that his efforts to nab a certain suspect had so far come to naught, Lieutenant Albert Tufts, ZPD, was in a remarkably placid mood at the moment.

"I don't think so either, Foley," he said, pressing a pair of fingers into his headset, "but keep your eyes peeled just the same. Command out."

He had just received a check-in from the ram watching the stage entrance. It was highly unlikely that no-good, little, blankety-blank young silver fox would try to sneak in with the kids arriving to audition today...but this was exactly why they couldn't afford to ignore the possibility. It wouldn't be the first time someone had attempted to outwit ZPD Cybercrimes by way of the old hide-in-plain-sight trick. And not only that; the Lewis kid had been through the ZAPA audition process himself the previous year. He was entirely familiar with how it worked and he possessed more than enough forgery skills to gin up a fake participants' badge. He probably hadn't; almost certainly, he wouldn't—but assuming that he wouldn't was a chance the Kaibab squirrel wasn't about to take. In the ZPD's earlier dealings with Conor Lewis, too many exits had been left unguarded; the Department was not going to make that mistake again today, not on his watch.

Tufts was perched on a tabletop inside the ZPD command vehicle, the same 'produce truck' the department had used for the Rafaj Brothers sting. At the moment, it was occupying a loading zone, directly across the street from the Amphitheater.

It was actually the perfect cover for today's op; there was no shortage of cafes and small restaurants in the area, to say nothing of the food carts lining one side of the street. No one would think twice if they saw a vegetable truck parked here.

Something crackled in the Kaibab squirrel's headset and he pressed more fingers to the side of his head.

"Command, go."

"Command this is Laykin," a fuzzy voice replied. "I have a visual on Detective Hopps, over."

"Very good, over," the Lieutenant replied, and to the rest of the command he said, "Incoming feed from Overhead 3. Put it on ....mmm, put it on screen 4." At once an aerial view appeared on the panel display above and to the right of the squirrel. It showed a row of seats occupied almost entirely by bunnies. "Okay, zoom in by 25...ah, make it 40 percent." Instantly the view expanded and then swayed slightly, indicating that the screen was displaying the POV of a police drone. "Okay there you are, Hopps," Tufts muttered, well aware that Judy couldn't hear him. She was sitting next to...a bunny he didn't recognize, but the seat on her left was empty. Hmmmm...that spot must be where her sister Erin had been sitting.

"Command, this is Laykin, do you want me to keep on her?" the voice sounded in his headset again, "Over."

"Ahhh that's a negative, Laykin," The Kaibab squirrel replied, "But somebody, make a note of Detective Hopps's 20." He was addressing the full command crew again. With a little luck, her assistance would not be needed, but again, jusssst in case...

He wasn't taking any chances today.

"Got it logged," a nutria answered, nodding tartly in the Lieutenant's direction. Tufts returned the gesture and then spoke once more to the drone jockey.

"Good work. Laykin...go ahead and move on, Command out."

The view on the screen panned right and pulled back, and Tufts almost shifted his gaze elsewhere. But then he stopped with his tail flipping; there was something about that crowd, down below the police drone. It wasn't anything he saw, so much as felt. But it felt wrong...very wrong. Something was amiss down there and he couldn't put his finger-claw on it.

He shook it off and changed frequencies on his headset. Judy Hopps might have held only a passing interest for him ...but there was another member of her family here today, a bunny whose location was far more relevant to the op than that of her older sister.

---

Erin spotted the grey wolf almost as soon as she emerged from the dressing room.

There was nothing odd about him, nothing out of place, or that was the impression he gave at first glance. He was dressed in the well-rumpled uniform of a private security firm. Which firm, the young doe bunny was unable to tell, but it wasn't anything she hadn't seen a thousand times already—at the Clover Mall, back in Bunnyburrow and elsewhere. At the moment, he was standing in front of a support column with his paws behind his back—surveying the scene before him with about as much interest as a gamer-head attending a sewing circle Again, no big deal; it went without saying that the school would have a security officer on duty back here. Lookit all that nice, juicy gear, stacked against the left-side wall.

And yet...and yet...

There was something disturbingly familiar about that wolf. Erin could swear she'd encountered him once before, however briefly. And why did he keep pressing his ear shut? That was something she did when she was trying to talk on the phone and there was a whole bunch of noise in the background. Fine, except there wasn't any noise in here and this animal didn't seem to have a phone. Even more troubling was the way he turned his eyes away when he saw her—but not his muzzle. And as he angled it just ever so slightly in the young doe bunny's direction ...had she just seen his nostrils flare; what was that for? Had he been ...imprinting on her scent? Foxes could do that; she knew that from Con...from Ni...from Gideon Grey. And a wolf's sense of smell was even sharper, so it stood to reason that...

"Well, what are you going to do," her inner voice chided, "walk over there and ASK him about it?"

No, she was going to get back to her seat; that was what she was going to do. Whatever else might be going on, she needed to stay focused on the reason she had come here today.

In choosing her stage outfit, Erin had decided to make KISS the rule of the day, Keep It Simple Stupid.

And so she was wearing a pair of 'strategically ripped' black-denim jeans, and a belt studded in faux gold and fitted with a buckle to match. Running from one of the loops on the left to another was a simple, single chain also in ersatz gold. Above the waist, she wore an electric blue crop-top, and over that, a vest in the same black denim as her pants. On the back it bore the gold-embroidered image of a bass guitar, together with the words, "When U Go High, I Go LOW!"

There'd been no question of wearing this item of clothing today; it was a good luck present from her family—and besides that, she loved it.

Another piece, however, had not quite made the cut. Erin had also brought her favorite black-lace choker-collar, but at the last minute, she had elected to leave it in her duffel bag. It might look great on her, but for sure today was not a good day to constrict her throat. Instead, she wore a single chain tagged with an enamel-and-gold representation of the Rickenbarker logo, her only item of real gold.

Up above these was a nod to the avant-garde, a vintage trolley conductor's cap with a few modifications. Erin had dug up it at the Bunnyburrow flea market, and promptly made it her own, adding a festoon of buttons and a peacock feather. The girls in her posse thought it gave her a steampunk vibe—and that suited the young, white-furred bunny right down to the ground. To top off her ensemble, she had tinted the tips of her ears a deep, Prussian blue and wore finger-claw polish to match. Her eyes were once again encircled in black, as they'd been on Day 1 of the Carrot Days Festival—but this time she'd applied the coloring with a much lighter touch than before. As a result, whereas the effect back then had been clownish, today it gave the young doe-bunny a slight air of mystery. This too was something that became her.

Settling down in her seat again, Erin half hoped that someone would notice the 'new' her. No such luck; nobody paid her the slightest never-mind. But then, that could hardly have come as a shock; she was far from the only kid in here who had changed into their stage clothes. Everywhere around her, she saw outfits ranging from the sublime—an elegant, floor-length, sequined gown—to the ridiculous, the impala-kid in a jumpsuit that appeared to have been fashioned from pineapple skins, and then spray-painted in bright, shocking pink. There was even a girl, another rabbit no less, with a ventriloquist's dummy on her lap, a talking iguana-lizard. Wha...? What the heck was she doing here? Shouldn't she have been at the acting tryouts?

Hrm...the room was getting quiet for some reason. And now the young doe-bunny heard a sprinkling of applause up towards the front; what the heck was going on here?

Unable to see, thanks to a bevy of larger animals seated in front of her, she hopped up on her chair, and immediately caught sight of Dr. Vignius, this time with a mike in his hoof. Approximately five feet away from him was the wolf she'd spotted leaning against the support pillar, and parked between them was a wire-mesh ball, mounted on a spindle, with a crank on one end. It was filled with small white capsules about the size of unshelled pecans.

Erin didn't have to guess what that contraption was for; she'd seen something like it many times, at the Burrow County Grange's Bingo games.

A sound not unlike a bunny thumping his foot echoed through the rehearsal room as Dr. Vignius patted his hoof against the mike, checking to make certain it was working.

And then he began to speak. "Attention...attention please; will everyone please take their seats. Everyone, please take your seats...err, can somebody go check the dressing rooms and the restrooms?"

The chairs were filled in short order, and the arkar went on with his address.

"Hello everyone, I'm Dr. Carl Vignius, President of The Zootopia Academy of the Performing Arts. Let me first begin by welcoming you to this year's musical audition. Thanks to all of you for being here today; we're glad you came."

Another smattering of applause followed, and then the arkar sheep got down to business.

""Now, before we get started, I want to go over our procedure for today." He walked over and laid a hoof on the 'Bingo Cage'. "As you know from your letters of invitation, we decide the order in which you'll perform by random drawing. Now, the way that will work is, we'll be drawing your names in sets of ten at a time. After we draw the first ten names, they'll report to the left-side stage wings, after which we'll draw ten more. When the first group is finished with their performances the second group will report to the stage, and we'll draw another ten names. And so on and so forth," he twirled a hoof in the air, "until every one of our applicants has had his or her turn to perform. NOW...!" He spoke the word as if driving a nail into plywood. "When you're called to begin your audition performance, you'll have two minutes to get started. If you're not able to do that within the allotted time frame, we're sorry, but you'll have to forfeit your chance to audition this year and step aside for the next animal in line." He paused to clear his throat. "And now, please pay close attention, because this next part is very important. As we mentioned in your letters of invitation, you'll each have five minutes exactly to complete your performance. But what you haven't yet been told is the way that will work. When you get to the five minute mark, you'll hear the sound of a bell...like this." He turned, nodded, and a big, brassy noise filled the reheasal room–so loud that Erin almost had to put her paws over her ears. Whoa, no way could anyone miss hearing that —and bell, shmell; she knew a GONG when she heard one. "And that will be your signal to stop," Dr. Vignius concluded, and then offered a hoof to the assembled applicants. "Okayyyy, does anyone have any questions?"

As a matter of fact, a lot of kids had questions; the room instantly became a thicket of waving arms.

The first to be called on was a crested porcupine girl.

"Does the time we need to get our gear plugged in count as part of those five minutes?" she asked, and Erin felt her ears rise up; good question there, sister.

"No," Dr. Vignius' head-shake was both immediate and firm, "The five minutes begins from the moment your music begins to play, either you or your back-up recording. Oh, and your prep time doesn't count against the two minutes you'll have to begin your performance either. We understand that some set-ups take longer than others...keyboards and drum-kits for example."

Several kids sighed with relief at this news, and then the arkar pointed to an alpaca-boy. "Yes?"

For a hint of a second, the young mammal was too startled to speak. With so many other paws in the air, he probably hadn't expected to be called on; that was what Erin thought, anyway. "Ah, si...about our back-up recordings, when do we...ah. give them over?"

"We'll collect them from you when your names are called," Dr. Vignius replied with another nod.

The next question came from the Squirrel-girl seated beside Erin.

"How many judges are there going to be...and who are they, and where will they be sitting, and...?"

"Uh, sorry, only three questions to a customer, please." the arkar interrupted holding his hooves up with a wry expression—while Erin struggled to keep from giggling. Lucky for him that wasn't a Douglas squirrel; she'd STILL be asking questions.

"There'll be a total of five judges," he said, "Myself, City Councilmember Nizhang, Jules Perrault, the Academy's music director, Mr. Miles Townsend, music editor of Entertainment Zootopia, and of course, Ms. Gazelle."

No one was surprised, but several kids applauded...including Erin.

Three rows back, a young elephant raised his trunk.

"If the time bell rings before we're done—look, I know we have to stop, but will that count against our performance?"

Dr. Vignius flicked his ear and raised an eyebrow. "Ahhh, let's just say that the judges' panel won't be impressed." But before he could call on anyone else, a red panda appeared at the front of the room, beckoning with a pair of fingers.

"Excuse me...Doctor?"

Vignius turned in her direction. "Yes, Claudia?"

She said nothing but only pointed to her watch. When the arkar sheep inspected his own timepiece, both of his eyebrows jumped. "Already?" he muttered, and then to the crowd he said, "Okay, that's all the time we have for questions right now. Mr. Griswold, would you please draw the first ten names?"

The wolf nodded and began to turn the hopper's crank.

By the time the first name dropped, Dr. Vignius and Councilmember Nizhang were already on their way out the door.

"Ahhh, get some help, here?" the wolf called, holding the capsule aloft. He was anything but eager to play master of ceremonies; in fact, he seemed to think that Dr. Vignius had stuck him with the job on purpose. Fortunately there was no shortage of student volunteers in the rehearsal room and one of them, a young lioness, quickly went forward.

Breaking open the capsule, she scanned the contents for a second, and then held it aloft and took hold of the microphone.

"Trinity Gomez, Trinity...Gomez. You're up first!"

"Oh-mi-Gaw, that's ME!" a female voice screamed in the back—and Erin was unable to tell if it was a cry of horror or elation.

The next few names drew similar reactions, but by the time the second group was called, the responses were much less frenetic.

Erin Hopps had not been called for either group, but it didn't bother her. In fact, she was relieved that her name hadn't been part of the first batch. Never mind what she'd said to Sue, the thought of being the first one out on that stage had filled her to the brim with anxiety. Now, at least, she could put that worry to bed.

Just then, she felt her ears come rapidly to attention. Out beyond the rehearsal room walls, someone was speaking on the PA system. A short round of applause followed, then a moment of silence. The next thing she heard was the opening notes of Kim Wildcat's 'Lambodia'

The ZAPA auditions were officially underway.

Even with her keen ears, Erin was unable to make out the lyrics—they came through the walls as too muffled to understand—but Trinity's voice certainly sounded tuneful enough. The audience seemed to think so too, giving her a rousing ovation at the end of her performance. When she returned to the rehearsal room a moment later, the young Patagonian Mara was upbeat but anxious, smiling and walking with a skipping beat...but at the same time wringing her paws. She knew she'd done well...but would it be enough to get her into the Academy? That was when Erin realized something; everyone in here was going to have to wait like, forever to know the answer to that question–including HER.

It did nothing to bolster the young doe-bunny's confidence.

The kids that followed Trini onstage came back in pretty much the same humor as her, hopeful, happy...and hesitant. There was, however, at least one exception to the rule. When one of the mammals in the second group finished his number, he was greeted with a response that literally shook the walls of the rehearsal room. Returning backstage a moment later, the young springbok immediately performed a double backflip, sticking the landing with a pumping fist. He knew he had crushed it and so did everyone else in the rehearsal room; they immediately gave him another round of applause.

By now, the names for the third group had been announced...Erin wasn't called for that one either.

...or the fourth group...

...or the fifth group...

...or the one after that; and now, at last, the young doe-bunny was beginning to feel antsy.

---

She wasn't the only one. In the section where the Hopps family was sitting, literally scores of fingers were crossed every time a performer left the stage...and quickly then uncrossed when the next name called wasn't Erin Hopps. It was no help to Judy's peace of mind that some of the performances she's seen were absolute stunners. That springbok-boy's vocals on Lenny Katvitz's Fly Away had been better than the original—AND he'd made it the backdrop of an absolutely killer dance routine.

...And how about that other bunny girl? Her performance of I Feel For You would have been amazing even if she'd only sung Chaka Khat's part. But she'd taken on the rap lyrics too—and performed them through a ventriloquist's dummyWhoa, her sister Erin might have killed it at the Carrot Days festival—but this place was on a whole other level.

Conor Lewis's take on the ventriloquist bunny was somewhat different. Although he'd only been able to see her by way of a surveillance camera, he had also been closer to the action than anyone else in the amphitheater. And so he was aware of something Judy and most of the rest of the crowd had missed. Those rap lyrics hadn't been the girl-bunny singing, they'd been part of her background recording. Her lizard puppet had basically just been pantomiming them. Nothing wrong with it, as long as the judges had been notified up front; but anyone who thought they could pull a Milli-Vanilli in this place would be better off trying to crash the Oscars. In any event, her performance hadn't been quite as awesome as it looked.

But still... Foxin'-A, it was getting stuffy down here. When the heck were they gonna call Erin's name?

As frustrated as the fugitive young silver fox might have been at the moment, his vexation outright paled when compared with that of another of Erin's acquaintances, a lean, muscular young bunny-athlete from The Burrow.

For the first few performances, Max and his cousin had just sat quietly through the show. By the time the third group of performers had finished, he was fidgeting in his seat and even before the next group was done he'd become downright restless. Three times already the raccoons sitting in front of him and Zack had asked the rangy young rabbit to please quit thumping his foot. The first time, the request had been made politely, the second time irritably, and the third instance had come with a warning. One more round of foot-thumping and they'd have him and his cousin ejected from the amphitheater.

Mumbling a quick apology, the young buck-bunny had hastily gotten up from his seat. He hadn't known if that threat carried any real weight, but he wasn't about to find out. In any event, he wasn't really sorry, but he had finally made up his mind about something.

Now he was crouched within a dense row of arborvitae trees lining the outside wall of the amphitheater, not far from the right-side stage entrance. From beyond the shrubbery, he could hear his cousin Zack continuing to fret; a one-bunny Greek Chorus.

Ah well...at least he was remembering to keep his voice down.

"Max, come on...you heard what Erin said about the cops."

"That was inside the theater, Zack," the bigger bunny replied, "not out here." He didn't bother to explain what difference that made, if any. Instead, he continued to pad the ground, looking for a sweet spot, a section of earth unencumbered by roots.

"You don't...."

"Shut up and keep your ears peeled–or else we will get caught."

Zack silenced himself but only for a moment...just long enough for Max to find what he was looking for. He patted the ground twice and started digging. The noise quickly roused his cousin from his silence.

"Max!"

This time, he ignored the smaller bunny.

Tunneling backstage from the outside of the amphitheater was a chancy proposition at best. It was much, much harder to navigate from here than from inside the amphitheater. For all he knew, he might end up under the stage's concrete apron or worse, hit daylight in the middle of the back lawn with a hundred animals staring at him. On the plus side it was a lot safer to start digging from here than from an interior location. Never mind Zack's worries, there was nobody else within a hundred yards at the moment...and the covering foliage was way denser here than it had been for their first excavation.

Max was about 7 feet into the dig when someone pulled at his foot. He tensed, remembering Erin's words, "This isn't Bunnyburrow...."

But then he heard his name spoken, "Max..." and this time it wasn't inside his head.

He turned with his ears laid back.

"Dangit, dude....you're supposed to be keeping a lookout."

His cousin didn't seem to hear him. "C'mon Cuz, let's get out of here."

"All right, all riiiight." The larger bunny half-groaned, half-sighed; there was no talking to Zack when he got like this. He turned to follow him up to the surface.

However he had no intention of abandoning his project...and he intended to make that very clear as soon as they hit the surface.

He never got the chance. No sooner did they emerge from the hole than Zack started in on him.

"Sweet cheez n' crackers, Cuz! What the heck are we doing, digging all these holes? That isn't why we came here." To illustrate, he held up the gym-bag they'd brought.

Max came that close to reaming him out—and he would have too, had someone of a larger species not chosen that moment to pass by their hiding place. Whoever it was moved on quickly without a second's pause, but that tiny interval was all the lanky young rabbit needed to cool his jets and put things in perspective.

"That was before I remembered Erin was here..."

"MAX!"

"Shhhh!"

"Sorry but dude...!"

"Wait, hold it, time out, lemme say something, 'kay?" Max had formed a 'T' with his paws. Now he raised the right one in a bunny scout salute. "Zack, I swear to God, digging our way behind the stage is not what I planned to do all along. I never lied to you, 'kay?"

The smaller bunny only regarded him with a face set in stone, but the coldness of his expression spoke volumes.

"I know, I know," Max heaved a mile-deep sigh. Dangit, he was telling the truth, why couldn't his cousin see that? "You wouldn't have come if I'd told you about Erin to begin with. But cross my heart Cuz, I really didn't remember about her until after we got here. And..." he looked away for a second, biting his lip. "Okay yeah, you're right; she isn't why we came here." He said this and then laid a paw on the smaller bunny's shoulder. "So...why don't you get the heck out of these bushes and go back inside the theater? And then wait till you hear the air-horn; you know what to do."

Zack's eyebrows jumped and his foot nearly thumped; he seemed barely to have stopped it in time.

"B-But....don't you need a...?"

Max cut him off at the knees...but not angrily

"Yeah, but what the heck good would it do?" He was smiling in lopsided resignation. "You can't see anyone coming from inside here." He waved a paw at the surrounding branches. "And if you try to keep watch from outside, I wouldn't be able to hear you from down the hole anyway; you'd have to come in here to warn me." His eyebrows arched upwards, "and how the heck are you supposed to do that without whoever's there seeing you duck into the bushes? No way they won't Zack; so go on and get your tail back inside the theater—and then you carry on like we planned. Don't worry about me, I'll be okay."

"Cuz, I-I..." the smaller bunny's face was a portrait, etched in guilt.

Ahhhh, loyalty...MEH! Max's ears shot backwards and went flat against his neck.

"Hey, what'd I just say, DUMB bunny?" His voice was like the hiss of a high-pressure air-hose. "Go on, get out of here." He stabbed a finger in the direction of nowhere in particular. "Go!"

Zack stared, swallowed, and then nodded dumbly.

And then he was gone.

---

Author's Note:

I initially became aware of the first of the two songs Gazelle performs, Animal City, by way of a post on Facebook. Like many others, I'm sure, I assumed at first glance that it was a song about an anthropomorphic community not unlike Zootopia.

It isn't, the subject matter of Animal City is exactly as described in this chapter. I personally consider it to be the best musical take on the price of fame since, well, David Bowie's Fame.

As for that second tune, yep...Shakira (Gazelle) really did once perform an unplugged version of Nothing Else Matters. 

 

Chapter 20: Meet on the Ledge (Continued...Part 5)

Summary:

Conor and Erin, reunited at last. And then here it at last, folks; her audition performance

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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When you're standing at the crossroads
Don't know which path to choose
Let me come along
'Cause even if you're wrong
I'll stand by you

The Pretenders

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Chapter 5—Meet on the Ledge
(Cont'd…Part 5)

“Erin Hopps…Erin Janelle Hopps.”

The slim young lioness sounded bored as she read the name; bored, and weary—and with good reason.

“Last?”

Erin stared at the ‘bingo cage,’ refusing to believe her ears. This couldn’t be right; there had to be at least a couple more names still left in there…

It was empty.

“I’m on…last?”

She looked around the room. Except for her and ten other kids, all of whom were already on their feet, nobody else was waiting to go on. B-But, why had they drawn eleven names instead of ten?

Because this was the final group to be picked to go onstage…and she was…

“Dead…last?”

If Erin had been a wolf she’d have been howling in anguish. There was just so much wrong with this.

In the first place, it felt as if she’d been waiting forever to hear her name called—and that assessment wasn’t far off. Looking at her watch, the young, white-furred bunny saw that it was almost 4:00; the auditions should have been wrapped up more than an hour ago.

And what that meant was…the audience would have mostly dispersed by now, the stands would be almost empty. Such might not have been the case had the big announcement still been forthcoming. ‘Here are names of the applicants accepted for admission in the coming semester.’

No such luck now. The news wouldn’t be delivered for at least another week—and so why hang around? When Erin walked out on that stage, she’d be playing to the judges, her family, her friends, and that was it.

Oh, and speaking of the judges…at this point, they were bound to be feeling tired and restless. The big thought on their minds would be something on the order of, ‘Come on; let’s get this over with!’ Most likely they’d spend her performance counting the seconds until it was over—no matter how well she did. They might even ring the bell early, just so they could get the heck out of here.

And that wasn’t the worst of it, not by a long shot. First rule of any audition says, NEVER follow a better act onstage…and now there was no way Erin wasn’t going on in the wake of a better performer. Out of all the kids who’d auditioned today, there wasn’t ONE, at least, that had her beat? Get real, rabbit! All her work, all her preparations, everything she’d done to get ready for today… all of it felt like a pawpsicle dropped on a hot sidewalk; there’s nothing you can do but stand there and watch it melt. Your treat is gone and you can’t bring it back; sorry…

“Erin…Hopps?” the lioness repeated the name, this time with an edge to her voice.

“Uh, here.” Raising a paw, she got up and went over to where her gear was stacked…dragged herself over, if you wanted to be truthful about it.

There were only two items left in the pile, both of them hers.

“I’m on LAST!”

She would have burst into tears if she hadn’t felt so numb.

“Here, let me help you wi’ those.” It was the Afurican Wild Dog again. His voice was kind and wholly sympathetic, but for Erin it was about as comforting as sitting on chilled concrete, in a wet swimsuit.

Even so, the young doe-bunny allowed him to take her duffle-bag, her pedalboard… and her bass. Yeah, let someone else carry it; who cared anymore, anyway?

Barely aware of what was happening, she took her place in the line at the stage entrance. Her thoughts were empty of emotion, almost robotic.

All right, when the group ahead of hers was down to the last three performers, the door would open and….

Erin would never have thought that her ears were still capable of it—not while she was waist deep in a blue funk—but just then ,she felt them shoot straight upwards. On the other side of the stage door, the song that had been playing—it sounded like Ed Shearing’s Bad Habits—abruptly ceased with almost half of it left to go. What the…? She hadn’t heard any gong; why had they….?

These thoughts were cut off by a noise and a commotion, somewhere in the stage wings beyond.

And then without warning the door banged open, so hard that a layer of brick dust shook loose from the wall. A split instant later, a sobbing young civet-cat went rushing past her with his arms wrapped over his head. Right behind him was the coyote-girl from the sign-up table, calling for him to wait up.

It wasn’t the first time Erin had seen something like this today…so why did she feel like she’d taken a baseball bat to the gut?

“Hey rabbit…wake up, we’re on.”

Someone was shaking her by the shoulder; it was the marbled fox-girl in line ahead of her.

Stepping blindly, trying not to stumble, Erin followed her through the stage door—and at that moment she understood why the civet’s meltdown had hit her so hard.

That was almost exactly how SHE had behaved that first time at the Carrot Days talent show–when her bass had died and she’d almost destroyed it. And now…could it happen again? Could she lose it like that a second time? Could it happen…here?

Oh, sweet cheez n’ crackers, anything but that!

Someone closed the door behind her; the wolf security-guard who’d been drawing the names from the ‘bingo-cage’.

Erin barely noticed him…and didn’t see him averting his eyes as he went past her.

On the other side of the doorway, in the cavernous confines of the rehearsal studio, everything was as quiet as a still-life painting. Erin, the lioness, and the wolf-guard had been the last ones out the door, and now the room was empty.

But not for long; at the far end of the enclosure, the door to the hallway cracked open and a single eye appeared in the frame. It could almost have been an effect from a vintage B-movie horror flick—until it swung open all the way and a lanky, athletic young rabbit stepped into the room.

Max March had made several false starts before finding his way here. His first tunnel had run smack into a concrete dead-end, and the second one had taken him back outside of the theater again. His third attempt had come to naught when the earth surrounding him had abruptly turned sandy. Wisely–especially for him–he had promptly reversed course. As much as he wanted to catch Erin’s audition performance up close and fursonal—without her parents around—it wasn’t worth getting caught in a tunnel collapse. His fourth try, he’d sworn, would be his last if things didn't pan out.

They nearly didn’t; the dig took him straight into a brick wall, much like the one he and Zack had hit during their first excavation. Okay, this was it, he was done. Turning himself around, Max had given the wall a farewell thump of frustration.

Two bricks had promptly dislodged themselves and fallen into the space beyond; the mortar surrounding them having long ago degenerated into little more than powder. Widening the hole, the young buck bunny had been unable to make out anything on the other side; it was pitch black in there. Pulling out his cell, he had turned on the light…and to his surprise, discovered that the hole he’d made was only an inch or two above floor level. As for the room itself, it appeared to be completely empty, nothing but four bare walls.

Nothing…except for a pair of dark, rounded humps, sunk halfway into the floor. Hrm…what the heck were those things? They looked almost like tractor wheels.

Max might have thrown in the towel right then and there…except his curiosity had picked just that moment to override his qualms. And so he’d pulled himself through the opening, and into the unknown chamber. Okay-y-y, those things weren’t tractor tires; they were some kind of…generator? What in the name of Jiminy Christmas was something like that doing in here? Maybe Zack would know; he was nerdy enough…except he wasn’t here right now.

Zack…

Ditching soccer camp for the ZAPA auditions had actually been his idea. When he’d first approached his cousin about joining the excursion, the bigger bunny had initially been lukewarm to the idea. That is, until Zack had told him why he intended to play hooky from soccer camp. Even then, Max hadn’t quite believed him…not until he’d seen the text his smaller cousin had received two days previously. Wha-ho, that really was why he was planning to ditch camp this coming Saturday; who’d a’ thunk the little guy had the sand?

“I’m s’posed to ask one other kid to come too.” his cousin had said, puffing out what passed for a chest, “someone I trust; so how about it, Cuz? Wanna come with me?”

“Count me IN!” Max had said, and then the two of them had sealed the deal with a high five and a whoop.

“I fought the law…and I won!”

But that had been BEFORE he’d spotted Bonnie and Stu Hopps entering the Amphitheater. Ducking quickly behind a handy hippo, Max’s first inclination had been to vacate the premises before they noticed him. But then he’d begun to wonder, what the holy carrot-sticks were they doing here? And then he’d remembered; Erin was auditioning today.

And that had changed everything. Sorry Zack, something more important just came up.

“Never mind about him, dumb-bunny,” His inner voice had interjected just then, “is there another way out of here?”

Searching the room with the aid of his cell-phone light, Max had discovered the answer almost immediately, a short flight of steps leading to a large-mammal doorway. He’d expected it to be locked and it was—but then the wood had turned out to be almost completely rotted through, practically papier-mâché. When he’d pressed on it with his paw, the surface had all but disintegrated. Pushing his way through, he’d found himself inside a mostly empty property-room…and from that point on, the going had become much easier. The next door had opened onto a space reserved for set construction…an enclosure with plenty of hiding places and several peepholes looking into the next room over.

…A room that just happened to be where the applicants were gathered, waiting for their turned to be called to the stage wings.

When he’d finally spotted Erin, Max had been enormously relieved. She was still here; she hadn’t gone onstage yet. Whoa, that was lucky; it would have been the ultimate aggravation to have made all that effort to get here, only to discover that her ship had already sailed.

But then, as it had been for everyone else, the minutes had become maddening…passing in stately procession without Erin Hopps’s name being called.

On the other paw, because she was part of the final group to be summoned, the rehearsal room had emptied with her departure—and given Max an almost perfect opportunity. Now, padding softly up to the stage door, he lifted an ear and laid it against the paneling…listening…listening…

Immediately he heard a voice. “Okay, are you good here?”

It was the grey-wolf security guard, speaking to a long-limbed, similarly attired female cheetah.

“Yep, no problem,” the big cat replied, and then promptly gave the lie to her statement by tugging down her tunic to cover her exposed navel—for something like the twentieth time.

“Are you sure?” The wolf was tilting his head slightly. “You seem kind of…preoccupied.”

“I’m fine!” the cheetah snapped, causing several heads to turn in her direction.

“Okay, okayyyy,” the wolf replied, making pushing motions with his paws. “I’m going to go check in up front. I’ll talk to you later.”

The big cat said nothing to this, only waved a paw. The wolf waved back and then exited through the outside stage door.

Several feet in front of him, a curly-horned ram in a police uniform was standing with crossed arms and an ear-cocked in the direction of the stage–where a strapping young zebra was belting out his own version of Melissa Otteridge’s The Only One. It was a daring choice for a stallion to perform, although admittedly he could have sung it better.

“Better not let The Lieutenant see you ‘getting distracted’, Grazer,” the wolf informed him, wagging a finger. His tone was wry, rather than harsh and the sheep took no offense.

“Baaaah, you know as well as I do that if the Lewis kid’s here he’s already back of there, somewhere.” He cocked a thumb at the stage door, adding, “And just between you and me…”

“Nooo, I don’t think so either,” the wolf cut in with an insouciant shrug. And then his eyebrow abruptly curled upwards. “All right, what?” Grazer was regarding him with an almost pitying expression.

“Sorry bud.” He was shaking his head, “but for crying out loud, couldn’t they at least have found you a rent-a-cop uniform that fits? That looks like something MY species would wear.”

“Tell me about it!” The wolf-cop growled, running paws over pant-legs almost wide enough to classify as pantaloons, “I feel like I’m in a vaudeville act or something. But if you think this is silly, you should see the outfit they gave Catano, she looks like I Dream of Jenny.”

A quick snerk of laughter burst from the sheep, and Wolford responded by sniffing sardonically and reaching for his belt.

“But you want to see something really stupid? Check this out.”

Grazer’s eyes went wide and he bleated in amazement. “Baaaaa, what the heck, is that a toy or something?”

“I know, right?”

The lupine ‘security-guard’ was holding a nightstick in his paws, a ‘tonfa’ model, the kind with a handle jutting from the side and a metal bead on the end; a very popular tool within the law enforcement community.

Not this nightstick; it was clearly intended for a small-mammal species…much smaller than a timber-wolf. In Wolford’s grip, it looked no bigger than a breadstick.

Uniforms that were way too big; gear that was way too small… Grazer shook his head again, bitterly this time.

“What a way to run a railroad, huh?”

Had he been privy to the sheep’s remark, Lieutenant Albert Tufts would not have been pleased. However, he was busy with another one of his officers at the moment.

“Let me know when there’s two left to go before the Hopps girl takes the stage,” He said, pressing fingers to his headset again, “And then notify me again, as soon as she goes on, over.”

There was no immediate response and the Kaibab squirrel felt his tail beginning to flip.

“Catano…Acknowledge please! Over.”

Her voice came back as quivery as a Jell-o mold. “S-Sorry sir; I didn’t hear you say ‘over’. I’ll let you know when there’s two ahead of…two left ahead of HER, and then I’ll notify you again, right…right before…um, over.”

Tufts could feel his incisors grinding. Dangit, that stupid cheetah had just come this close to blowing her cover.

“Don’t you even get distracted on me NOW, Catano!” he all but barked into his headset. “Command, out!” Ahhh, what the heck had gotten into her today?

What had gotten into Officer Kii Catano was Gazelle’s rendition of Nothing Else Matters; an earworm that wouldn’t let go. The more she tried to block it out, the deeper she felt the cut. Oh God, she’d give anything right now to have never been selected for this detail.

But…here she was, and so all she could do was try to put her mind elsewhere, focusing as best she could on the performances taking place onstage.

Erin Hopps had exactly the opposite problem. She didn’t want to hear what was going on out there—but she couldn’t help it.

The last performer in the group ahead of hers was a tree kangaroo. For his routine, he played the drums to a recording of Stalking Herds’ Burning Down the House. Erin thought he did a great job, but the Afurican Wild Dog, who had helped him get set up, appeared singularly unimpressed by the performance. He was there, along with the coyote-girl Dana, and the Sand cat, Saad al-Zaqir. Also hanging in the stage-wings was the lioness who’d read out the names of the performers after they were drawn, and a pair of young ringtail cats. The only thought on their minds seemed to be to get themselves out of here as quickly as possible. And in spite of her agitation, the young doe-bunny couldn’t help but wonder why they didn’t just go; they weren’t really doing anything back here.

Rounding out the group was a fidgety looking cheetah in a security guard’s uniform. Sheez, what the heck was her problem? Why the heebie-jeebies, cat? YOU’RE not auditioning today.”

The performances that followed the tree kangaroo ranged from mediocre to excellent; no real disasters, but no real standouts either.

That is…until they came to the wolf-girl four slots ahead of Erin. Even just waiting in the wings, she was an attention-getter. Take a look, f’rinstance, at the get-up she was wearing; a green and gold spandex body-suit, decorated with bright-red hot rod flames…flames which, curiously, ran downwards instead of upwards. It was weird but definitely noticeable.

When the chipmunk ahead of the young she-wolf came off stage, the two ringtail cats shared a look and then went scurrying up the…

Wha…the lighting gantry; what the heck were they going up there for? And were those…lengths of cable they had wrapped around their shoulders?

When they came back down the stairs again, they were bickering loudly about nothing in particular and sounding like some kind of robotic comedy team.

“Get out of my face, okay?”

“Really?”

“Really!”

“Okay…”

“THANK you!”

It was all fun and games…until one of them shoved the other and a scuffle started.

At once Dana and Jason rushed forward. They almost made it but… roused at last from her distracted state the cheetah-guard bolted in ahead of them and quickly broke up the fight. The next thing she did was aim a stern finger in the direction of the stage door.

“All right, you two…out!”

That was what finally got them on the same page. With one voice the pair put up a withering protest. And, for some odd reason, it seemed to put the cheetah-guard in a bit of a quandary. Her obvious next step would have been to escort the troublemakers outside. Except….for some reason she seemed very reluctant to leave her post.

Fortunately there was another big cat present. “I got this,” the young lioness said, and in short order the two cacomistles were hustled out the door, complaining every step of the way.

“Say, who were those guys, anyway?” Dana Alchesay’s tail had gone stiff and she was tilting her head sideways. “I don’t remember seeing them before; are they students here or what?”

“I-I-I think they’re in the acting class.” her boyfriend replied, sounding entirely UN-sure of himself.

“Ohhh, whatever,” the coyote girl flipped a paw back and forth. Like everyone else in the stage-wings she was eager to just get on with it. Turning to the opposite end of the stage she raised a finger at Mike Daehan, who nodded and spoke into his headset. A second later, Dr. Vignius’ voice came over the PA.

“Very good…and now please welcome our next performer, Miss Carrera Garrett…errrr Garnett, Miss Carrera Garnett. He too was beginning to sound like he just wanted to get this whole thing over with.

In response, Mike punched another button on his console and music began to play.

Only where was…?

“What the…where’d she GO?” Dana was staring around in utter confusion. The wolf girl seemed to have vanished into thin air.

“Well, wherever she is,” Saad was looking at his watch, “she’s got 90 seconds to…”

“♪ This girl is on fiiiiiiiyurrrrrrrrrre! ♫”

Everyone turned…and there she was, swooping down off the lighting scaffold like a falcon locked on to a pigeon. She had a bungee cord hooked to the center of her back and her arms were angled backwards, turning her into a lupine arrow.

A fire arrow to be precise; in addition to the flames on her jumpsuit, there were streamers of painted fire, trailing from her legs and tail.

It didn’t hurt that she also had one heckuva voice.

“ ♪  She’s…walking on fiyirrrrrrrrrrrre! ♫”

And the aerial ballet she performed with her tune wasn’t half bad either. At the end of her arc, she kicked off the left side of the bandshell and went flying around the edge of the apron in a wide, circular sweep, one arm stretched outward in the manner of Superwolf. Tucking her legs in at the end of her swing, she bounced off the bandshell opposite and performed a triple somersault in the air, never once missing a note. She then repeated the move a third time, this time capping it with a midair pirouette.

“She done dis before.” Jason m’Beke growled, impressed, in spite of himself.

Meanwhile rather than bounce off the right side of the shell again, the wolf girl grabbed hold of the rim. And instead of kicking off again, she let herself fall straight downwards in an almost vertical nosedive. The audience gasped, and a few turned away. She was going to splatter herself all over the…

At the last instant, the cord caught and propelled her back upwards, high above the School Medallion, hanging over center stage.

Wrapping her leg and elbow around the suspension cable, she slid down to the top of the medallion, lifting her other arm, and concluding her rendition on a softer note.

“She’s just a girl, but she’s on fiy-irrrre…”

And the crowd went wild, clapping, stamping, roaring, trumpeting, chittering, squeaking; simply put, they were whooping their lungs out.

The reaction in other quarters was decidedly more mixed.

Most of the kids waiting to go onstage were awestruck but also wary; there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Carrera Garnett had performed her stunt after being specifically told not to. Why else would she have set up that diversion with those ringtail cats? (Oh yes, THAT had been the reason for their little brouhaha.) Kii Catano, meanwhile, was watching with folded arms and a twitching tail; just WAIT until that wolf-girl got back down here!

Dana Alchesay’s feelings were even more negative. Right about now, she was ready to run Ms. Garnett through with a war-lance. And no, it had NOTHING to do with the way Jason had been looking at her; no, of course it didn’t. Dana’s issue was that if little Miss Rulebreaker had managed to hurt herself out there, her folks would probably blame the school and file a lawsuit. Why not; their daughter’s attitude had ‘product of overindulgent parents’ practically written all over it. Heck, they might sue anyway if their little darling was rejected for admission.

…And she would be; no way could the Performing Arts Academy wave off such a barefaced flouting of the safety regs.

Conor Lewis’s feelings on the subject were much more ambivalent —and could be summed up in a single thought.

“That wolf girl’s stinkin’ crazy…but you gotta love her style.” He couldn’t have set up that sneak performance any better if he’d tried. That being said, he had to agree with Dana on one thing, if nothing else. Carrera Garnett had just destroyed her shot at being accepted into ZAPA.

“Like this silver-fox kid I know...SHADDUP!”

And what of Erin Hopps; how did she feel about what she’d just witnessed?

If bunnies were capable of vomiting, she’d be in the backstage restroom right now, retching herself into oblivion. She had noticed something that the others apparently missed; Ms. Garnett might have just blown her chances of getting into The Acedmy…but she had also blown away the audience—AND the judges. Even if they’d have to disqualify that wolf girl for her guerrilla performance…mmmm, what was that old saying again? Oh yes, never follow a better act onstage. How the heck was one, little doe-bunny with a bass-guitar supposed to come even close to a feat like that? Worst of all, Carrera had not only set the bar on the top rung for whoever was going on after her, she had also cribbed a certain young rabbit’s theme. The judges were not going to be particularly enthralled, hearing two songs on practically the same subject, performed almost back to back.

Could this day possibly get any worse?

They brought Carrera down again by pulling the medallion up to the level of the lighting gantry and letting her return via the stairs. When she reached ground level a moment later, she was holding her head up, high and proud. She seemed to know that she had no chance at all of getting into the Academy now…and she also didn’t seem to care.

At once Kii Catano was all over her.

“I hope you think it was worth it kiddo. I’m going to take you outside now and hand you over to a police officer. He’ll decide what happens next.”

Carrera nodded and pointed to the lighting gantry.

“Awright, but I need to get my bungee cor….”

“WE’LL keep that, thank-you.” The cheetah cop cut her off with a growl. She no longer seemed to give a toss about leaving her post

“No regrets,” the wolf-girl sniffed, allowing herself to be marched out the door, all dignity. At once a burst of applause was heard, coming from somewhere outside. Whatever the judges and the ZPD might think, Carrera Garnett still owned the crowd.

Meanwhile the next performer, a young armadillo was taking the stage. That left the magic number of two to go before Erin’s turn came up…and so, just before heading back inside, Kii Catano paused to notify Command. Out here she could give the full pitch without having to more or less speak in code.

“Very good, Catano,” Tufts nodded as he answered her. “Let me know when she’s about to go on. Command out.”

“What about our flying she-wolf?” Claire Swinton was holding a mike above her head. “Grazer wants to know, are we going to arrest her, or what?”

The Kaibab squirrel immediately shook his head. “Ahhh, no…tell him to get her information and then release her into the custody of her parents. If the school decides to press charges, we’ll deal with it then.”

“Will do,” the pig-cop nodded, “And errr…what about her two accomplices?”

“Do we have them in custody?” Tufts’ tail was standing almost vertical.

“Uhhhh, no sir,” Swinton admitted, looking like she wanted to kick herself, “not yet.”

“Then let’s not bother,” he answered, waving a dismissive paw.

Uncrossing her fingers, the pig-cop nodded in satisfaction; for once the Lieutenant was acting sensibly.

The same could not be said about Erin Hopps. When the last performer ahead of her finally took the stage…sweet cheez’ n CRACKERS!

Her name was Natasha Bellocq; a marble fox with pink tinted head fur and a mask of fur in the same color enveloping the top half of her face. Her forelock was tinted a darker, coral pink, and beneath each eye was a painted row of tiny red dots. She was clad in a sugar-pink dress, resembling an inverted flower, with a long, flowing cape cascading from her shoulders.

She began her song on a piano chord and a soft, smoky, almost hesitant voice.

“♪ It’s easy to push me away…from you
Easy to say you want to be left…on your own. ♫”

But gradually her voice began to rise, as pure as spring water, as delicate as eiderdown.

“♪ Anger kept fear and the sadness you feel
Under the surface for so long…♫”

And then…after another moment, the song seemed to just burst out of her, a bird set free from a gilded cage.

“♪ Lend me your voice!
Let me see your face, let me start
To show you what I see… ♫”

It was magical. If Carrera Garnett had been soaring across the stage on a bungee cord a moment ago, this girl could soar on her voice alone.

“♪Anything you want to say, I’ll be right here. ♫”

It was a song to tug at your heartstrings and never let go. Before the young marbled-fox was even halfway done, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

When she finished up, the audience was instantly on their feet and cheering like never before. Carrera…who? Forget about that wolf girl; Natasha Bellocq was their new songbird.

Coming off stage she was greeted by more applause and tear-streaked faces…including that of Erin Hopps, although hers stemmed from a very different emotion.

If there was such a thing as the perfect set-up for a fail, she was about to walk right into it. Having to follow not one but two superior acts on stage…and go on last, dead last. When she handed over her pedalboard to the sand-cat Saad, her fingers seemed to have no feeling…and how had her bass gotten slung around her neck? She didn’t remember even taking it out of its case.

Behind her, she heard the stage door close as Natasha bade farewell–or something like that, her mind wasn’t really registering. Likewise, she didn’t hear the door to the rehearsal room crack open, much less did she see the eye, peering out through the opening…or Max March’s twitching nose

Nor was she aware of what Kii Catano was saying into her headset right then.

“Command….last one’s about to go on, over.”

“Roger that, Catano; Command out.” Lieutenant Tufts spoke in a fast clipped tone, and then turned to address the Command Truck. “All right, everyone listen up; the Hopps girl’s about to go on stage. I want every drone in position ASAP, and get that chopper in the air.” He looked up, studying the overhead display screens, nodded as his gaze shifted from one to the other. But then he stopped, with his tail flipping.

“Why isn’t there anyone covering the far left side of the stage?” he demanded, two fists planted firmly on his hips. And then without waiting for a reply, he waved a paw, “Never mind, who’ve we got that…? Oh, wait…Wolford. Have Wolford cover that area.”

“Yes sir.”

Meanwhile, back on the stage, Jason m’Beke had returned to the left-side wings, and was offering a thumbs-up to Mike Daehan. The black rat quickly returned the gesture and then spoke into his headset.

A half second later, Dr. Vignius’s voice came over the PA again.

“And now, please welcome our final performer of the day, Ms. Erin Janelle Hopps.”

“Okay gahch’iki, go get ‘em.” Dana smiled and gave her an affectionate pat on the shoulder.

The young doe-bunny swallowed, took a step forward…and then took two steps back.

“Erin?” The coyote-girl’s tail had gone stiff again and her ears were wilting and falling backwards; she knew what was happening and Bik'ehgo'ihi'dan…not NOW! “Come on kiddo, get out there!”

The bunny-girl only shook her head. “I…I can’t!” Her voice was like the sob of a ghost, coming from somewhere deep inside of an abandoned well.

“Yes you can,” Dana had dropped onto a knee in front of her. “You can do this!”

“No, I can’t!” Erin was gritting her teeth and tears were streaming from the corners of eyes. “I can’t go on last; I can’t go on after Carrera and Natasha; I-I can’t do it.”

“F’ cryin’ out loud, unogwaja!” It was Jason, thoroughly exasperated. “That wolf-girl not getting’ into de Academy; they disqualify her for sure.”

Erin only shook her head again. “I don’t care, I can’t!”

Dana stood up with a growl and a face pawlm. Glancing desperately around for a solution, her eye fell on the sand-cat standing behind the young doe bunny.

“Saad, get out there and start fiddling with Erin’s pedal-board. Pretend like there’s a problem with it. That’ll stop the clock; hurry…go!”

“I get on it,” the sand-cat replied, and hurried off as fast as his paws would take him.

Dana watched him for a second and turned back to Erin.

And that was when they heard it, the tooth-grinding wail of an air-horn, shrilling out over the PA speakers.

It lasted for perhaps two seconds at most, but the effect might well have been likened to the trumpets of Jericho—because it set off an instantaneous chain of events.

In the wings at stage-right, a twitchy Mike Daehan was standing at his control console and speaking rapidly into his headset.

Thirty yards away, in the judges’ box, Claudia Nizhang was listening on her cell-phone, at the same time cupping a paw against her other ear.

“Okay,” she said, and then disconnected and turned to the others. “Daehan says he didn’t do it; he has no idea where it came from.”

“Well then, where DID that air-horn come from?” A big eared bat demanded from his seat on the far left side of the box—actually a perch from which he was hanging inverted.

“No idea, Mr. Townshend,” the red panda shrugged. She could hardly blame him for being sore; for an animal of his species, that noise must have been like a having a hole drilled into his skull

“Never mind that,” the coypu sitting on her opposite side huffed, a hint of French in his accent, “Is anyone keeping track of how much time the Hopps girl has left to get started? I would like to get out of here sometime before Judgement Day.”

Everyone else in the booth regarded each other awkwardly.

“Uhhh, well, honestly Jules…” Dr. Vignius was rolling his lips uneasily. But before he could say anything more, Gazelle stood up and pointed into the audience.

“¡Ai, Dios…Look!”

All over the amphitheater, kids were throwing on hoodies in blindingly brilliant chartreuse—after which every single one of them pulled the hood up over their heads.

“What the heck is going on out there?” Dr. Vignius queried rhetorically.

In the command truck across the street, Lieutenant Albert Tufts, ZPD thought he had a pretty good idea…in fact he was almost giddy at the notion.

“He’s HERE!” The Kaibab Squirrel chittered triumphantly, pointing from one overhead monitor to another. “I told you he’d be here.”

“Okay-y-y, but…what’s he up to?” Claire Swinton was shrugging helplessly. She could see no visible evidence that her boss was right, but deep in her guts she knew that he was; Conor Lewis had come to the party. Only… “What the heck’s he doing this for?”

Tufts pivoted to face her, pointing upwards at one of the display panels.

“This is how he’s planning to sneak in without being spotted. He gets the kids in the audience to put on bright yellow hoodies, and then when HE shows up wearing one—how are we supposed to tell the difference?”

There was no arrogance in his voice, no scorn, only a cool matter-of-fact-ness. Nonetheless, his words cut the pig-cop right to the quick. D’oh, riiiight…and why hadn’t she seen it for herself? She still didn’t like this squirrel; she would probably never like him…but for once, at least, she had to begrudge him a measure of respect.

And now Tufts swung into action, barking orders to his command crew like the captain of a warship. “All right, listen up. I want every spare officer we’ve got inside of that amphitheater now, and every exit and entrance covered. Nobody wearing one of those hoodies gets in or out of that place without being subjected to a security check, especially if they’re trying to get inside.” He turned and pointed to one the techs; an alpaca. “Have all our drones pull back and start covering the exterior of the amphitheater. Tell the pilots to keep a sharp eye out for anyone wearing one of those hoodies and to notify command immediately if they see one. All right, you have your orders…move.” He concluded with a clap of his paws.

Someone else was on the move right then, a young rabbit with silver-on-black fur by the name of Zack March.

Max had told him to go back inside the theater and he’d immediately done as he was told. But then, as the minutes had dragged into hours with no sound of an air-horn, he had found himself becoming increasingly restless…until finally he’d been unable to keep HIS foot from thumping.

Without even waiting for anyone to complain, Zack had returned to the hole his cousin had dug–unaware that it had been abandoned in favor of a new one, several yards away.

That’s where he was crouching when the air-horn sounded.

And when he heard it…sorry Max, but this was why they’d come here today; it was time to return to the amphitheater and get that hoodie on.

For about half a second, the young buck bunny debated whether he should put it on now or wait ‘til he was back in his seat again. He quickly selected the first option, slipping the hoodie on over his head and making a fast exit from the undergrowth.

Retracing the route by which he had come, Zack took no notice of the drone hovering twenty feet overhead…but the aircraft most certainly noticed him.

So did the ibex operating it, and he promptly relayed the news to the command truck.

“Roger that Bock. “ Lieutenant Tufts replied, speaking in clipped precise tones, “Keep on him; Command, out.” He switched frequencies and spoke again. “Grazer, this is command, we’ve got a yellow hoodie headed yours, over.”

“Command I’m on him, over,” the ram responded. He was standing just inside the right side theater entrance, and now he allowed himself a quick look around the corner. Yep, there was Hoodie-Kid; what an easy mark. Those neon babies might be good for losing yourself in a crowd of kids all dressed the same as you—but by yourself and out in the open, you might as well be wearing a flashing bullseye.

Moving briskly towards the front of the theater, Zack remained oblivious to the scrutiny being directed at him. The only thing on his mind right now was, “Dangit, it’s too WARM for a hoodie out here.” And he couldn’t lose the thing; he couldn’t even pull the hood back down. But—he could at least roll up his sleeves.

Officer Grazer didn’t see him…but Lawrence Bock, the drone pilot did.

And what the ibex observed was a forearm covered with gray-on-black fur, giving the appearance of a silvery coat. It was something he’d seen before…in Sahara Square, while tracking the courier running money for The Phantom.

He didn’t hesitate for a microsecond.

“Break! Break! Command! Command! Command! I have eyes on our suspect; I say again, eyes on our suspect. He’s the kid in the hoodie, headed Grazer’s position. Do you copy, over?”

“10-4 Grazer, we copy you five by five…”

Lieutenant Tufts wasn’t the only one who had copied; Shaun Grazer had heard it too. Unfortunately, he happened to hear it right when he was looking around the corner again…and also while the kid in the hoodie was looking in his direction. Caught unawares, the sheep-cop startled before he could check himself. At once, he saw the youngster turn and begin to walk away–moving rapidly, as if he’d just remembered an important engagement elsewhere.

He immediately raised a finger. “Son, come here for a second…?”

The next thing he said was, “Command! Command! We’ve got a runner…!”

“Acknowledged Grazer; Command out.” Tufts spoke quickly into his headset and then switched to the ‘all channels’ frequency. “All units, all units; suspect located, proceeding on foot at high speed, along the east-southeast side of the amphitheater, heading towards the service entrance. All available units respond, ASAP!”

Even before the squirrel had finished speaking, Kii Catano was on her way outside. It went without saying that the ‘all available units’ alert applied to her. Next to Grazer, she was the closest officer to the suspect. And she was also a cheetah—chasing down runners was what she did.

None of the others in the stage wings noticed her departure; they were all too busy with Erin Hopps,

“Come on, girl.” Dana Alchesay was practically begging with tears in her eyes. “Please…you can’t quit now when you’re this close. Go on, get out there.”

The young doe bunny only shook her head, backing up against the wall and clutching her bass like a kit with a plushie toy.

“You got to at least try, Erin.” Jason m’Beke pleaded, and then took a different tack. “Think; what would Conah say, if he could see you like this?”

“Oh, I’m gonna say plenty!” an angry voice responded from somewhere beneath his feet. And then everyone was backing up wide eyed as a section of the floor creaked and began to move upwards, falling back against the floorboards with a flat thump. For perhaps a millisecond nothing happened, and then a wiry young fox with iron-grey fur yanked himself up out of the hole and leapt to his feet.

He was dressed in dark urban-camo…and looked like he wanted to bite somebody.

It took Jason all of a microsecond to assume the same expression, planting himself in front of the intruder with hackles raised and fangs bared. “You don’t come here, GO!” he snarled.

The fox only snarled right back. “Back off Jason, this is between her and me.” and then wiped a finger across his right eye.

And the Afurican Wild Dog yelped and stepped back in shock; not because of the fox's words, but because the eye that had been dark brown a second ago was now a deep, burning amber—an unmistakable burning amber.

“Hewu Nkosi yami! C-CONAH?”

“That’s right, babe…and you!” He wheeled on Erin, thrusting a finger so violently in the young bunny’s direction, it seemed that it might detach itself from his paw and go straight through her. “YOU!” he snarled again, fangs exposed and eyes blazing. Before anyone else could react, he was already in her face. “You got any idea of what-all I hadda do to keep my promise to you today, huh? HUH!” He pointed at the lighting gantry. “I almost fell off that thing twice, nearly puked my guts out in that cesspool they call a restroom, played hide and seek with a crummy police drone, almost got busted more times n’ I can count…and then I had to spend the last three stinkin’ hours hiding in a stinkin’ sweatbox.” The finger came back and he shoved it up under her nose. “And I did NOT go through all that stuff just to watch you fold up like a house of cards, you follow what I’m bringing out?”

“Conor, take it easy.” Dana Alchesay laid a paw on the young fox’s shoulder.

He immediately batted it aside.

“I said stay out of this!”

Four feet away, the eye that had been watching though the crack of the rehearsal room doorway had widened to the diameter of a cue-ball. Good God, it was him, the fox Max March only knew from the webcasts he’d seen. He was here…right here, almost near enough to touch!

“Sweet cheez n’ CRACKERS!”

A thousand conflicting emotions went raging through the young buck bunny. Part of him wanted to go out there and shake Conor Lewis’s paw, while another part wanted to kick open the stage door and get in HIS face, “Don’t you talk to her like that, creep!.” Still another part of him wanted to make a fast draw for his phone-cam–Zack would never believe this–while another part wanted to break into either ‘I Fought the Law,’ or ‘We’re Not Gonna Take It.’

What Max didn’t want to do right now was to go and find a police officer. No way was he going to inform on this fox…the one who’d finally stood up to The System and told it like it is.

NO!

WAY!

On the other side of the door, Dana Alchesay looked halfway ready to bite Conor Lewis’s face off. Just the same, she stepped back as ordered.

And that was when Erin’s voice finally returned.

“Conor, I’m sorry…I-I.”

“You shut up and listen!” he growled, whipping his finger away from her face and pointing it in the direction of the stage. “If your fluffy little tail isn’t out there in thirty seconds, MINE will be…and here’s what I’m gonna tell everybody.” He made a sound that might have been a snarl or possibly just clearing his throat. And then his voice turned high and sarcastic. “Hi everyone; sorry if this isn’t what you expected to see, but Erin’s too ‘fraid to get out on the stage…so they sent me along as a surrogate fox. Oh, by the way, I’m Conor Lewis.”

All three of his friends gasped.

“Conor, no!” Dana Alchesay’s ears were falling sideways and she was backing away with her tail between her legs, “You do that and you’ll never make it out of here without getting caught; there’s cops all over the place!”

“That’s right; you’ll be arrested, certainly.” Saad al-Zaqir had returned to wings and now he was practically caterwauling.

The young fox only shrugged, “Then that’s what’s gonna happen,” he said, once again fixing Erin in his gaze, “unless you decide to stop it. What’s it gonna be, Snowdrop; you gonna get out there and rock or do we BOTH crash and burn?”

She only stood there, shaking spasmodically as if she’d been tazed.

“Fine,” Conor sniffed and then growled. “You know what, the HECK with those thirty seconds!” And turning on his heel, he stomped off in the direction of the stage.

And that was what finally broke the spell; with a cry of dismay, Erin went rushing after him, paw outstretched. She was less than an inch away from his collar, when a chorus of horrified voices pulled her up short.

“No, rabbit!”

“Don’t do thet!”

“Don’t ever grab him from behind!”

She halted instantly in her tracks, turning quickly in the direction of the noise. What she saw was a trio of horrified faces…beginning to soften with relief.

But then she remembered…

“Oh, NO!”

She spun furiously back in the direction she’d been going…and there was Conor, standing with folded arms and one ear higher than the other? “Well?”

Erin’s face tightened up like a drumhead, and then her ears were pulling backwards and her teeth were gnashing together.

“I HATE you!” she spat, and then stormed past him and onto the stage.

Conor watched her go and then HE turned around.

What his friends saw was an almost completely different fox from the one that popped out of that trapdoor only moments ago; his fur was lying flat, and his ears were falling sideways. His tail, which might have belonged to a porcupine in the midst of his tirade, was limp and dragging on the floor. So were his eyes.

“Sorry, had to do it,” he mumbled, trying to look up again and failing.

“It’s all right, Conor,” Saad replied, laying a paw on the young fox’s shoulder. “We understand.”

“How’d you know that work, though?” It was Jason, head tilted sideways in canine confusion.

The young fox looked at him for a second, and then looked away.

“I-I-I didn’t–but it was the only thing I could think of.” And then his back stiffened and his shoulders squared. “But don’t get me wrong over here,” he growled, glancing backwards at the departing doe-bunny. “I meant what I said just now; I really didn’t go through all that stuff just to watch her up and quit…especially that stinkin’ bathroom, and I DO mean stinkin’.” When he looked at his buds again, he was no longer contrite, but still hesitant. “Uhm, but uh, someone wanna go help her get plugged in?”

Saad immediately took off after the young white-furred bunny. Conor nodded approvingly and then strode back over to the hole from which he’d sprung.

“Wha…?” Dana was staring at him, bewildered, “Conor…aren’t you going to stay and watch Erin’s audition?

He only smiled. “Ohhh yeah, I’m gonna watch her, ‘yote-girl…best seat in the house.” And then he pointed to the trap-door, “Gimme a paw with that?”

When Erin Hopps stepped out of the wings, a wave of applause greeted her, mostly of the polite variety. The exception was the response from the twelfth row, left of center, where her family was cheering wildly. The girls in her posse went one better, chanting her name in unison, “Er-IN! Er-IN! Er-IN! Er-IN!” There were also a lot more animals left in the audience that she would have expected, most of them wearing electric-chartreuse hoodies.

The young doe bunny was aware of none of it; right now, she had only ONE thing on her mind.

“Snotty, arrogant…who does he think?…blackmail ME!…Ooooo, just wait until ….show HIM…He’ll be…talk to ME that way?...HATE foxes…just WAIT!”

One ear went up higher than the other as she became aware of someone following her. When she swung round to face the interloper, at least part of her hoped that it was Conor–so she could feed him her bass, the hard way.

Sorry, no soap; it was only that sand cat, Saad-what-his-name.

Erin Hopps wasn’t the only female in the vicinity feeling fit to be tied right then. Just outside the shrubbery skirting the theater’s exterior, Officer Kii Catano was developing a serious craving for a squirrel sandwich.

“Sir, with all due respect, cheetahs are built for pursuit across open country, not through the underbrush.” She was speaking on her cell phone rather than her two-way…which made it all the more tempting to say something she knew she’d regret later. A radio call can be overheard by anyone tuned in to the correct frequency; not so, a phone conversation.

That little, blankety-blank nut-cruncher would be able to hear her though…and his ear was the one that mattered.

“Spare me the excuses, Catano,” His incisors snapped together as he spoke, “You let him get away, pure and simple.”

She closed her eyes and counted to three. “Big-headed little…”

“One more time Lieutenant, please…our suspect did NOT get away, he only ducked into the bushes when he saw me. He’s still there; he hasn’t escaped us, not by a long shot.”

Tufts didn’t want to hear it. “You should have nabbed him before he…”

“Look, even I can’t cover twenty yards in half a second!” Catano cut him off in mid-sentence. Big mistake, but she didn’t care; she’d had it up to here with this bushy-tailed jerk. “Go ahead, write me up! A cheetah can take only just so much.”

“And may I remind you sir, we’ve got every square foot of that row of trees covered, either by an officer or a drone. That fox-kid’s not going anywhere, Lieutenant. Sooner or later, he’ll have to break cover. And when he does, he’s ours.”

She expected him to come back with something on the order of “He’d better be!”

Instead all she heard was a noise like someone blowing up a beach ball. It was Tufts, taking deep breaths and then exhaling.

Finally, much more equable, he said, “All right, do you need any extra back up?”

“Mmmmm, I could use a couple more bodies,” Catano replied warily. She’d seen him like this before and knew that it might only be the calm before the storm.

“All right,” Tufts nodded and then pointed to a pair of officers, “Swinton, Jackson…go out there and assist Officer Catano.”

“On it sir,” they replied in unison, only too happy to exit the Kaibab squirrel’s presence.

“All right, help’s on the way Catano, keep me posted.” He rang off without another word and then turned to look up at the monitors again. On the center screen, Erin Hopps was approaching the microphone. Holy cracked filberts, what the heck was her problem? She looked madder than that cheetah had sounded just now. Never mind; here was the opportunity to make the fox kid give away his hiding place.

“You’re so sly, but so am I,” the Kaibab squirrel recited under his breath, and then turned around and spoke once more to the command truck as a whole. “Where’s that helicopter?”

Erin Hopps, meanwhile, said nothing to Saad al-Zaqir as the sand-cat helped her plug in her bass and then adjusted the mike to match her height. But when she happened to glance to the left, her ears immediately went back against the nape of her neck...so hard, they made a slapping sound.

Oops, no…that was sound of her foot thumping.

Four feet over, set against the rim of the stage was a shell-like structure, resembling an old-fashioned footlight—the prompter’s box. And there inside of it, invisible to the audience and the kids in the wings, was an unpleasantly familiar face.

“Oooo, you shifty, no-good, two-faced, jerk! You want to see me rock? I’ll SHOW you how I rock!”

She waved to Saad, telling him he could go, and then turned in Mike’s direction, rolling her paw in the air, signaling for the rat to crank it.

And then she clicked a pedal on her effects board and began to play…

Erin opened her song on a two note lick that might almost have been a heartbeat. Sitting in the prompter’s box Conor Lewis’s face was a mask of confusion. What the heck, was she gonna sing ‘Breathe’ by Pig Floyd or something?

No, she wasn’t; at that instant Erin broke into a fast seven note riff, repeating it a second time just as the background music came up; drums with just a hint of guitar behind them. On the third rep, she began to sing—belting it out in a take-no-prisoners, scorched-earth vocal.

“♪ You can climb the mountain
You can swim the se-ea-ea-eeeea
You can jump into the fire,
But you’ll never be free! ♫”

She finished up the verse with a glare at the prompter’s box. That’s right fox-jerk; you never WILL be free! You’ll be running for the rest of your life…IF you don't get busted first.

Conor Lewis was seriously humbled—or he would have been if he’d been paying attention. At the moment, however, his eyes were glued to his laptop screen.

“What the HECK? You gotta be  kidding  with that stuff, Tuffguy!”

Rising up over the back of the audience, he saw the spiraling form of a helicopter, with an animal leaning out through the side window. Conor was unable to identify his species, but even on a laptop screen, there was no mistaking the telephoto camera clutched in his paws…or the ZPD logo stenciled on the side of the aircraft. Dangit, if that thing got any closer it would drown out Erin’s singing…or at least damp it down.

“You nut-cracking little dirt-bag, I don’t think so,” the young fox growled, typing rapidly into his computer.

“♪ You can shake me up
Or I can bring you dow-howwwn!♫ ”

Conor couldn’t help but appreciate the irony.

“Ohhh yeah…I’ll bring you down; EAT it, flyboy!”

Inside the helicopter, the klipspringer in the pilot’s seat was reeling back in stunned surprise. The display just right of the oil pressure gauges had gone suddenly and completely blank “I don’t believe it; the kid’s got a GPS jammer!”

Not good, not good at all; without global positioning, it would be impossible to hold position at this altitude.

Well…actually it wouldn’t—if you didn’t mind the having the Zootopia Aviation Administration jump all over your tail. Over a populated area, flying this low without GPS was a strict no-no.

He immediately hit the call-button.

Tufts’ reaction to the news was not what anyone might have expected. To hear him, you might almost have assumed he was grooving to Erin’s musical performance…

“♪ Whoa-ho-oh-oh-oh-ohhhhh! ♫”

“Got you!” he chittered.

Several officers stared in confusion as the squirrel threw a fist in the air. When he spoke into his headset again, he was practically gleeful. “Roger that, Aerial-1; go ahead and pull back until you’re out of jamming range—and then stand by for further instructions. Command out.” To the rest of the crew, he said, “Ohhh-kay, the kid fell for it; get a trace on that GPS jammer, stat!”

“He’ll be running it by remote sir,” one of the techs, a beaver, pointed out. “I would.”

Tufts only smiled, “Yes, and in order to do that, he’ll have to maintain communication with it.”

The beaver was not persuaded.

“All right sir, but… now that the helicopter’s leaving, can’t he…?”

“He can, but he won’t.” the squirrel interrupted, nodding in the direction of a display panel. “If he shuts down that jammer now, there’ll be nothing to stop us from bringing the chopper back…and he knows it. Noooo, he’ll leave it on at least until Ms. Hopps is done with her performance. And THAT’s how we’ll nail the little jerk—unless Catano gets him first.” He clicked his teeth again. “Either way, stick a fork in that fox-kid, he’s done.”

“♪ We can make each other happy…
We can make each other happy…
We can make each other happy…
We can make each other HAP-PY!… ♫”

Erin Hopps was singing like she’d never sung before, singing her heart out; singing her soul out. She didn’t care what the audience thought; she didn’t care what her posse and/or family thought, she didn’t even care what the JUDGES thought. The only thing that mattered right now was teaching that slimeball silver-fox a lesson he’d never forget.

Only dangit, what the heck was wrong with her pedal-board? The stupid echo-plex wasn’t working.

All right, fine, she’d just do it herself.

“♪ Wha-OW!…OW…Ow…Ow…ow…ow…ow…! ♫”

Finishing up on the whoop, Erin allowed herself a half-second’s glance in Conor’s direction. His face was unreadable but ahhhh…there was no mistaking those ears. They were sticking up so far they seemed to have lengthened by a good two inches.

“And if you think THAT was kick-tail, foxy, I still have once more verse to throw at you; listen to  this!”

She turned back to the mike-stand and gave it everything she had—and then some.

“♪ YOU CAN CLIMB THE MOUNTAI-AI-AAAAAIN,
YOU CAN SWIM THE SEA-HEA… ♫”

Erin sang the last verse with the voice of a fallen angel, soaring like an eagle and searing like dragon-fire, all at the same time. A few minutes ago, even she wouldn’t have known she had it in her. In fact, she still didn’t know. All she knew at the moment was her song; even her pique at Conor was beginning to fad from her psyche. It was her and the music and nothing else.

She hit the final refrain like a truck crashing a barrier…and who needs an echo-pedal anyway?

“♪ WE CAN MAKE EACH OTHER HAPPY!
WE CAN MAKE EACH OTHER HAP-Hap-Hap-hap-hap…
WE CAN MAKE EACH OTHER HAP-Hap-Hap-hap-hap…
WE CAN MAKE EACH OTHER HAAAAPPY ♫”

….And then into the final bit, a long, extended wail that seemed to rise up from the depths of an eternal abyss.

“♪WAAAAAH-AH-AAAAAHHHHHH-AH-AH-AH-AH-AH-OH-OH-OH-OH-OHHHHH-OH-OH-Oh-Oh-Oh-oh-oh-oh-ohhhhh. ♫''

But the young doe-bunny wasn’t done just yet. Oh-kayyy, she had shown everybody how she could sing; now it was time to show off her bass-playing skillZ….and the opportunity was coming up in 4…3…2…

At this point, in the original version of ‘Jump Into the Fire,’ the song goes into an extended drum solo, toms only, no cymbals.

Not this time; what happened next was what finally made Conor Lewis’s jaw drop open. “Holy foxtrot, she’s playing it as a SLAP-BASS solo!”

Yes she was and she was tearing it up; fingers moving too fast for the eye to follow, thumps and pops coming almost too fast for the ear to follow.

It was breathtaking.

“How the heck is she even DOING that?” The young fox could only marvel.

Erin could have left it right there…but nooooo; instead she went into a repeat of the scat-vocal at the end of the first two verses.

“♪ Whoa-ho-oh-oh-oh-ohhhhh! ♫”

…With one or two variations:

“♪ Ahhh-ha-ah-ah-ah-haaaaaaahhhh! ♫”

“♪ Yeah-heah-eah-eah-eah-ehhhhhh! ♫”

The white-furred young doe-bunny would never know exactly where the idea came from, but when it hit her, there was no turning back. Yes, it was off-script. Yes, it might backfire. And yes, it would probably put her over the time limit.

No, she didn’t care.

And so the next line Erin sang came from a completely different tune than the one she’d been performing, delivered on an ascending rather than descending note, and punctuated with a bass-slap on the three words at the end.

“♪ Whoa-oh…oh-oh-oh-ah. Whoa-oh-oh….Oh-oh-oh-ohhhhh…in the dark-dark!
Whoa-ohhhh…oh-oh-ohhhh-ah. Whoa-oh-oh….Oh-oh-ho-ohhhhhhhh…in the dark-dark! ♫”

And then, she just ripped into it

“♫ So light ‘em up, up, up! Light ‘em up, up, up! Light ‘em up, up, up….I’m on fi-yarrrr!”
Light ‘em up, up, up! Oh, light ‘em up, up, up! Light ‘em up, up, up….I’M ON FIII-YARRRRR! ♫”

“♪ Whoa-oh…oh-oh-oh-ah. Whoa-oh-oh….Oh-oh-oh-ohhh…in the dark-dark! ♫”

Before she could go any further, the crowd sang it back to her.

“♪ Whoa-ho…oh-oh-ohhhh-ah. Whoa-oh-oh….Oh-oh-ho-ohhhhh…in the DARK-DARK!

Erin couldn’t resist. Stand back mammals, it’s improve time!

“Ohhh-kay…try this one: ♪ Whoa-ah-ah-ahhhhh, whoa-ho-ho-ho…whoa-ohhhh-ohhhh-ahh. ♫”

The kids in the audience duly complied, “♪ Whoa-ah-ah-ahhhhh, whoa-ho-ho-ho…whoa-ohhhh-ohhhh-ahh. ♫”

And so she gave them another one.

“♪ Whoa-yeeeeah, aaaahhh. ♫”

And they gave it right back to her.

“♪ Whoa-yeeeeah, aaaahhh. ♫”

And again…

“♪ Whoa-ah-ah-ah-oh. ♫”

“♪ Whoa-ah-ah-ah-oh. ♫”

And again…

“♪ Yeah-whoa-oh-ohhhh-oh! ♫”

“♪ Yeah-whoa-oh-ohhhh-oh! ♫”

And then, just when it seemed the young doe-bunny had no more stops to pull ...she let it totally all hang out, sending her voice straight up through the stratosphere, to infinity and beyond.

“♪ MY SONGS KNOW WHAT YOU DID IN THE DAAAH-AH-AH-AH-AH-AHHRRRRRRK! ♫''

At that instant, the background music ended…but Erin still had her bass—and her voice.

And she knew how to use them; one more for the road!

“♪ WE CAN MAKE EACH OTHER HAP-PY! ♫”

A final slap of the strings, and then she was turning once again in the direction of the prompter’s box.

Only….why did her head feel like a helium balloon? And why was the stage turning into a merry-go-round? The answer came a millisecond later, when she felt her knees go wobbly. Ohhh, no…no way. She was NOT going to give that silver-fox jerk the satisfaction.

Grabbing her bass by the neck, Erin lifted it upwards and instead of fighting the fall, she went with it.

She landed on the stage in a three-point stance, with her instrument high above her head, breathing hard and still dizzy…but also still conscious. At that instant, she heard the sound of a gong, pealing out from the PA system.

She had finished, just under the wire. And with that realization, the world began to steady itself.

“There!’”she thought, turning yet again in the direction of the prompter’s box, “Maybe that’ll teach you… HUH?”

From out beyond the stage, a roar was sweeping over her. Forgetting about Conor for the moment, Erin shifted her gaze—and saw that everyone in the audience was on their feet and cheering like a hurricane; everyone, even the judges.

“Well don’t just sit there, DUMB bunny, stand up and take a bow!”

She almost responded with something snarky, before realizing it wasn’t Conor; that was her inner voice talking.

Getting shakily to her feet, Erin bent from the waist, just ever so slightly, lest she bring on the faint again.

In response, her girlZ took up the chant again: “Er-IN! Er-IN! Er-IN! Er-IN! Er-IN!”

Only this time it spread through the crowd to the rest of the kids—who joined in at once, and then kicked it up to the next level.

“ERRR-IN! ERRR-IN! ERRR-IN! ERRR-IN! ERRR-IN! ERRR-IN!”

That was when the young white-furred bunny felt the tears coming back—because at that moment, she knew; never mind what Dr. Vignius had said earlier, she knew.

“Sweet cheez n’ crackers, I did it…I’m in; I’m going to ZAPA! ”

Only then did she remember and turn her gaze towards the prompter’s box.

There was nobody inside; it was empty.

“ERRR-IN! ERRR-IN! ERRR-IN! ERRR-IN! ERRR-IN! ERRR-IN! ERRR-IN!”

---

Author's Note:

Here are the various tunes performed during today's episode:

Yep, it's her; I couldn't resist.

Couldn't resist this either; if you haven't seen Belle, you need to.

And now, we get to Erin's song(s).  It starts with these two version of Jump Into the Fire mashed together.

And this is where it goes from there:

And that's all for now, folks.  Hope you enjoyed it.  Of all the pieces I've written so far, this one was one of the toughest--but was also a labor of love.  Thanks to everyone who took the time to read it.

Chapter 21: Meet on the Ledge (Continued...Part 6)

Summary:

You thought it was over...

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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There's nothing you can do when you're next in line
You've got to go, domino
Do you know?
Do you know?
Do you know what you have done?
Do you see what you've begun?

Genesis

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Chapter 5—Meet on the Ledge
(Continued…Part 6)

Even from deep inside his hidey-hole Zack March could hear the crowd going bananas.

He had ducked down here after spotting that cheetah guard. As bunnies go, he was pretty fast…but there was no way he could outrun a member of that species—at least not in an open field. In an underground tunnel however, he held the advantage.

Or that is…he might have if Max's dig hadn't taken him straight into a concrete wall, turning his escape route into an instant rabbit-trap. Worst of all there'd been no sign of his cousin anywhere; he had never felt so alone.

But now…whoa, listen to all that hoopla coming from the amphitheater; someone must have really killed it onstage if he could hear the crowd-noise all the way down here at the bottom of Max's hole. Hmmm, maybe–just maybe–that craziness upstairs would distract the cops long enough for him to make a break. Yep, yep…they'd probably all gone back inside the theater to see what the fuss was about. In any event, it couldn't hurt to check; just one quick look to see if the coast was clear.

It might have occurred to the young buck-rabbit right then to ditch the chartreuse hoodie first. His cousin Max would have done it–but then, he wasn't Max.

Nose twitching and ears on full alert, the silver-black young bunny pulled up out of the hole and crept carefully towards the half-circle of blue at the edge of the foliage. Almost at once he realized that the cheers and shouts from the theater seats were actually working against him. An earthmover could be working five feet away and he wouldn't be able to hear it…not over the sound of that crowd. Ahhh, maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all.

Zack turned to go back the way he had come—and at that instant, something seized him by the foot and yanked him out into the daylight. A half second later, he was looking into the inverted face of a female cheetah, held fast in her grip by the ankles.

The next thing he saw was the big cat giving herself a face pawlm, "Ohhh, meowiiiir; stupid, idiot, drone-jockey!"

"What's the matter?" A new voice asked, and from the corner of his eye Zack saw a police officer approaching; a sheep. He was about five feet away when he stopped and abruptly repeated the cheetah's gesture. "Oh, baaaaah, I don't BELIEVE this!"

"I know, right?" she growled, shaking her head and then asking nervously "I-I-I don't suppose you'd care to do me a BIG favor and notify Command?"

The sheep immediately waved a hoof.

"Wha…? Nooo, thanks! Anyway, this is Bock's mess; let HIM clean it up."

"Yeah, good thought," the cheetah nodded.

"Uhmmm, can you please set me down on the ground again?" Zack's voice was not unlike someone rubbing a toy-balloon,

Catano and Grazer were wise to let the drone pilot deliver the bad news. The effect upon Lieutenant Tufts was not unlike the removal of a pin from a paw grenade—a few seconds of silence and then ka-BOOM!

Had he been a larger animal, a predator in particular, his meltdown would have been terrifying. But being as he was a rodent species, a squirrel to be exact, the reaction from his subordinates was mostly a struggle to keep from laughing. It's hard to be intimidated by someone shredding post-it notes and throwing paper-clips.

Even so, they were all glad that they weren't Sergeant Larry Bock right then.

"You STUPID, pea-brained, idiot waste of space!" the Kaibab squirrel screamed into his headset. "How…how…HOW could you mistake a bunny for a fox? Of all the…!" He went on in that vein for several minutes, promising, among other things, to bust the ibex down to patrol-mammal and either banish him to the Meadowlands or have him on parking duty until computers went back to floppy disks. It wasn't until after he'd dismissed the hapless drone-jockey that one of the techs, a beaver, made bold to raise a finger.

"Sir…Officer Catano wants to know…"

"NOW what?" Tufts demanded rhetorically, switching frequencies on his headset and speaking on his cell rather than the police band. "What IS it, Catano?" He sounded almost like an angry teenager. "WHAT, Mom?"

"Sorry Lieutenant," the cheetah cop replied, in the confident voice of an animal who knows that someone else is at fault. "But what should we do with this bunny-kid; should we let him go, or…?"

"No, let's take him back to headquarters and crown him King of the Precinct!"

That was what Albert Tufts wanted to say; it was what he would have said except…

Even in his most agitated moments, he was a squirrel capable of the occasional flight of intuition.

Such as right now, for example…

"Depends; was he up to anything he shouldn't have been?"

Before the cheetah-cop could answer, another voice broke in. "Lieutenant, it's Officer Grazer. The answer is yes; there's a freshly dug hole in the trees behind where we caught him. He insists that it isn't his work, but…"

"All right, bring him here," the Kaibab squirrel replied. He had no idea why he'd ordered the kid brought in—except something was telling him that he should be brought in. If nothing else, that bunny-boy would be able to fill in a gap in their knowledge. The kids wearing those yellow hoodies had donned them at Conor Lewis's behest. Everyone in the command truck knew that, and they also knew the purpose of the young fox's gambit. What they didn't know was how he'd managed to get the word out to all those other young mammals. With a little luck, the kid Catano had in custody would be able to fill in that detail.

Sitting down in his chair again, Tufts at last began to calm himself. They still had that trace going on the Lewis kid's GPS jammer. They'd get him; oh yes, they'd get him.

Zack was taken to the Command truck by way of a slightly circuitous route, with his escorts making certain to stay on open ground and keep away from any brush or trees. Grazer was on the young bunny's right, and Catano was on his left, keeping a paw on his shoulder. Their efforts were probably unnecessary; the kid was a complete wreck, walking with a shuffle and blubbering his eyes out. Still…he'd already tried to run for it once; they couldn't take any chances.

Had the cheetah and sheep-cop chosen to linger a moment before departing with their suspect, they might have bagged a second young rabbit emerging from the shrubbery—bigger, dusky, and much more muscular than his cousin.

Max March had made up his mind to book it even before the applause on Erin's performance had started to fade. There'd been no point in sticking around; he'd been unable to see her performance from behind that stage door, although he'd been able to hear her—and what he'd heard had put the awe in awesome.

But as for surprising her when she came offstage—that option had become totally not an option. No way was he going to pull that stunt now, not with an Afurican wild dog and a coyote-girl hanging in the wings, especially the coyote. Max had a phobia about that species–and not an irrational one. He'd been forced to miss Carrot Days this year because a pack of 'yotes was gunning for him…and they'd be after him still, if they weren't all cooling their heels in jail.

It had started back in April, when he and his cousin had been out on Star Route 28, hitch-hiking home from a late-night party. Suddenly, up ahead, a pickup truck had come squealing around a corner, heading in their direction. Zack, who had keener eyesight than he did, had quickly recognized it.

"Oh my God, get down Cuz; that's the Guilford's truck!"

Luckily, there'd been an empty drainage ditch by the side of the road, and—surprisingly—the two young rabbits had managed to get to it without being spotted.

As the truck shot past where he and his cousin were crouched, Max had managed to catch a glimpse inside the truck-bed. Yep, there was Craig Guilford, and there was his girlfriend, Amanda. He'd been unable to see who was driving, but it didn't matter. If there was one family you didn't want to cross paths with, late at night, on a lonely road, it was that pack of psycho-yotes.

After giving it an extra few seconds to make sure the truck was gone, Max had stood up, stretched his arms, and immediately felt someone grab him by the shoulder.

"Cuz, look!"

It was Zack and he was pointing off into the distance…where a pillar of whitish-yellow fire was swirling up into the sky.

Max had instantly grabbed him right back, "Sweet cheez n' crackers, that's the Luckyfoot produce stand!"

The young buck bunny hadn't needed to think; he'd immediately pulled out his cell phone and called 9-1-1.

He'd said nothing about the pickup truck, much less about the occupants. Heck, he hadn't even identified himself to the dispatcher. No need to explain to some Sheriff's deputy what HE'D been doing out on Star Route 28…after 11, on a school night.

Unfortunately for the dusky young rabbit, the Burrow County Fire Department had quickly ruled the blaze an arson fire. Even more unfortunately, as was common around The Burrow, suspicion for the fire had fallen instantly on the Guilford clan. Most unfortunately of all for Max, Craig Guilford had, in fact, seen him and his cousin ducking for cover that night. And then, not being the sharpest blade on the plowshare, he'd put two and two together and come up with six. Max March had snitched him out to the Sheriff for that fire–and he was going to pay!

That had been the opinion of not only Craig, but also his father and his uncles. The Guilford family creed had always been, "Mess with any one of us and you're messing with all of us." It didn't help that the young coyote had managed to convince his dad that the accusation was bogus—that once again his family was being scapegoated for something they hadn't done.

Blissfully unaware that the Guilfords had him in the crosshairs, Max had gone about his daily business without a care in the world—until the day he'd nearly walked straight into an ambush Craig had set for him.

If it hadn't been for Zack…

Max had just wrapped up his weekly workout at the Bunnyburrow 'Y' and was sitting outside at the bus-stop when his cell phone buzzed. Not in the mood for a conversation he'd almost let it go to voicemail…and thank God he hadn't.

"Max, this is Zack. Where are you?"

Hmmm, what kind of question was that? He would have hung up right then and there—if his cousin hadn't sounded so scared.

"At the 'Y', at the bus-stop out front; what the…?

Zack had swiftly cut him off.

"Listen Cuz, whatever you do, don't get on that bus, do you hear me? DON'T GET ON THAT BUS!"

Max had stared at the phone with his nose twitching. "What…why?"

The answer had turned his blood to ice-water.

"Craig Guilford's on it, waiting for ya. He thinks you called the Sheriff on him over that…look, I don't have time. Get out of there, get back inside the 'Y'…go! My dad and I are on the way."

Needing no further encouragement, Max had bolted back through the door, and then scrambled upstairs to the commons room. Peering out through the window, he'd looked just in time to see the bus pulling away from the curb. And there, standing at the roadside was Craig Guilford, along with one of his younger brothers and an uncle.

They had NOT looked like happy campers.

On the drive back to the March Family warren, Zack told him that he'd gotten the story from Johnny Combs, who had refused to say where he'd heard it. It hardly mattered. Max had seen it for himself, and by the end of the week confirmation had come in from several different sources. The Guilfords had it in for him—big time.

Upon hearing the news, Max's folks had moved decisively, sending him off to stay with his grandparents in Colorato 'until things die down'…and the dusky young buck-bunny hadn't raised even a peep of protest. As much as he disliked the idea of spending time with his mom's folks, he liked even less the idea of spending time in the ICU.

He wasn't ashamed to admit his fear of either that particular pack of coyotes, or of 'yotes in general…to himself, if no one else.. And so, when he had peered out through that stage door and spotted another member of that species—forget it; he wasn't going out there.

Perhaps, if that hadn't been the thing on Max's mind when he crawled back out of the undergrowth…

But it was and so, when he stood up and looked to the right, his heart fell straight into his stomach. There was Zack, trembling in fear as he was led away by a pair of ZPD police officers.

Thinking fast, the dusky young buck rabbit dived hurriedly back under cover…and then he too was quivering uncontrollably.

It was his fault, it was all his fault. If he'd stuck to the original plan instead of chasing off after Erin—and what a waste that had been—if he'd stayed inside the amphitheater with his cousin, the worst they'd have to face was a chewing out from their counselor.

But now…? Max knew exactly what was going on here; the cops had found one of the holes he'd dug and thought his cousin was the culprit. You didn't have to be Detective Coonan to figure that one out.

Ohhh, sweet cheez' n' firecrackers; he couldn't let Zack take the blame for something he'd done—especially after what had happened with Craig Guilford. But what could he do? If he went to the cops and confessed, they'd only take him into custody. Oh God, wasn't there another way…any other way?

He would have answered that question with a flat no, if he could have seen Lt. Tufts right then.

It began quietly enough, when another of his techs, an alpaca, raised a finger.

"Sir…we've got a trace on that GPS jammer signal."

"Good. goo…" the Kaibab squirrel started to say, before the words died in his throat. Officer Quino was avoiding his gaze.

He felt his tail beginning to flip.

"Well, all right, where's it coming from?" he demanded, paws going to his hips.

The alpaca swallowed hard, and Tufts could have sworn he saw a wince.

"From…From here, sir."

"What?"

"Uhm, that's right Lieutenant." Quino appeared to be trying not to spit, "Somehow, he got plugged into our router and he's using our serv…"

"WHAAAAT!" the Kaibab squirrel screamed. "Shut it down, shut it down!"

The alpaca wrung his hooves and looked up at the ceiling.

"S-Sir, if we do that, we'll have to take the entire command truck off line and…"

"AHHHHGGH…Chit-chit-chit-chit-chit-chit-chiitrrrrrr!"

Tufts stomped to his chair and fell into it backwards, looking defeated….

…And then shot bolt-upright, pressing once more on his headset.

"Command to Grazer, Command to Grazer. Acknowledge please…over."

"Command this is Grazer, I read you, over." The sheep sounded more than a little unsure of his status.

Tufts crossed his fingers and then spoke again. "That rabbit-hole you found; is it big enough to accommodate a fox? Over…"

"No sir," the answer came back at once, and the Kaibab squirrel felt his fists beginning to knot. But then…"No wait, hold that thought; an adult fox, no, but are you thinking of the Lewis kid? In that case yes; it'd be a pretty tight fit, but he could manage it, over."

The fist that had been clenched now pumped in the air. Up until now the ZPD–and Albert Tufts–had been operating under the assumption that Conor Lewis was working alone. It was a not-unreasonable conjecture; given that foxes were a solitary species—but then there had been that business with the hoodies. Sooo, maybe their suspect had also recruited some active assistance. Tufts would know more when Catano and Grazer arrived with that rabbit-kid. But in the meantime…

"Quino, have the officers stationed inside the theater start searching the grounds for any rabbit-holes."

The alpaca stared at him for a second. "Rabbit…holes, sir?"

Tufts' tail flipped and his brows flattened.

"What's the matter, you have a hearing problem? Yes, rabbit holes…look for them in any out-of-the way location."

"Y-Yes sir."

"And get hold of Hopps and tell her to stand by. If we find one, we may need her help after all."

"Yes, sir."

Judy didn't get the message, not right away. She had her cell-phone set on vibrate, and even if she hadn't, she wouldn't have been able to hear it.

Erin had returned to the fold–and now it wasn't just her dad; NOBODY was able to hold back the waterworks, not her mother, not the rest of her family, not the girls in her posse…and especially not her sister, the bunny-cop.

"Oh, sis…I've never been so proud," Judy sniffed, wiping her nose with a finger. Yes, that was a tired cliché…but it was also the perfect thing to say at that moment.

When Erin had come off stage, the kids in the wings had been all over her with congratulations. Jason m'Beke had been jumping up and down like a puppy with a new toy; "We got a bass playah! We got a BASS playah!" until his girlfriend made him cool his jets.

And then, very formally, Dana had said to the young doe-bunny. "Ms. Hopps…when you get to the Academy, we three would be honored if…"

"Hey don't forget me!" a small voice had piped up from down around ankle level.

"Oops, sorry Mike," the coyote girl had smiled, "We four would be honored if you would agree to be part of our band."

Erin had immediately smiled back, "I'd love to."

On her way out, she'd heard the black rat say to the others, "We're going to need some help with that, uh…you know, at the other end."

"I take care of it," Jason had said—and that was the last thing Erin heard before exiting the stage door.

Outside, she'd found her posse waiting to greet her…and then they had insisted on carrying not only her gear but also HER, hefting the young doe-bunny up onto their shoulders, and bearing her back to her family in triumph.

Every step of the way she had been showered with praise by the kids in the chartreuse hoodies.

"Awesome, bunny….totally…awesome!"

"Yo! You GO, girl!"

"Whoa, that was sooooo SICK!"

" My songs know what you did in the darrrrrk."

Everywhere she'd gone she'd been greeted with waves and fists of solidarity.

Now, back with her family, and sharing a hug with Judy an odd thought occurred to the young, white-furred bunny. It was good to be a rabbit…and it was even better to be a Hopps.

But then, before the notion had time to settle into place, a new one crept in on top of it—and Erin caught herself looking towards the stage. The prompter's box wasn't visible from this angle, but she knew it was there. And now she felt the tears again.

"I never got the chance to thank him."

In the truck across the street, the feelings regarding Conor Lewis were nearly the polar opposite of hers.

And Lieutenant Albert Tufts, ZPD was feeling none too happy with Zack March at the moment, either. Not only was the kid refusing to own up to any sort of association with the fugitive young silver-fox, he wouldn't even admit to…

"I didn't dig that hole," he insisted, for something like the tenth time in a row. He said this while looking directly into the Kaibab squirrel's eyes, his gaze never wavering for an instant. That, along with his body language, told Tufts that the young buck-bunny was telling the truth; he really wasn't the responsible party.

Perhaps…but that still didn't put him even within shouting distance of being let off the hook.

"All right, maybe you didn't–but you knew it was there; you didn't just happen to duck into the one place inside those trees where there just happened to be a rabbit-hole. You knew it was there, and I think you know who made it. So, who was it?"

Zack said nothing, only shook uncontrollably with his nose twitching…but this time, his gaze went sideways. Okay, now he was holding something back. Tufts would get to that in a second, but first he needed to backtrack a little.

"All right son, but can you at least tell me this much? That hoodie you're wearing; how did you know to bring it here, and how did you know to put it on when you heard that air-horn?"

"I…I got a text message," Zack was barely able to meet Tufts gaze, but he met it nonetheless.

He said nothing more, and before the squirrel could ask the obvious question, he saw Officer Quino raising an urgent hoof.

"What is it?" he asked, sensing this was something he DIDN'T want to ignore.

"It's Wolford sir," the alpaca said, "He found another rabbit hole, down by the right side of the stage. He says there's no sign of any fox scent, but that at least two bunnies dug it out."

Tufts immediately wheeled on Zack March. "Did you help dig that hole?"

"I…I…" the words ended in a wrenching sob.

Tufts chittered in frustration and raised his voice. "Where the heck is HOPPS, did she even answer her phone yet?"

"No sir," A timid voice responded.

The squirrel's paws went to his hips again.

"Well then, someone get down there and have her go check on it–and right now."

"I'll go sir," Kii Catano responded, grateful for any excuse to just get the heck out of here.

She went to the back and raised the roll-up door—actually threw it open…

…and stepped back with the tip of her tail flickering. There was Swinton, standing with her hoof on the shoulder of another young rabbit. This one had light brown fur and a much more muscular build than the one they'd caught earlier.

"Wha…?" a diminutive, angry voice called from behind the cheetah-cop. "Swinton, who the heck is that?"

It was the bunny beside her that answered him.

"My name is March, Max March," he said and then pointed inside the command truck. "And that's my cousin Zack. Let him go and I'll tell you where Conor Lewis is."

"Bring him in here, Swinton." Tufts ordered, in a cool, level voice, "And Catano, you get going." His whiskers bobbed for a second as he remembered something. "Oh, and one more thing…"

It took the cheetah-cop only a minute or two to catch up with Judy—and when she did, the doe-bunny turned out to be surprisingly amenable to the idea of going on duty.

Her family, on the other paw, wasn't quite so accommodating.

"Oh, for carrot-cake's sake, do you have to take her now?" Bonnie Hopps had her paws planted firmly on her hips.

"No FAIR!" little Cotton was pouting up at the cheetah-cop, arms akimbo in unconscious imitation of her grandmother.

"Guys, guys, come on," Judy raised her paws in a placating gesture. "It's not like I'm going to miss anything; Erin's done with her performance."

"Yes, and that was amazing," Kii Catano nodded, beaming a quick smile at the young doe-bunny. "Anyway this will only take a few minutes."

"You sure?" Bonnie eyed the big cat suspiciously.

"Scout's honor, Mrs. H," she answered, raising a paw. "Someone dug a rabbit hole down by the end of the stage…"

"It wasn't me!" Erin chirped up at once, and everyone laughed—including Judy, although hers was just a wee bit forced. No, her kid sister hadn't dug that hole…but her response just now had been a mite too quick for comfort. They'd have a word about it later, and in private. But for now, the elder bunny's ears were up and so was her curiosity.

"Sorry, to have to bother you with this," Catano went on, having apparently mistaken her reaction for something else, "But you're the only one small enough to…"

"Kay, 'kay…I get it, I'm coming," Judy raised her paws again, "Where, exactly, is this hole?"

"Down there," the cheetah cop pointed to the far left side of the stage, where a lupine figure was standing with his paws behind his back, "See Wolford when you get there, he'll point it out to you. Oh, and tell him the Lieutenant wants him back up at the command-truck as soon as…"

"Command truck?" Stu Jr. was thumping his foot. "What the HECK is going on here, Judy?"

He was giving her a mildly accusatory look.

"Do I look like I know?" she shot right back. And it wasn't entirely untrue. She knew that Tufts was here and why…but what the heck did a rabbit hole have to do with any of this? And that brought up another question.

"Do we have any idea who dug the thing?" She was looking at Kii Catano.

To Judy's slight surprise, the big cat nodded at once. "Yeah," she said regarding the other Hopps bunnies warily, "we've got a couple of young rabbits in custody that we think are responsible. The Lieutenant wants Wolford to give them a sniff to confirm it."

"What the heck do you need a command truck for something like that for?" It was Stu Hopps Jr. again, and this time Violet intervened.

"For something that's none of our business Junior. Sweet cheez n' crackers, give it a rest, why don't you?"

While all this was going on, Erin Hopps was wringing her paws and looking sick.

No one noticed…and it was a lucky thing for the young, white-furred bunny that she couldn't see what was transpiring inside the command truck just then. Had that been possible, she could have never managed to keep her feelings under wraps.

"I don't LIKE being lied to, son!"

"I wasn't lying, I swear!"

Tufts was standing at the edge of the table, nearly nose to nose with Max March. It was an almost ludicrous scene—made more so by the fact that it was the bigger animal who was unable to maintain eye contact.

"Oh really?" the Kaibab squirrel sniffed, raising an eyebrow and flipping his tail. "Let's go over what you said so far. You snuck backstage to the rehearsal room—you still haven't told me why—and then you peeked in through the stage door to see what was happening. And that's when you saw the Lewis boy, is that correct?"

"Uh-uhm yeah, I…"

"But you don't know how he got there?"

"No, I already told you…"

"And you didn't see where he went either?"

"I already said that I didn't."

Tufts folded his arms and his whiskers bobbed.

"Yes… and what you also said was, and I quote, 'Let my cousin go and I'll tell you where Conor Lewis is.'" He leaned forward, flashing his incisors. "That's not where he IS, son; it's where he was—and it doesn't help us."

"When was the first time you actually met Conor Lewis?" Officer Quino interjected—on cue, although Max had no way of knowing it.

"Never," the young buck bunny frantically shook his head. "I only saw him online before today."

"Then how do you know it was him you saw backstage?" The alpaca inquired coolly, "I seem to recall that he was wearing a mask during both of those webcasts."

"I…uhhh…"

"All right, never mind," Lieutenant Tufts interrupted, waving a paw. "Describe the fox you saw when you looked in through that door," He sat back on his haunches, folding his arms, "You can do that much, can't you?"

"Ummm yeah," the young buck rabbit fidgeted for a second and then lifted an arm, with the pawlm turned downwards. "He was about yea taller than I am with dark gray fur all over."

"You mean light gray on black fur, don't you?" Quino interrupted.

"Noooo, I know that color," Max replied, pointing towards his cousin as a point of reference. "He was like a grey fox but gray all over, no white fur anywhere, and way darker than a regular grey, like…I don't know, like wet concrete or…."

Tufts threw up his paws. "Okay kid, stop right there. I've been face to face with Conor Lewis, and that isn't him. Now you're not only lying to me, you're also wasting my time."

"It was him, I swear," Max cried out as if for mercy. "I saw him talking to a bunch of other kids back there. THEY knew him, THEY recognized him; they called him by name!"

"And when was this?" Tufts asked him, in the voice of someone whose next words are going to be something on the order of, 'Yeah, yeah…now tell me about the Tooth Fairy!'

"Right after that cheetah security-guard left," Max answered him, "before….right before Erin Hopps went onstage."

"Officer Ponder," Tufts turned to the beaver on his right, "Pull up the last three minutes of Catano's body-cam before she exited; put it on monitor two and play it back at half speed."

"Yes, sir," the big rodent responded. A burst of static snow appeared on the display above and to the left of the Kaibab squirrel. After a second, it dissolved to a slightly fished-eyed view of the amphitheater's right-side stage wings. A total of four mammals were visible; a bunny, a coyote and another canine, both of them crouching over her. Out on the stage, just barely discernible, was a feline of some indeterminate species.

"All right," Tufts said, and then nodded up at the screen. "Which of these animals did you see talking to the Lewis boy?"

"It was…" Max pointed and started to say—but then he caught the look on his cousin's face and the rest of the words dried up in his mouth. Oh, no, what have I…?

Too late; his inquisitor wasn't about to back off after seeing him get this close.

"Freeze that," the squirrel said, pointing up at the screen. And then to Max he said, "All right son, now let me tell you something you don't know. There's been a lot of vandalism going on in Zootopia this summer; way too much and the city's about had it. We're cracking down HARD on anyone caught defacing property; and yes, that includes digging holes in another mammal's yard. So either you start cooperating with me—and right now—or else you, and your cousin can both start packing your bags for Juvie. Do I make myself clear?"

"Y-Yes sir." Max seemed to have shrunk to an even smaller size than Zack.

Tufts stood up and clicked his teeth. "Now, one more time…WHO did you see talking to Conor Lewis? Think it over, kid. In case you didn't hear me earlier, the officer who found that hole inside the theater is a wolf. One whiff…that's all he'll need to confirm whether or not it was you that dug it."

Yes he could…but not for a while. Judy hadn't yet told Wolford that he was needed back at the command truck. Kii Catano instructions had been to, 'have him report there as soon as…' but then she'd been interrupted before she could finish.

And so the doe-bunny had chosen to fill in the blank with 'as soon as you're done with him.' And she wasn't quite finished with the timber-wolf, not just yet. There was probably nothing down that in hole she couldn't handle herself–but then Chief Bogo had thought there was nothing in that subway tunnel he couldn't handle either…and how had that almost worked out? 'My mistake was thinking ME, not we,' he'd said–and Judy was not about to ignore the big Cape buffalo's advice.

Now, working her way down the rabbit-hole, she concluded that the wolf-cop had been correct in his assessment. This dig was the work of two different bunnies. She further deduced that they had both been bucks and that one of the culprits had been larger than the other. The bigger bunny had done most of the work for the first few yards; after that, he'd been on his own. Had Judy been a little bit more familiar with Max March, she could have confirmed the hole was his handiwork without any outside help; every rabbit has their own unique digging style.

But now she came to a dead end. And what the…? This wasn't rock, it was…bricks?

A brick wall…down here? And now she noticed something Max had missed; the wall seemed to tilt slightly away from her. With a twitching nose, she used a finger claw to scratch away the earth covering the upper part of the masonry and saw it curve away even further. Hrmph, wall nothing; she had run into a pipe of some kind… perhaps even a tunnel; what the heck, now?

Well, there was one quick way to find out. She thumped on the bricks with the flat of her paw and was rewarded with a hollow, booming sound, faint, but very distinct. There was indeed an empty space on the other side of this masonry.

But what was its purpose? She scratched at the mortar with a finger claw, saw it flake away under the pressure. Ohhhh-kay, good…but she'd need a tool of some kind if she wanted to…oh, wait; maybe Wolford had something she could use.

She turned around and scurried back up the hole.

When she got to the surface, the timber wolf was crouched on his haunches scratching behind an ear. Seeing her, he immediately stood up again.

"Sorry, Detective."

"No sweat," Judy replied, not a little self-consciously. Being deferred to by someone she'd only recently considered an equal was going to take some getting used to. "Got a nightstick there? Let me see it."

"Sure, no problem," the wolf replied, passing it over.

Judy took it and then looked up with her nose twitching.

"What the heck, Wolford?"

He laughed and held up his paws.

"Don't look at me; it came with the uniform; about the right size for you though, huh?"

"So it is," the doe-bunny noted, feeling the weight. It was carbon fiber rather than wood; practically indestructible. She looked up again. "Okay, got a flashlight?"

This time the timber wolf shook his head, "Sorry, no," he said, and then pointed towards the rabbit hole. "What's up, did you find something down there?"

"Yep," she said, "Would you believe…a brick wall? I think there's something on the other side; that's why I wanted this." She hefted the nightstick again.

"Right," Wolford nodded and then sucked at a corner of his mouth. "Uhmmm, listen…"

"Yes, you're finished here," Judy answered and then pointed with the stick, "The Lieutenant wants you back at the command truck. They've got some bunny kids in custody up there that they think dug this hole. He needs you to check their scent and confirm it."

"Done and done." the wolf-cop nodded again, and then his tail began to wag. "Before I take off though Detective, I just want to say, your sister's performance back there was just the bomb; I really hope she gets accepted to the Academy."

"Thanks Wolford," Judy replied, smiling—and feeling her nose start to twitch again. Was it her imagination or had there been just a tiny edge of guilt to his voice? Maybe…but that was something else for later. "Better get going, you know how he hates to be kept waiting."

"Don't I know it!" the gray wolf growled, turning to go, "Good luck Detective."

"You, too," she answered, and then turned and scuttled back down the hole again.

She began by rapping on the wall with the side of the baton. This time the noise was both louder and more pronounced…and it seemed to be echoing up from below.

All right then…Judy turned the tonfa-nightstick over in her paw, with the bead-end pointed toward the wall. And then gripping it above the side-handle for extra leverage, she drove it into the upper part of the masonry. A plume of dried mortar puffed away from the bricks, and she repeated the movement…and then again and again, in the manner of an animal attempting to split a block of ice with a pick.

On the fifth impact, she met with success: one of the bricks came away from the wall and fell with a clunk into the space on the other side.

Bringing her eye close to the opening, Judy peered within, trying to see. It was no good; nothing visible but a curtain of ink. She tried using her cell-phone's LED light, but all that did was create a pencil-point of brightness filled with dust-motes–and nothing visible beyond.

She put the phone away and went back to work with the tonfa. This time, however, the wall seemed impervious to her efforts. She hit it again, over, and over—and was rewarded with only a few chips of masonry for her troubles.

Taking in a short, hard a breath, Judy reared back and hit the wall hard, the way she would if she were attempting to breach a barricaded door.

Nothing happened, and so she tried again, slamming the stick into the wall, twice in a row.

Still no luck, so she hit it again, three times in succession.

A huge crack shot down the masonry in front of her, like the opening of an enormous zipper. And then the bricks and mortar gave way all at once and she was tumbling helplessly into the space beyond.

"Whoa–ahhhh-ahhh-ohhh-ohhhh!"

It was only a short fall, a little more than six feet, but she hit the ground hard on her left side. Luckily for her, it was the ground and not any of the bricks she'd knocked loose from the wall up above.

Getting shakily to her feet, she took inventory. Except for having the wind knocked out of her and a few minor scuffs and/or bruises, her body seemed almost completely unhurt.

Her pride, on the other paw, had come away with multiple fractures.

"Smooth move there, dumb bunny…REALLY smart. What the heck did you want to go breaking through that wall for, anyway?"

Okay, yes…but as long as she was down here…

Looking around herself, Judy saw nothing but dim outlines, barely illuminated by the trickle of light seeping through the fissure where she had fallen.

She pulled out her cell, praying that it hadn't been damaged. It appeared to be in good working order, but sweet cheez n' crackers; exactly zero bars were showing and a message was flashing, 'No Service…No Service…No Service…'

Was that her phone…or was the signal just unable to reach down here?

She went to the break in the wall and stood under it, peering upwards.

"Hello…? Wolford…? Anybody…?"

Nothing…no response; there was only a soft rush of air from the hole up above. It was no more than she'd expected, but she'd had to try.

She reached for her phone again, and saw that at least the LED light still worked.

Flicking it on, she realized at once that she had fallen into some kind of tunnel; one branch led off to the left and the other went off to the right. And there, just a few yards away she saw an opening in the wall. Heading over to investigate, she came upon a short flight of steps leading upwards.

Judy took them and found herself in front of a large-mammal door, fitted with an odd sort of latching mechanism.

But the thing that really caught her attention was the padlock holding it shut—an old school lock-and-key model…but not an OLD lock; it was almost brand new.

That told her someone had come through here only a short while ago; someone who didn't want anyone following them.

There was only one possible culprit that she could think of. Great bales of alfalfa, Lieutenant Tufts had been right all along!

But why…why had Conor done it? What the heck could have made that crazy-tailed silver-fox kid show up here today…especially with an army of ZPD officers waiting to bust him?

Never mind, she needed to notify the Lieutenant of her discovery and pronto—if that was possible.

When Judy looked at her cell-phone again, only half a bar was showing. Not enough, but she tried anyway; the call was dropped before it even connected.

Grumbling silently to herself, she returned to the foot of the stairs. There was only one thing left to do, but first she needed to find that nightstick—wait, there it was.

She picked it up, hefting it in her paws and looking to the left and then the right.

"Which way did he go? Which way did he go? Ohhhh, Mom and Dad and the others must be wondering WHAT the heck happened to me just now?"

Not quite; at that particular moment their attention was directed elsewhere.

Notes:

Note: The conclusion of this chapter will be posted on Thursday. Be prepared; this one's a shocker.

Chapter 22: Meet on the Ledge (Concluded...Pt. 7)

Summary:

The irresistible Fox meets the immovable Bunny

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Somebody seen him hangin' around
At the old dance hall on the outskirts of town
He looked into her eyes when she stopped him to ask
If he wanted to dance; he had a face like a mask

Bob Dylan

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Chapter 5—Meet on the Ledge
(Part 7…Conclusion)

Once more, it was Violet who saw her first. "Look, there's Gazelle again."

Yep, it was her all right, returning yet again to center stage. At once, the animals heading for the exits turned a swift about-face and started back for their seats.

"I was wondering why they never took down that microphone stand." Erin observed, pointing.

"Yeah, and what's in that envelope she's carrying?" Sue Cannon queried.

"What envelope?" Tawny Lloyd asked, peering closer with her nose twitching.

"There," the young bobcat answered, pointing with a clawed finger, "Tucked under her arm, do you see it…big manila envelope."

"Oh…oh yeah." the girl bunny nodded.

"Shhh, be quiet." It was Violet again. "She's getting ready to say something."

Taking the microphone in her hoof, Gazelle tapped it twice to check the volume and then began speaking. "Attention…Attention, please everyone," She gave the crowd a second to quiet down and then cleared her throat. "First, I want to thank you all once more for coming here today." She paused to let the audience respond, and then continued. "And now, before we wrap things up, I have one more announcement to make. Each year, the Zootopia Academy for the Performing Arts awards a scholarship—which, for some reason is named after me—to the applicant we judge to have turned in the day's best audition performance." Pausing once again, she pulled an embossed certificate from the envelope, holding it up for the crowd to see. "And by a unanimous decision, this year's Gazelle Scholarship is awarded to—Ms. Erin Janelle Hopps!"

It took a second or two for the news to register…and when it did, it hit like a tsunami.

"Oh, my GAW!" the young doe-bunny screamed. So did all her friends; so did Violet and little Cotton.

So did her mother…and then the waterworks were flowing all over again.

From day one, Erin had been bound and determined to make it into the Performing Arts Academy.

But never, not in her wildest dreams, had she imagined that she might win the Gazelle Scholarship. Oh sweet cheez n' crackers, this was no token honor; all tuition and books covered, a food and transportation allowance, and, best of all, free lodging; the use of a guest apartment on the second floor of Ainsley hall. It was all covered, all of it, every last penny.

And it was HERS!

"Ms. Hopps," Gazelle was still holding the certificate on high and looking out over the crowd. "Ms. Hopps, if you're still here, please come down and claim your scholarship."

Erin heard, but she didn't move, remaining frozen in her seat. This couldn't be real. Any second now, she'd wake up in her bed, back in Bunnyburrow.

Then Violet nudged her on the shoulder.

"Erin, what are you waiting for? Go….go!"

That did it; she stood up and waved her paw, "I'm here; I'm here!"

All the way to the stage door, the young, white furred bunny was once again feted with praise. And if the crowd had somewhat thinned out by now, they more than made up for it with their enthusiasm. It was heady stuff for a thirteen year-old girl bunny…so heady that when she got to the stage door, she was unaware of the squad of ZPD officers, approaching at a distance.

Inside, she found Conor's three friends still hanging in the stage wings. When she came through the door, they gave her still another round of applause.

"Whoa, what the heck, you're back already?" Dana Alchesay asked her, raising a mischievous eyebrow and opening her arms…and it was only in the wake of their embrace that Erin realized something; she had just shared a hug with a coyote. It was only mildly disconcerting, though. After all, it hadn't been that long ago when she'd had equally negative feelings about foxes.

Foxes…

She looked out towards the stage, but not at Gazelle. Her eyes fell instead on the prompter's box. From here it was impossible to see inside of it, but she knew it was empty just the same.

Even so, she couldn't keep from thinking, "YOU made this happen, Conor Lewis; I only won that scholarship because…"

"Erin, what the…? Get out there," a voice from behind her hissed. It was Dana again.

And once again, the spell was broken.

Hurrying out onstage, the white-furred young bunny had no idea of what to say to Gazelle. Happily, it wasn't necessary; the popstar had it covered.

"Ms. Hopps…on behalf of the Zootopia Academy of the Performing Arts, it is my honor and privilege to bestow upon you, this year's Gazelle Scholarship. Congratulations."

To the cheers of the remaining audience, she dropped down on her knee and held out the certificate to the young doe-bunny.

Erin took it with a pair of trembling paws…and that was when her voice cracked.

"Awwww, I promised myself I wouldn't cry." She snuffled, and then jumped up and threw her arms around Gazelle's neck, hugging her tight. For just a hint of a second the popstar was taken aback, and then she returned it.

And then the young doe-bunny heard her whispering, in a voice so soft that only she could hear, "Please…don't disappoint me."

"…like the LAST kid to win this scholarship." She heard these words in her head, rather than her ears.

Ohhhh, what would Gazelle say if she knew…?

Meanwhile the young doe-bunny's posse had taken up the chant again.

"Er-IN! Er-IN! Er-IN! Er-IN! Er-IN!"

The three young animals standing in the wings might have joined the chorus, had not the stage door swung open right then and a troop of police officers come marching into the wings. In police parlance, it was what was known as a strongarm squad, a female pig and a trio of heavyweights; a lion, a bear, and rhinoceros. Backing them up was the cheetah security-guard from earlier.

At first, no one seemed to be in charge…until a diminutive figure spoke up from atop the rhino-cop's shoulder.

"All right you three, over here…and right now."

He was speaking to Dana, Jason, and Saad.

The trio of young mammals just looked blankly at each other.

"I said over here…right NOW!" Albert Tufts repeated, pointing to the ground directly in front of Officer Krumpansky.

They complied, and then Dana looked up with folded arms and an expressionless face.

"Is there…some kind of problem, Officer?" Her voice was empty of emotion, so much so that it might have been artificially generated.

The squirrel responded by cutting directly to the chase,

"That's Lieutenant, young lady, not 'Officer'…and where's Conor Lewis?"

The three only looked at each other again

"Conah…Lewis?" Jason m'Beke repeated the name as if trying to remember where he'd heard it before.

Once again, Tufts wasted no time.

"Don't play games with me, son. We have an independent witness who saw you interacting with him. We know he was here and we know that you spoke to him, and also that you addressed him by name. Now, where did he go?"

The young Afurican Wild Dog only lifted his muzzle and thrust out his chin. Tufts gave him a quick, hard look and moved on to Dana.

"I don't think you realize how much trouble you're in, young lady. Conor Lewis is an escaped felon…which makes you a felon if you know where he went and decline to inform us. Now, what happened to him?"

"Can't help you," The young coyote replied, staring straight ahead, completely motionless and still speaking in that same toneless voice.

"All right," Tufts' tail flipped as he turned his gaze on the sand-cat at the end of the line. "What about you son, do you have anything to tell me?"

Saad lifted his paws and shrugged. "Qus ummak."

"What was that?" Tufts demanded sharply, and the feline shrugged again.

"Apologies, Bey; it means 'I don't know'."

Tufts chittered in anger, gnashing his incisors. Dana Alchesay was standing like a statue, but Jason m'Beke was standing on his own tail—apparently to keep from laughing. Whatever that smart-mouth cat had said just now, it hadn't been 'I don't know.'

"All right…" he said, sweeping his gaze from one young mammal to the other. "One! Last! Time! Where did Conor Lewis go?"

This time, he was met with only silence.

"All right, you had your chance. Swinton, read them their rights…"

"Wha…? What is going on here?"

Everyone turned…and saw Gazelle standing open-mouthed at the stage threshold, looking shocked, and even more bewildered.

Tufts immediately assumed his most formal manner.

"Ma'am, please move along; this is police business."

"I will NOT," she answered, standing her ground. From the way she was looking at the squirrel, it was obvious this wasn't their first encounter. "What are you doing?" she demanded, waving a hoof at the three young mammals. "Are you…arresting these students, Lieutenant?"

At once the Kaibab squirrel shed all pretense of decorum, reverting instead to a cold condescension. When he spoke to the popstar again, he addressed her as if she were a particularly slow child.

"Conor Lewis was here earlier Ms. Gazelle. This isn't speculation, it's a fact; we know it. And these three…" he waved in succession at Dana, Jason, and Saad, "These three saw him and are refusing to say where he went. And so, yes—much as it pains me, I'm ordering them to be placed under arrest—for obstruction, and aiding and abetting a known…"

"What? No, you CAN'T!" A new voice cried out, and then a white-furred young rabbit with black feet and paws appeared from behind Gazelle. "They didn't do anything wrong, you can't!"

"Erin, please." Gazelle moved hastily sideways, attempting to block the way, but the lithe young doe-bunny had already slipped past her.

"Erin…Hopps, is it?" Lieutenant Tufts inquired cautiously, gazing down at her with his tail flipping.

"Yes, that's right," she nodded, looking up with a dogged expression. "Judy Hopps is my older sister."

"Well, that may be," the squirrel replied, making a throwaway gesture with his paw, "but this is still none of your concern. Officer Johnson, would you please escort these…?

"Yes it IS my concern!" the young doe-bunny cried, leaning forward with her ears laid back and a pair of fists thrust down at her sides, "I SAW CONOR, TOO! I talked to him!"

"Erin, no!" Dana's stony façade had finally cracked, revealing a look of pure distress.

"Wha…What is this?" Gazelle was staring down at her wide eyed. "E-Erin…are you serious, mi coneja?"

"Yes, it's true," she sniffled, holding up her scholarship certificate for all to see. "If it hadn't been for Conor, I'd never have won this; I'd never even have made it out onto that stage."

"Erin, don't…" It was Dana again, and once again the young doe-bunny ignored her.

"I didn't want to go on last." She said, "I COULDN'T go on after Carrera and Natasha…but Conor…he made me get out there."

At this, Gazelle shifted her gaze from Erin to Lieutenant Tufts. And if looks could kill, she would shortly have been facing a sentence of life without parole

The look Erin that was giving him was none too friendly either, although hers was more defiant than lethal. "So, if you're going to arrest them, you'll have to arrest ME, too."

But the Kaibab squirrel had already recovered his composure. "That depends; did you see which way Mr. Lewis went?"

"No, she didn't; she didn't see a thing!" This time it was Jason whose composure broke.

"All right," Tufts nodded at Erin, looking like…did he actually appear to be a little bit relieved? "In that case, you can go," he said, and then turned his attention to the Afurican Wild Dog. "But you…you did see where he went, didn't you?"

Jason tensed as if preparing to bolt. At once the big cats, Catano and Johnson closed in on him…and in that instant, one of the others made a break for it.

It was Erin Hopps. Dashing frantically back onto the stage, she leapt up and snatched the microphone from its stand.

"Judy!" she cried, "Judy, please, you've got to help. They're arresting a whole bunch of kids back-stage for helping Conor to get away. Judy, please do some…"

"Boooo!"

What the…? It was one of the kids in the hoodies, a badger. And now two others joined him, a deer-buck and a porcupine. "Boooo! Boooooooooooo!"

Another young mammal stood up and booed; a young vixen…and then another and another, a bunny and a young she-wolf. Erin recognized the last one.

"Oh my God, that's Carrera Garnett!"

Now more and more kids began to stand up and voice their displeasure. On the upper right side of the theater, a pair of youthful elephants were blowing trumpet blasts through their trunks.

In less than a minute, it seemed like every young animal in the audience was on his or her feet, venting their resentment—and not all of them were wearing hoodies.

"BOOOOOOOOO!"

And then a marmot-girl down front called out something that sounded like 'Hay-Cadge,' and some of the others took it up as a chant. "ACAJ! ACAJ! ACAJ! ACAJ!"

That was when Erin realized…they weren't booing her, they were booing the ZPD; ACAJ—All Cops Are Jerks.

Unable to look, she turned away. On the far right side of the stage Mike Daehan gaped in horror for a second and then hastily ducked down behind his console. Erin frantically turned her gaze back the way it had come…just in time to see a wave of chartreuse begin surging towards the stage. On the left-paw side of the crowd, a dozen or so kids had broken off from the main group and were moving in the direction of the stage-door. And now a new chant began to make itself heard.

"We're not gonna TAKE it! We're not gonna TAKE it!"

This one swiftly went viral:

"WE'RE NOT GONNA TAKE IT! WE'RE NOT GONNA TAKE IT! WE'RE NOT GONNA TAKE IT! WE'RE NOT GONNA TAKE IT!"

Dazed and bewildered, Erin gazed out at the spectacle before her.

"Oh please, no, I never meant…"

Someone grabbed her by the arm, the cheetah-guard. In the crowd below someone yelled out "Let her GO!" and someone else threw a crumpled drinking cup at the stage.

It fell well short of its target; the missiles that followed did not. Erin saw the cheetah stagger backwards as a sports-bottle struck her on top of her head.

And then everything became a blur as the young doe bunny was whisked off stage and into the rehearsal room. Behind her, the rhino-cop shut the door and bolted it, further bracing it closed with a shoulder. From the edge of her eye, she saw the bear-cop had Dana, Saad, and Jason, lined up facing the mirrored wall, paws secured behind them with zip-ties. In the far right corner of the room, Gazelle was hunched over her cell phone; she looked like she was crying.

And over on Erin's right, the pig-cop was shouting into her radio, "Never mind dangit, get down here…NOW! We've got a situation…!"

And then another voice spoke up, this one from down around floor level.

"All right, young lady," Lieutenant Tufts chittered in a smoldering voice, paws clenched against his hips. "You wanted to be arrested? Very well, you've got your wish. Catano, read Ms. Hopps her…"

"Excuse me, sir." It was Officer Swinton, "SWAT team's got their riot-gear on; they'll be here within five."

Erin felt her stomach knotting up again.

"SWAT team?  Riot  gear? Oh Judy, Judy…where ARE you?"

Judy Hopps, at that moment, was pressing her ear against a door…an almost exact copy of the one she'd discovered earlier, but with one crucial difference. This time, there was no padlock barring the way.

Breathing lightly, she listened through the partition, hearing nothing on the other side.

It didn't matter; she might not be able to hear him, but she could feel him. He was there; she knew he was there.

Stepping back from the door, she studied the latch mechanism and tightened her grip on the nightstick.

On the other side of the doorway Conor Lewis was standing center-stage, frozen in place with his ears pricked up and his paws pressed into the side of his head.

It had nothing to do with the bunny behind the hidden panel where he'd entered the Lionheart Auditorium. He couldn't have heard her anyway, not with his earbuds in place. Putting them in and tuning into the police band had been the first thing he'd done after exiting the tunnel.

Nothing; there'd been nothing at all about him on any of the frequencies and he'd breathed a sigh of relief.

He had been SO right to come here. At the end of the day, after everything he'd been through, sneaking into the amphitheater to watch Erin's audition performance had been the right thing to do. Holy foxtrot, if she hadn't crushed it like a drink-box; was that the same bunny-girl who'd been unable to take the stage a minute earlier? Even now, he couldn't get over it.

Well, he could dwell on that when he got home. Right then, he'd had a loose end to tie up.

Incredibly, the ZPD had never found his drone…but that wasn't to say they weren't going to find it—unless he got it the heck out of here.

Conor knew he should wait until he was safely off-campus—but he really didn't want to lose that drone. Though a little bit dated, it was still top-of-the-line, an Anteater Ghost 3. Not one of your multi-rotor types; it looked more like a scaled-down, stretched-out version of a full sized, piloted helicopter. Waterproof and virtually silent, the young fox thought he stood a decent chance of recovering it if he moved quickly and carefully enough. And besides, he planned to fly it away in the opposite direction of his escape route; if the ZPD did spot and go after it, they'd be heading off on a wild goose chase. There's nothing like a little misdirection to keep the cops off your tail.

That made it worth the delay; he'd decided….especially since so far his exit plan was going as smoothly as a bobsled run on Teflon. None of his friends had seen him exit the stage; when he'd opened the secret door to the tunnel, they'd all been looking in the opposite direction—on purpose. And even if the ZPD did manage to figure out which way he'd gone, by the time they got through that first hidden door, he'd be long gone; thank you, Mr. Padlock.

In the event, his concerns had turned out to be unnecessary. When his drone had lifted off from the pavilion, he'd heard zippity about it on the police band. And so he had directed the miniature aircraft to a construction site out on Lion'sTail wharf, a spot where he could easily retrieve it later. And since no one would be working there until Monday, he'd have the rest of today and all day tomorrow to bring it on home.

He had just finished closing up his backpack when all of a sudden the police-band burst into life. Tossing the pack up onto the scenery table for the moment, Conor listened with growing apprehension. What the fox? Riot gear? A SWAT team? What the heck was…?

Behind him in the stage wings, the secret door secret flew open and a gray-furred bunny exploded out into the auditiorium. Flying upwards in a rainbow arc, she ricocheted off the stage and sprang up onto the table above Conor, kicking his backpack to the floor, and then leaping off after it. She landed in between him and the rucksack in the same three-point stance her sister had assumed at the end of her audition...only that wasn't a bass guitar she was holding.

And then she straightened up again.

"Hello, Conor. Don't bother, I know it's you."

Slowly, almost deliberately, he reached up and plucked the earbuds from his head, never once taking his eyes off of her as he stuffed them in his pocket.

"Judy…" His eyes were flat and empty; the eyes of a lizard; the shock of her sudden appearance having already worn off…or maybe it had never been there in the first place And then his façade cracked, but only a tiny bit, a hairline fissure at most, "Why you, Judy?"

"Just plain dumb luck, I guess," she shrugged, and then pointed with the nightstick towards the front of the auditorium. Ahhh, thank God…it was over at last. "Okay, come on, let's go."

"No."

Judy froze in place with her nose twitching. What the…? She must have heard wrong.

"Wh-What did you say?"

Conor pulled back into a defensive stance. "I said 'no', bunny. I'm not going anywhere with you." His voice was like gears grinding.

Judy felt her own foot moving backwards, along with her ears. This wasn't happening, she wasn't hearing this.

"Conor, come on, you're a good kid, this isn't you…"

"You don't know what kind of kid I am." His eyes were boring into hers like drill bits.

Judy blinked and gritted her teeth; ohhh-kay then, no more Ms. nice bunny cop.

"Get this through your head, Foxy. Yes, you saved my life. No, that doesn't mean I'm going to let you walk out of here."

He only stared at her with that same unflinching gaze.

"You try to get past me, and I will take you down," she said…and to prove it, she slapped the nightstick into her pawlm.

"Then that's what's gonna happen," the young fox replied, and Judy felt an icy centipede crawling up her spine. He meant it…he didn't care what she did; he didn't care about anything. What made it even more awful was this wasn't the first time Judy had heard a young mammal express those sentiments—and in that tone of voice. Craig Guilford, after he'd been taken into custody, had said more or less the same thing. From a sociopath like him, it was to be expected—but from a kid like Conor, oh God, please no, not from him.

Something appeared in the young fox's paw, a cylinder, about the length of an empty paper-towel roll. She saw him press on it and flick his wrist…and watched as it extended outward into a telescoping baton.

At once Judy's horror turned to momentary disgust. Sweet cheez n' crackers, was he kidding with that thing? Never mind the movies; those batons were only one of the most overrated self-defense weapons in existence, especially the cheaper ones; you could literally bend them over your knee. And, how many times had she seen this before; some street jerk gets his paws on a fancy-looking weapon and then presto, instant Ninja!

Yep, right.

"Conor…what do you think you're doing? Do you seriously think you can take me just because I'm a bunny? Get real, fox-boy, you're just a kid and I'm a cop. I took down a rhino before I even… "

That was all she managed to say before he leaped to the attack.

Screaming down on her in a furious pounce, Conor slammed in hard with the baton. Caught off guard by the suddenness of the onslaught, Judy raised the tonfa barely in time. Even then, it was only partially effective and the force of the blow drove her down and onto her knees. Thinking quickly, she fell back into a tuck-and-roll, and was instantly up on her feet again.

Conor snapped his wrist, and as if by magic his grip on the baton switched from over pawed to under-pawed. And then his fist shot sideways and to the left, aiming with the weapon for her rib cage.

Oh no, you don't. Judy swatted it aside and switched her grip to the tonfa's side handle. Whirling it like a flail she swung hard, going for the young fox's wrist. Conor saw it coming and pulled back, but he couldn't avoid the blow completely. The tonfa smashed full-force into the baton, bending it into a deep U-shape.

But then it snapped right back into a straight line again; this was no shlock baton; the top two stages were made of tightly wound spring-steel, and that knob on the end looked like it had some serious weight.

And the fox-kid wielding it was no wannabe street brawler either. He swung upward with the baton hooking Judy under the arm, pulling her sideways and sweeping with his foot. She felt her legs go out from under her; felt herself falling. She grabbed him by the sleeve, took him with her, driving the flat of the tonfa into his midsection as they hit the floor.

He grunted, rolled off her and onto his feet, switching back to an over-pawed grip on the baton. Judy also rolled upright, arms and nightstick held in a protective stance.

"All right, kid, if this is how you…"

Before she could finish, he went for her again, once more catching her off guard. Conor swung his baton; Judy parried it with her weapon, too late realizing that the move was only a feint. She felt a left hook slam into her midsection, doubling her over; knew the baton was coming next for her head. She fell over backwards, and kicked out with both legs. Conor missed her by centimeters, but she didn't miss him, catching the young fox full in the face and sending him sprawling.

Judy jumped and rushed in for the finish, but he was already back on his feet, the baton clenched between his teeth and charging on all fours, going for a head-butt. She sprang up onto the table again and he missed her. But now there was nothing between him and the backpack. In a hail-Mary move, she flung the tonfa at the fleeing young silver-fox. It struck him between the shoulder blades and drove him into the floor.

She jumped down again, and kicked the backpack out of his reach. But in an eyeblink, he was back on his feet again…and this time she was unarmed.

But so was he; his baton was lying over there on the floor and blood was trickling from the corner of his mouth.

He wiped it away with the back of his paw and dropped into another defensive crouch. Sweet cheez n' crackers, did this fox kid not know how to feel pain?

"Conor please; even if you get past me…"

His attack was almost blindingly fast, slashing with his claws unsheathed, but this time, Judy wasn't caught by surprise, ducking quickly out the way. He slashed again; she ducked again, dodging him easily.

Yes, a little too easily; he wasn't trying to claw her; he was trying to manipulate her, to move her out of the way so he could get to his baton. At that instant, he knew that she knew and dived for it. Judy dived for it too, the two of them grabbing it at the same instant; yanking it back and forth, like a pair of kits in a tug-of-war for a favorite toy.

…Except this was dead serious.

If Conor had been an adult fox he would have had a pretty decent strength advantage…but he wasn't and so he and Judy were about equally matched in that area.

And she had the kicking skillZ; his short hindquarters were no match for a pair of legs built for leaping long distances. That was Judy's strong suit and she quickly took full advantage, striking out at him with her feet, again and again and again.

He dodged once, twice, a third time, but he couldn't keep it up forev…

All of a sudden, Conor wasn't pulling on the baton he was pushing on it. Judy pushed back instinctively—and the weapon was instantly snatched from her grip.

She jumped back just as he swung the baton, missing her by only a whisker. The weapon whistled through the air as he swung it again, this time at a downwards angle. Judy dodged left; he wasn't even close this time. But then he dropped down low and spun like a break dancer, aiming to cut her off at the ankles. She hopped upwards, felt the baton whipping beneath her feet. But then Conor jumped up too, slamming the heel of his other paw into her chest. He had the full force of his pirouette behind it, enough to lift her up and throw her backwards, head over heels across the stage.

She landed face first, shaken and dazed.

"Get up dangit, he's coming!"

Judy pushed herself up…and saw him closing in for coup de grace. But there was her tonfa on the floor, a foot away from her. Leaping for the weapon with everything she had, felt her paws close around it and dived into a forward roll.

She came up nearly nose to nose with Conor. Lunging forward before the stunned young fox had time to react, she caught him with an elbow in the solar plexus, driving him back but not doubling him over; he still had plenty of fight left.

But then so did she.

For either a second or infinity their eyes locked.

And then they were charging headlong at each other.

Judy swung, Conor parried; Conor swung, Judy blocked it. She aimed for his ribs, he ducked underneath. He aimed for her knees, she jumped up over it. Thrust, dodge, swing, block, overhead, underpaw, parry, wheel, turn, punch, kick, backpaw; they were like a two-toned gray whirlwind, tearing up the stage. Neither one of them made a noise; the only sounds to be heard were hard breathing and the clash of steel against carbon fiber.

They fought with everything they had, their weapons, their paws, their elbows, their heads, their knees. Conor shoulder butted Judy, driving her backwards. She grabbed the tonfa at either end, pushing him back.

Dangit this was going nowhere fast; she had to…

Conor grabbed one of the stage chairs, whirling like a discus thrower, and then hurled it full-force in Judy's direction.

Not this time, kid. She caught the chair in a liquid roll, tossed it into the air, and then kicked it hard with both legs, hurling it back at the young silver fox, with even more power than he'd used to throw it.

Conor tried to duck, but he wasn't quick enough. The chair caught him smack in the forehead, shattering into a thousand pieces before he toppled face first to the floor.

A wave of contrition washed over Judy.

"Oh God, I hope I didn't hurt him." He didn't look injured, but you never knew.

She went to him, patting herself down on the way, checking for any damages; a lot of soreness in her chest, but other than that, nothing too serious. When she got to her hip her paw touched something hard and rectangular; her cell phone!

Sweet cheez n'….how could she have forgotten about…? "Oh, pleeeease…let it be undamaged and let there be bars this time."

There were four of them; four great, big, beautiful bars. Hmmm…now what? Should she check on Conor first or…? No time to think about it, Judy went with her first impulse, scrolling up the 'recents' screen and punching the number for the ZPD Command Truck.

This time the call connected almost immediately. "This is Command—wha…Hopps? Hopps, where are you?"

"I'm…" she started to say, but then stopped and looked down with her nose twitching. Something was off; those shards of wood on the floor. That chair shouldn't have completely disintegrated just from…

"Hopps?"

The phone smashed out of her grip, hurtling away into the seats in two separate pieces. She ducked downwards, barely avoiding the follow-up blow from the spring-steel baton.

She knew instantly what had happened. A breakaway—that chair had been a breakaway prop and Conor had only been faking it, hoping to lure her in and take her down, once and for all. But when he'd heard her talking to ZPD Command…he'd had to move before he was ready. That was the only reason she was still conscious. But she hadn't gotten off scot-free; a high, stinging pain in her paw said that one of her fingers was cracked.

Conor jumped up, leapfrogged over her shoulders and dropped down on all fours again, the baton once more between his jaws as he ran full-tilt for the backpack.

Judy jumped too, much higher than him.

He was five feet away from his goal when she swung down off the table by her uninjured paw, catching him in the shoulder and sending him flailing across the floor, in the direction of the orchestra pit.

Conor dug in with his claws, plowing furrows across the floorboards as he desperately tried to stop the skid. He managed it with only centimeters to spare and wheeled back up on his feet again.

Then he took the baton from his mouth again, holding it at the ready. Blood was running from one of his nostrils and his cheek was already beginning to swell from the face-kick she'd given him earlier.

He didn't seem to notice and/or care.

Judy could only marvel at his tenacity, "Where the heck did they GET this kid?"

She started to open her mouth but then caught herself. Every time she'd spoken so far, he'd immediately attacked her.

Hmmmm, mayyybe she could use that…

She stepped back and raised the tonfa. Her tone was mocking and as harsh as bleach.

"You'll have to pay for that floor out of your allowance, kid."

Conor stayed where he was, regarding her again with those basilisk eyes…as silent as ever.

"Good God, he knows I'm trying to sucker him…HOW? How did he know?"

Judy shook off the thought and tried a different tack.

"You can't get away, Conor. The ZPD got a lock on my phone before you trashed it. There'll be officers all over this place at any second."

He just continued to stare; only now she could see his lip curling. He still said nothing, but no words were necessary; he had just informed the doe-bunny that her bluff had been called.

But then Judy remembered something. Well, why not? A promise is a promise and this was as good a time as any. And who knew, maybe he might listen to her for once.

"I saw Vern Rodenberg the other day, Conor. He asked me to tell you something."

No reaction; his face remained cast in flint.

She pressed on anyway.

"He hasn't dropped you as a client; he's still willing to represent you…but he needs to know what was going on in court with that judge and prosecutor—what was really going on."

Now, at last, the fugitive young silver-fox spoke

"Then that rat's got a stinkin' death wish," he growled, "and he can't help me!"

A sagging feeling came over Judy. It was no use; she was never going to talk this boy into giving himself up. There was only one way this was going to end—the hard way.

Very well, so be it.

Judy forced herself not to look; she knew where it was. If she was right, if Conor was determined not to leave without it, she'd be able to take him. If not, he'd make his getaway and she'd be the fall-bunny. This was it, there was no middle ground; it was all or nothing.

She jumped suddenly to the left; Conor moved along with her. And then she leaped up, caroming off the table-top once more. The young fox braced and raised the baton.

But it was only feint; instead of going for him, Judy shot off towards the backpack with her ears turned backwards. Behind her she could hear the fugitive young silver-fox, coming up fast on all fours. Not yet…not yet….let him get closerrrrrrr….NOW!

She dived into a roll, came up facing him in a three-point stance, and then dropped down low, as low as she could. Conor tried to stop himself but he was too close, and as he started to go over the top of her, Judy caught him by the wrist, turned and swung him over her shoulder and down into the stage like a ginormous, gray-furred flyswatter.

Working fast, she turned him onto his face, twisting his captive wrist up and between his shoulder blades.

And then she shoved the tonfa into her belt and hoisted the fugitive young silver-fox to his feet, grabbing his other arm in vise-grip.

"I'm sorry it had to go this way—"

Her words ended in a scream as Conor raked down the front of her shin with his foot, jamming it into her instep. At the same time the thumb-claw of his captive paw drove up and into her wrist, and then the edge of the paw was pressing into it, wrapping around and reversing the grip. He stepped sideways; spun around and pulled his arm upwards—and now HE was the one holding her at a painful angle.

He kicked her in the stomach, back-knuckled her across the ear and then let go of her…finishing up with a pawlm heel to the side of her face.

Judy dropped to all fours, coughing and gagging. Her head was ringing; her jaw felt wobbly and something seemed to have come loose inside her abdomen.

"So am I," the young fox grated painfully. And then he turned and bolted—actually mostly hobbled—for his backpack.

"NNNoooo!" Judy cried through gritted teeth and launched herself after him in a desperate flying tackle.

She didn't quite make it, only managed to catch hold of his collar.

A scream like rending sheet-metal filled the air. It was a sound the doe-bunny had heard before—in an alley behind a burning tuxedo store; not a cry of rage, but of pure undiminished terror, the panicked screech of a cornered fox prepared to do anything to get away.

Conor screamed again and whipped around, claws extended. A searing pain slashed across Judy's left eye, turning her vision red on that side. She cried out, pushed him off, and went for the nightstick. The berserk young silver-fox saw what she was doing and threw himself on top of her. She fell over backwards, hitting the floor hard and feeling his breath on her face, barely able to hold him off as he snarled and snapped his teeth at her, trying to wrap his jaws around her throat. It was the Natural History Museum all over again—except this fox wasn't faking it.

She couldn't keep it up much longer. Conor's frenzy had driven his strength to almost unimaginable heights; she had to do something and fast. Wait, the nightstick, there it was lying beside her—but she'd have to let go of him in order to get to it.

His head pulled back, his lips pulled back, trembling under his guttural snarl, revealing fangs and all of his teeth.

"Move it, bunny…he's going for the kill!"

She snatched for the tonfa, felt her paw take hold of it, saw his jaws zeroing in on her larynx, and swung hard for the side of his head.

She never connected; at the last instant, Conor's head turned sideways. He caught the nightstick in his mouth and bit down hard, worrying his head from side to side and trying to shake it out of her grip.

Judy grabbed the tonfa with her other paw, hanging on for dear life with both of them. Her paw, her chest; it seemed like every part of her was crying out in pain—wait, that trick he'd used on her earlier. Instead of pulling on the nightstick she shoved it hard into the crazed young fox's mouth.

Conor gagged, retched, rolled off her and retreated. Well, that wasn't quite what she'd had in mind, but any port in a storm. She got up on her elbows…and saw the young fox with his paw inside the backpack. Wha…? Why was he…? Never mind, you still have your weapon, get him!

She took a fast step towards him, felt herself stagger, shook it off and took another…

…And then stopped in her tracks as a red dot bloomed at the base of her neck.

"Enough!" Conor's growl was so hoarse, he might have had laryngitis. He was breathing in gulps and trembling all over—yet somehow managing to keep a bead on her with the dart-gun. "Are you…?" he swallowed and corrected himself. "Did…I hurt you?" Judy had never seen anyone look so stricken.

"I…" She reached up to brush at her injured eye. "I'll….be okay."

A ten-ton weight seemed to lift up off the young fox's shoulders.

"I'm…sorry." He croaked, "I haven't lost it like that since… I can't control it." He shook his head and his voice flattened out again. "All right, lose the nightstick and kick it over here."

Judy held the tonfa out to her side, as if preparing to perform a microphone drop...but then lowered her arm instead.

"No Conor, I don't think I'll do that," she told the young fox quietly.

"I mean it, Judy!" he snarled, brandishing the weapon.

"No…you don't," she told him, taking an awkward step in his direction. "If you were going to trank-dart me, you'd have pulled the trigger as soon as you got your paws on that thing."

"Back off rabbit…NOW!" he cried. His voice was taut, ragged, and for the first time since her appearance, he actually sounded scared.

Shaking her head, she took another step towards him. Her next words were weak and slightly mushy in her mouth…and yet they didn't feel that way. "You couldn't dart me then, and I'm willing to bet that you can't do it now. What are the odds?"

His ears went back and his paw began to shake, the red dot of the laser sight sketching a crude design all over her torso.

"You dumb bunny, this isn't a…I'll die before I go back there!"

He stuck the gun right in her chest; she continued to hold her ground.

"Back where, Con…?

She let go of the tonfa, heard it clatter to the floor; saw his eyes following it. Okay…GO! Ignoring the pain, she stepped inside of him and grabbed the dart-gun and snapped it out of his grip, whirling away and almost tripping over her own feet, but only almost. And then she was face to face with him again, clutching the weapon in a two-pawed grip. At the touch of her finger on the trigger, the laser sight activated, painting the young silver fox just below his right-side collarbone.

"All right, assume the position," She wheezed, "Or, make no mistake, I WILL dart you!"

Conor said nothing…and did nothing. But his eyes were resting on the tonfa, lying on the floor beside her.

"Don't!" she warned, stepping back and bracing her legs.

For a fraction of an instant, it seemed as if he might comply…

But then Judy saw his knees bend—and knew she had no choice.

She squeezed the trigger.

The weapon chuffed, bucked, and made her hurt finger sing with pain. She saw a splotch appear at the base of the young fox's neck. What the...? Not the neon-lime green of tranquilizer serum, but a black-cherry red whose purpose she'd couldn't quite place…and it wasn't having any effect! Conor only stood there, looking at her, and…was he trying not to smirk?

Without thinking, Judy shot him a second time—and felt her eyes go wide and her jaw drop open. This time the splotch wasn't green OR red, but a dark nimbus blue…and this time it was something she recognized.

"Sweet cheez n' crackers, that's Nighthowl…!"

Without warning, the doors to the theater lobby crashed open, and a pair of perforated metal cylinders came bouncing down the center aisle. Judy turned away just as the flash-bangs detonated, the second one bursting in mid-flight and almost blinding her, even with her face averted. A quintet of smaller cylinders followed, twirling through the air and spewing noxious, acrid, burning, vapor. She saw figures in helmets and body armor, advancing slowly through the haze and turned hurriedly in their direction.

Something wet and stinging struck her hard in the shoulder, and then again, just below her jawline. A sickly-sweet taste filled her mouth…and then everything began to fog over. Helpless to resist Judy watched the world swim away from her, fading into sepia tones. And her thoughts were dissolving; a sandcastle in the surf.

And then there was nothing but darkness and silence.

And then there was nothing at all.

Chapter 23: Unintended Consequences (Pt. 1)

Summary:

Rude awakenings

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 6—Unintended Consequences
(Part 1)

First there was blackness, lightening slowly to gray and then white. And then it was like the time-lapse display of the creation of an artwork; wispy black lines coming together to form vague shapes; coalescing gradually into something that was almost more recognizable. Now, as the outlines began to fill in with color, there were sounds as well; the clink of glass against metal, the robotic rasp of an intercom. Somewhere in the distance, a voice was barking orders, too faint to be understood. Lastly, there was the smell—dry, stinging, and antiseptic.

And then everything merged together and she was back in the real world.

Blinking wetly, Judy pulled herself up on her elbows…and found herself looking into the dark brown eyes of another bunny. No, she decided, not a bunny, a jackrabbit; too big, too lean, and too long in the ears to be a member of her own species.

She was dressed in a nurse's uniform.

"Oh good, you're awake."

Judy's response to this was little more than a dry whisper. That was probably just as well; what she'd been attempting to say was something she'd likely have had to take back later. But that was only to be expected. After all, he was not in the best of moods right now, and for a very good reason, "I HAD him!"

"Want some water?" the nurse asked her, and this was a question she could answer with just a nod. A few sips later and she could feel her voice starting to come back, but by then the jackrabbit-doe had already left, 'to go get Dr. Jarabal.'

That was fine with Judy; it would give her a chance to take stock of her situation.

She began with a brief self-appraisal. First and foremost, she could see out of only one eye, the right one. When she reached up to touch the left side of her face, she felt layers of gauze with something hard underneath, covering the eye socket. Lowering the paw again, she noted that her middle finger was splinted…and that any quick movement made her joints want to sing in E over high C. Looking further to the left, she saw an IV running into her arm, but saw no beeping monitor, and no electrodes attached to her torso; nothing clipped to her finger either. Okay, so none of her injuries were life-threatening. Shifting her gaze downwards, she saw that her midsection was swathed in more bandages. And now, for the first time, she noticed that the act of breathing had become something of a chore. She also saw that she was still in her street clothes and not in a hospital gown.

That told the doe-bunny that she hadn't, as yet, been admitted to whichever hospital they'd taken her. She was almost certainly still in the ER—which meant she couldn't have been out of it for all that long. Ahhh, how long did it take for a standard-issue ZPD tranq-dart to wear off again? Judy couldn't remember; her head would need to clear some more before she could retrieve that information.

Looking further around, she was at least able to confirm her location. The surrounding curtain was way too small, and the noises outside were much too loud for her to be in a hospital ward, much less a private room.

Fine…but how long, exactly, had she been unconscious? The question refused to go away…Oh, wait, of course.

Judy turned over her wrist—and saw that her watch was gone; great!

But then the curtain parted and Claire Swinton entered. Okay-y-y, maybe now she'd get some answers.

"Hey Detective, how're you doing?" She was wearing the most wan smile the doe-bunny had ever seen.

"How do I look like I'm doing?" Judy asked, speaking in a half-croak while reaching up to touch her bandaged eye. And then in no mood for small talk she got right to the point, "Who tranqued me Claire? Those darts that hit me had better not have been friendly fire." She swallowed and spoke again, "And where the heck did that SWAT team come from anyway?"

Swinton glanced into a corner, and bit her lip.

"Ahhhh, yes I'm afraid they were. You turned around; the SWAT team saw the gun in your paw…and what with all the smoke and pepper-gas residue, and their masks being all fogged up, they couldn't see much of anything else …a-and so they thought you were one of the rioters, and…"

"Rioters!" Judy was waking up rapidly now, "What rioters, what the heck happened, Claire?"

"What, you don't know?" Swinton's expression had shifted from contrition to incredulity.

"No, I…" The doe-bunny answered, sitting up quickly and then falling right back down again. Oooo, that hurt. "Never mind, just tell me what happened."

"It was those kids in the hoodies, Judy." The pig-cop's face was almost solemn, "They just lost it and mobbed the stage; had a bunch of us trapped in the rehearsal room. It was really bad; Lieutenant Tufts had to call in SWAT to come in and get us out of there."

That tore it; this rabbit was now officially awake. "What, are you serious?" This couldn't be right; at the ZAPA auditions? If there was a LESS likely place for a riot to break out, she couldn't begin to imagine it. "What the heck started it, Claire?"

The pig-cop's eyes found the corner again.

"It started when…uh, when..." She fell silent, unable to continue.

"What the HECK?" Judy wondered, and then, reluctantly decided to let the issue go, at least for now. Like it or not, she had more important things to discuss.

"What about Con…er, the Lewis boy? Did we bust him? Please tell me that he didn't get away."

Turning at last to look in her direction, the pig-cop sighed, shrugged, and slowly shook her head.

"Nope, no luck, he got clean away; no sign of him anywhere. The Lieutenant's mad as all-get-out, as you can probably imagine."

Judy almost responded to this, but then stopped, feeling her nose beginning to twitch. There was something about the way Claire had said that, something that didn't…quite…

The curtain parted and the rabbit-nurse came back again, this time accompanied by a bespectacled, whited coated mammal resembling an opossum with woolly fur. Ahhh, what was the name for that species again? Oh, right…a cuscus.

"So, what's the verdict, doc?" Judy asked him, too tired to come up with anything but an equally tired cliché.

"Not guilty by reason of insanity," the marsupial quipped, speaking in a snappy south Asian accent. And then he grew serious. "Let's get your vitals first, yes?"

Unsurprisingly, Judy's temperature and blood pressure were slightly elevated, while her pulse was almost perfectly normal. When the nurse shone a penlight into her eye, the pupil contracted in exactly the manner it should have. The only real area of concern was her blood/oxygen level.

"93%," Dr. Jarabal told her, "not too serious, but still a cause for concern. I believe you may have suffered a minor injury to your diaphragm. It will heal by itself, but you will need to be most careful until then,"

"All right," the doe bunny nodded. "What about the rest of me?" In other words, was she free to go?

By way of response, the cuscus scooped a tablet from a bedside tray-table, adjusting his glasses as he consulted it.

"Nothing broken, except for a hairline fracture in your finger; fair amount of bruising, but no major internal bleeding…"

"What about this?" Judy interrupted; pointing to her bandaged eye, the thing that most concerned her.

Dr. Jarabal flicked a finger against the tablet screen. "No damage to the eye itself, thank the maker, but you will need to keep it covered for a few days just the same. Those claws went fairly deep.

Deep? Judy swallowed hard and crossed her fingers.

"W-Will there be a…? Will there be any scarring?"

"No…nothing, at least, that will show through your fur, I should think." The cuscus frowned as he continued to scan her chart, "if you take proper care of it." He turned to look at her. "But as I said, my main concern is for your diaphragm. For the next two weeks at least, you need to avoid any activity that will lead to rapid breathing. No running or any other strenuous exercise…and no heavy lifting either."

"Hey," Claire Swinton chirped up from the corner, "looks like you're getting some medical leave."

Judy forced herself not to glare at the pig-cop; she had come off paid leave only a while ago and was in no mood to go down that road again. Instead, she looked at Dr. Jarabal.

"So…uh…are you going to admit me, or….?" She left the sentence hanging.

He examined her chart again. "Well, considering the possible damage to your diaphragm, I'd suggest we keep you overnight…"

Overnight! Judy groaned and would have face-pawlmed herself, if it hadn't been for that finger and her eye. How could she have forgotten about…?

"Oh sweet cheez n'…I never did ask; how long was I unconscious, wh-what time is it?"

It was Swinton who answered her. "It's almost 8 Judy," she said and the doe bunny immediately felt better. Ah yes, now, she remembered…that was about how long it took for a tranquilizer dart to wear off. Granted, she'd been hit by two of the little nasties, but there had probably been something in the IV to help bring her…

"Judy, I'd do as he suggests," the pig-cop spoke again. "Please don't take this the wrong way, but …"

She was cut off by a commotion outside the curtain. For a moment, it seemed to fade slightly, but then a familiar voice cried out.

"Please…let me in there! That's my daughter!"

"Mom?" Judy called over the curtain, and then, to whoever was out there with her, she said, "It's all right, she can come." Nothing happened and she tightened up her voice a notch. "In case you don't know, I'm a police detective. So you let my mother in here…and I mean right! now!"

The curtain parted and Bonnie Hopps came hurrying through. Her dress was disheveled and her fur was a complete mess—and why were her ears drooping? But the worst of it was…there was no mistaking the dark streaks furrowing her cheeks–or those puffy red eyes. Oh, sweet cheez n' crackers!

"Mom, it's okay, it's not as bad as it looks," Judy moved swiftly to reassure her. "I'm a little banged up but…"

That was as far as she got before her mother cried out, "Judy, where WERE you?" She sounded more angry than anguished, and for a fraction of a second, the bewildered younger bunny was unable to respond. "Wh-Where was I? Mom…what are you…?" Then, all at once, it hit her. It would take a lot more than just seeing her daughter in the ER to get this rock-steady rabbit worked up into a state. "Mom…what happened?"

The answer came like a surge from a broken floodgate.

"I-It's Erin, she's been arrested!"

"WHAT?" Judy sat up at once, but "Owwww, okay, that REALLY hurt!" She coughed and clutched at her midsection, instantly bringing the doctor over. She waved him off and spoke again. "Mom…what was she arrested…? Wait, hold it…"

With the slow, deliberate movement of a gun turret, she turned her gaze on the only other member of the ZPD present. "Swinton…did YOU know that my sister had been arrested when you came in here? Ah-AH…look at me, not in the corner."

The pig-cop shuddered slightly and then nodded.

"Yes, Judy. I…"

"Yes, Detective Hopps!" Judy cut her off, archly, "And in that case, I'll let you tell me why she's been arrested." She leaned forward as best she could, "And you'd better tell me all of it."

The story came out at first in fits and starts, and then with more of an even flow as it progressed. Judy mostly let Swinton talk without interruption—that is until…

"What? WHAT!" She coughed and clutched her middle again–and again had to wave off Dr. Jarabal. "What, are you serious? Erin wasn't trying to start a riot; she was trying to get me to come and help with those kids."

"And where WERE you?" her mother demanded again, the cry bursting out of her in a wrenching sob. "We didn't even find out what happened to Erin until…"

"Mom…please," Judy pulled up her shirt to show her bandages, "Even if I could have heard her from where I was, I wasn't in any kind of a position to help."

"It's true Mrs. Hopps," Officer Swinton said, moving quickly to give the doe bunny some cover, "That rioter did a pretty good number on her."

Judy's world seemed to freeze in place for a second. Rioter…? They thought she'd been fighting with a…? And now she remembered; when she'd asked about Conor, the answer had been 'no sign of him anywhere'. But how could that be after…? Hadn't the SWAT team at least found the…?

With a sudden, vicious clarity, it all fell into place. Dangit, but that was one street-smart fox-kid! There was only one way he could have managed to escape undetected from that auditorium; Judy was almost sure of it.

But before she could deliver her theory, she'd need to be completely certain. And, in order for that to happen…

Once more turning slowly around, she leveled her gaze again, this time at Dr. Jarabal.

"Sorry Doctor, but I'm afraid I'll have to take a rain-check on that hospital stay."

He straightened up stiffly in response. "Ms…err, Detective Hopps, I would most strongly advise against this course of action."

"Duly noted," the doe bunny told him, "Now would someone please get this IV out of my arm?

With a reluctant sigh, the cuscus nodded to his nurse.

While the jackrabbit-doe went to work, Judy spoke to her mother again.

"Mom, go on back to the rental; I'll take care of this."

"A-Are you sure Jude?" Realizing at last how badly her daughter was hurt, Bonnie's agitation had morphed into guilt—which made Judy feel a little bit guilty too. She should never have been so short with her. And then she remembered something else. No way was this mother-rabbit going to be content with just sitting around, waiting for her daughter's call.

Fortunately, she thought she had a solution.

"Listen Mom, the last time I saw Erin, she was still in her stage outfit. She could probably use a change of clothes right about now. Can you go bring her some?"

"W-Will they let me?" Bonnie asked her nervously, "The ZPD I mean."

"They will if I…OW! Hey…!"

"Sorry," the jackrabbit-nurse responded, dropping the IV needle into the wastebasket.

Judy turned back to her mother.

"They will if I call ahead to authorize it," she said. "I know it's not much, but it's something."

"Y-You aren't going to go see her?" The elder bunny asked, looking more than slightly shocked.

Judy shook her head, "I will later, but first thing's first. Before anything else, I need to go see about trying to get her released. After that, I can go visit her."

"Ohhh, bless you Judy." Her mother's eyes were beginning to tear up again, "And I'm sorry for getting upset with you just now."

"It's okay mom, I understand; I feel the same way." She held out her arms and the two of them embraced. Judy stiffened as a shard of pain went through her side, but somehow fought it off. "But listen, when you drop off those clothes…ahhh, has anybody got a pen and paper?"

Claire Swinton had the pen and Dr. Jarabal supplied the paper. Judy took them and scrawled a quick note, which she handed to her mother. "Put this in with the clothes when you drop them off; don't worry, I'll make sure they let you bring it to her."

They exchanged a brief chin-rub…pretty much all that Judy could handle and then she watched as her mother disappeared through the curtain.

And then she looked flatly at Claire Swinton.

"All right, where's Lieutenant Tufts right now?"

The pig cop responded with a tight mouth and the tips of her hooves tapping against each other.

"Ummm, he's back at the school…but I don't think you want to…"

"Good, do you have a car?"

"Um, yes…" Swinton's eyes were regarding the corner again. "But listen, he's in a really…"

"Okay, let's go."

Judy swung off the bed…and would have collapsed when her feet hit the floor if the rabbit-nurse hadn't been there to catch her.

Her doctor was right there, too

"Detective Hopps, I must ask you again…"

She only waved him off a third time. Now, more than ever, she was convinced that her theory was correct. "Swinton, go get the car; I'll meet you out front."

At last conceding, Dr. Jarabal insisted that she at least let herself be brought to the hospital entrance by way of a wheelchair…and Judy allowed him that one small token; it would give her the space to formulate a plan. He also wrote her a prescription and made her promise to call him for an appointment on Monday. Finally, he rattled off a list of symptoms, telling her, "If you should experience any of those things, I want you back here immediately." Judy agreed to his terms, but mostly to get him to leave her alone; she had other priorities right now.

The most important thing was getting the charges against her sister dropped—and even in her post-tranq-dart state of mind, Judy was aware that a straight up confrontation with Lieutenant Tufts was out of the question. If he'd been looking to fire her before, he'd welcome the chance to get rid of her now like a long-lost, wealthy uncle.

That was why she needed to play her cards carefully. Before bringing up the subject of Erin, she needed to put herself in a position where the Kaibab squirrel didn't dare to let her go.

It would be no mean task, but not impossible either. There were a few things Judy knew that he didn't…or anyone else for that matter. Of some, she was certain; of others, well…okay, she'd need to get confirmation before she made her move…but if she was right, then maybe… Whoops, here was the hospital entrance, Saint Bartholomeow's Medical Center; so that was where they'd taken her.

And well, DUH, of course they'd brought her here; it was only the closest medical facility to the Performing Arts Academy. She should have figured that out for herself as soon as she woke up.

"Stupid tranq darts! Dangit, hurry up and wear off the  rest  of the way already!"

Judy didn't object to Swinton helping into the ZPD cruiser's passenger seat. But when the pig-cop tried to pull away from the curb, she waved a paw, signaling for her to hold up a second.

Then she turned to face her companion as best she could.

"Listen Claire, I've always liked you, and you've been in law enforcement a lot longer than me—so I REALLY don't enjoy pulling rank on you. That being said, I shouldn't have had to hear about my sister's arrest from my mother. You should have told me straight up when I asked how the riot started. I'm a big girl and I can handle news like that, okay?"

"Okay," Swinton nodded quietly. "You're right Detective, I'm sorry."

"Accepted," the doe-bunny smiled, and then she said, "But let's go back to 'Judy' again, okay?" The smile faded and she continued, "All right, first I need to notify the Precinct about those clothes my mom's bringing for my sister—and then I need you to fill me in on the rest of what happened back at the Academy."

"10-4" Swinton raised a hoof and smiled back, "and this time, I promise I'll tell you everything."

Angling the wheel she pulled smoothly away from the curb and around the driveway. Absorbed as they were in their tasks neither one of the two police-mammals noticed the graffiti adorning a pillar next to the entrance.

It was a familiar design–to a point; a hybrid of the 'V-For Vendetta logo' and a fox's face, applied in bright-red spray paint. Except this time the caption read ACAJ – We're Not Gonna TAKE It! Also this time, spray-painted flames had been added, making the emblem appear to be on fire.

And had Judy or Claire Swinton stopped to rub finger across it, they would have noted that that paint was not yet completely dry.

By the time they made the first stoplight, Judy had finished speaking to the Precinct and was getting the skinny from Swinton about everything that had happened in her absence—and it was quite the revelation. She might have been privy to some information that no one else was aware of… but that was nothing compared to what she didn't know–about the riot and the events that had preceded it. For example, how had Lieutenant Tufts become aware of Conor's backstage sortie in the first place? Answer; one of the two young rabbits caught digging those holes had made it all the way to the rehearsal room. And from there, he'd peeked into the stage wings.

"That's where he told us he saw the Lewis kid," Swinton explained, signaling for a left turn. "Do you know either of those bunnies by the way? They said they're from Bunnyburrow; names are March, Max and Zack."

Judy half shook her head. "I know the March family, but I don't know any Zack March. I think I heard Max March's name once or twice, uh….look, can you try and step on it a little?"

Swinton glanced at her sideways. "I don't want joggle you…."

"I'll be okay, just move."

"All right…you're the boss."

The car lurched forward and Judy reached up to scratch the side of her face—and then quickly pulled back. Whoopsie, that was the bandaged area.

"So what happened to those two bunny kids?" she asked, "Did we let them go, or what?"

"Nope," Swinton sighed and shook her head. "They're being held on a vandalism charge for the holes they dug."

"Ohhhh, come ON," Judy groaned…and this time it wasn't from the pain of her injuries. "They cooperated with us, for crying out loud. What the heck; does Tufts not want anyone else to come forward?"

Swinton's eyes rolled and the corners of her mouth pulled back to make a duck faced grimace.

"Oh you're going to love this Judy. He's got a theory that they dug those holes for the Lewis kid—to get in and out of the amphitheater."

"Except, they didn't!" The words were out before Judy could stop them….but the pig cop only nodded grimly.

"I know, right? But that's his story and he's sticking to it."

More words came to Judy, but this time she was able to hold them back—just barely.

"I don't think—I KNOW that isn't how Conor got into the amphitheater."

She wanted very badly to say it; she'd probably get in trouble later for keeping it to herself now.

Except, if she didn't, Claire Swinton would be on the radio with the news so fast you'd need time-lapse photography to catch it. And wherever he was right now, Conor Lewis was almost certainly keeping a close ear on both the police bands and the ZPD switchboard. For the moment, as far as that fox-kid knew, John Law had no idea it had been him in that auditorium. Good, let him continue to believe that.

And besides, Judy didn't want to tip her hand to Lieutenant Tufts.

Her theory was based half in fact, and the rest of it was a simple hunch…albeit a very strong one. And there was something else… Wait, they were here.

Claire eased the cruiser to a halt and Judy saw an officer she didn't recognize approaching with a flashlight, a sable antelope by the look of him.

"Must be from one of the other precincts," the doe bunny noted, as Swinton rolled the window down. "Hmmm, looks like Tufts is beginning to get a little desperate. Why else would he be bringing in officers from outside of Savanna Central?"

Perhaps, perhaps not; if she didn't know this antelope, he knew her.

"Hopps? Wh-What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be…?"

"That's Detective Hopps," she interrupted, cutting him off at the pass, "And which way to the theater where I got tranq-darted?" She wanted everyone to know that she was aware of that fiasco.

The antelope pointed with the flashlight in a meaningless direction.

"Ahhhh, that'd be the Lionheart auditorium, over there."

Judy nodded. "Good, you can take me."

He sucked air through his teeth and looked away for a second. "Ummmm, I'm supposed to…"

But Judy already had the car door open, "A little help over here?"

In the next few minutes she became painfully aware of just how much damage she'd taken in that throw-down with Conor Lewis. What should have been a quick stroll turned out to be an arduous ten-minute hike, even with Swinton there to help her. Twice she had to stop and catch her breath.

When they got to the Lionheart Auditorium, the antelope excused himself and quickly departed, presumably to get back to his post. It didn't matter to Judy, what bothered her was that by rights, this place should be swarming with cops. Instead there were only two officers present, Jackson and Krumpansky…occupying the theater lobby and occupying themselves by drinking coffee and sharing gossip. When the lion saw her and Swinton approaching, he nearly dropped his cup.

"D-Detective Hopps? Are…you okay to be here?"

Well, at least he'd remembered to address her properly.

"I'm fine, Jackson," she said, pointing past him to the double doors leading to the auditorium, currently sealed off with yellow crime-scene tape. "I need to get in there."

Krumpansky immediately waved a big hoof.

"I-I wouldn't if I were…"

Judy's paws went straight to her hips.

"Now listen, dangit…"

"No, no Detective," the rhino hastened to explain, "It's still pretty bad in there from the leftover pepper-gas and all, and…well, your breathing doesn't sound none too good."

If it hadn't been for her eye, Judy would have face-pawlmed herself; dumb bunny!

All right, but even so…

"Okay, I'm sorry, and thanks—but I still need to get in there; it's important. There wouldn't happen to be a gas-mask anywhere around that'll fit me?"

It was a silly question and she knew it. In all the ZPD, there was exactly one of those things small enough to accommodate a bunny's face—and it was back at Precinct 1.

"Uhhhh, no," Krumpansky shook his head uncomfortably, "Well…"

"Wait a minute," Jackson snapped his fingers, "I think I know." He disappeared though the front door and returned momentarily with a small-mammal breathing apparatus in his paws. "Borrowed it off the ZFD," he explained, passing it to Judy. "I think it'll fit you."

Except for the face mask being a little bit long in the muzzle for a bunny, it was an almost perfect fit. And while the air-bottle was a bit of a strain on her back, the extra oxygen more than made up for it. Krumpansky meanwhile had retrieved a couple of masks for both Swinton and Jackson. "Fraid I couldn't find one for myself," he said, sounding almost apologetic.

"No sweat," Judy told him, highly impressed by the two officers' efficiency and ingenuity. Good cops, both of them.

Even with the supplemental oxygen she had to be helped up the steps to the stage. But when she got there, the first thing she saw was the wall where she'd burst through to confront Conor Lewis.

And it was once again just that—a blank wall.

"Sneaky little…I KNEW it, he doubled  back  on us. "

She tapped Officer Jackson on the hip and pointed.

"See that there? There's a hidden door in that wall, leading to a secret tunnel."

"Wha…? Before the lion could respond, Swinton jumped in ahead of him. "I don't see anything there, how do you know that?"

Ohhh-kay, it was time to load up the bombshell.

Judy tapped the wall with a pair of fingers, "Because that's how I got in here before," she said, and then, after just the right amount of dramatic pause, she dropped it, "And it's also how the Lewis boy got in here."

"WHAT?!" Both Jackson and Swinton were staring bewildered. Good!

She turned to face them with her paws on her hips.

"That's right; the kid I fought with in here wasn't any rioter, it was Conor Lewis—and yes, I'm sure; he admitted it." She patted the wall a second time, "And that's also how he got out again…or he'd have left it open to try and throw us off. Do you understand?"

The two officers nodded and she went on.

"Okay, now listen. Get a Crime Scene Unit team in here ASAP, and make sure they've got door-breach gear…but DON'T call them on the radio. Our suspect might be monitoring the police band; I think that's what he was doing when I broke in on him."

Swinton pointed at the wall.

"Don't you know how to…?

"Only from the inside," Judy shook her head. "Look, I don't have time; I need to inform Lieutenant Tufts about this right NOW!"

That was good for a quick, shared nod on behalf of the lion and the pig-cop. In fact, the Lieutenant should already have been told.

Oh well, it was Hopps's neck, not theirs.

Then Officer Jackson pointed off to the left. "He's over in the main building—I forget the name—conducting interviews in the President's Office."

"Ainsley Hall, I know where that is," Swinton nodded, "I'll take Detective Hopps over there; you and Krumpansky start rounding up that CSU team."

"10-4" the lion-cop raised a thumb, and turned and hurried back down the steps.

Arriving at Ainsley Hall–after yet another exhausting trek–Judy found the foyer of President Vignius's office packed like a sardine-can. Many of the officers were speaking on cell phones while others were working laptops—and all of them were wearing miserable expressions. If the Lieutenant ain't happy, nobody happy!

When the other cops saw her, they reacted as if her ghost had just walked into the room; wide eyes, wilting ears, loud gasps, and then pin-drop silence.

The first one to break it was Officer Quino.

"Ju…Ah-ahhh Detective Hopps?" the alpaca queried, raising a crooked finger, "wha-what are you doing here? Aren't you…shouldn't you be…?"

"Sorry, no time," the doe bunny answered, pointing past him towards a tall, wooden door, "Is the Lieutenant in there?"

"Ahhhh, yes." Kii Catano spoke up, "But he's busy talking to Gazelle…wait, don't!"

"It's okay, Kii," Claire Swinton moved quickly in between them, covering the doe bunny's exit with a pair of raised hooves. "Believe me, it's THAT important."

"Someone get the door for me?" Judy asked, and Officer Quino reluctantly rose from his seat.

Even before the alpaca opened it, she could tell that a heated exchange was taking place on the other side; Catano had been sooo right to try and warn her off. This time, however, Judy knew exactly how to handle the Kaibab squirrel, (she hoped.)

When she entered the office, the row between him and Gazelle came at once to a screeching halt—and then both of them were gawking in her direction, although not in quite the same manner. While the popstar's look was a mixture of surprise and sympathy, his expression was concocted of equal parts shock and outrage.

"De-TECT-ive Hopps!" He chittered, rising angrily from his seat.

Judy threw down her ace at once.

"Sorry Lieutenant, but you need to hear this right now; that was Conor Lewis I was fighting with in the Lionheart Auditorium, not one of the rioters."

Bullseye! The squirrel fell back in his chair, looking stunned.

But only for a second, "Wait a minute Hopps, are you sure it was him?"

"I'd know those eyes anywhere, sir," she said, brushing aside his doubts. "And when I called him by name, he responded. Oh yes, it was him all right."

That was good, but not quite good enough.

"What the…? A fourteen year-old-kid took you down?" He was pointing at her injured eye.

Okay-y-y, now it was time to play her other hole card.

"No sir, the SWAT team did that." Judy allowed herself a bitter foot-thump, and never mind if it hurt. "I HAD him, Lieutenant!" she hissed, raising her paws and making claws with her uninjured fingers. "I had him covered with his own weapon…and if those morons-in-riot-gear hadn't tranqued me, he'd be in custody right now!"

"WHAT?!" Tufts was out of his chair again and more furious than ever—but not at her, Judy was satisfied to note.

However that did not mean he was pleased with her.

"All right…but why did you feel the need to come here and inform me fursonally, instead of…"

Once again, the doe-bunny had her ducks in a row. "Sorry sir, but I didn't want to risk using the phone…or especially the two-way."

Okay, that was the clincher; the squirrel was instantly thoughtful,

"Ohhhh…yes, yessss; I see what you mean," he stroked slowly at his muzzle as he spoke. "It would be just like that fox-kid to listen in on us, wouldn't it?"

"Exactly Lieutenant," Judy nodded. That's it, soften him up. "Oh, and I know how he got into that auditorium, too. There's a secret tunnel, leading from there to the Gazelle Amphitheater."

"There's a…?!" Once again the Kaibab squirrel was halfway out of his seat—and once more, Judy was quicker.

"Yes, sir; with your permission, I ordered the Crime Scene Unit to send a team to check it out."

"Oh? Good, good." Tufts immediately took his chair again—although he obviously wasn't as contented as he was trying to appear. In other words, he was moving in exactly the direction the doe-bunny wanted him to go.

But then another voice joined the conversation.

"Ah, discúlpame, por favor, but…a tunnel did you say?"

A heat rose quickly in Judy's ears. Oops, she had forgotten all about Gazelle; so had Lieutenant Tufts.

"Ah, I'm sorry Ms. Gazelle," he said, "but I'm afraid I need to ask you…"

"Wait, listen," she was raising her hooves. "There are tunnels like that all over the Academy campus. And all of the doors open up in the same way. Push once on the left and then twice on the right."

"That many…really?" Judy's nose was twitching again. She'd considered that possibility earlier, but then dismissed it as unlikely. There might be one or two other underground passages traversing the school grounds—but not tunnels, tunnels everywhere. "Wrong again, dumb bunny."

Tufts, meanwhile, appeared to be mulling over a problem, cupping a paw to his muzzle, and scratching his cheek with a finger claw.

Finally he looked towards the popstar.

"Ms. Gazelle, do you think you could go on over to the Auditorium and show our investigators how to access that hidden door…if they haven't gotten through it already, that is. I would much rather that they didn't have to break it down."

"Si, I can do that," she replied, rising quickly from her seat. She seemed grateful for the opportunity to help, although her hostility to the Kaibab squirrel was still clearly in evidence. She was just about to reach for the doorknob when she stopped, seemed to remember something and pivoted in Judy's direction.

"Before I go…ahhh, it's Judy Hopps, si? Before I go, I want you to know…I am just so sorry for what happened with your sister, Erin. Please…come and see me later; we will talk about her."

And with a farewell sneer in Tufts's direction, she was out the door and gone.

The squirrel either didn't notice it, or else he didn't care, muttering something under his breath that Judy probably wasn't supposed to hear. "Chrrrr; got rid of her easy enough."

And then he was looking in her direction once more.

"All right Hopps, but what I still can't understand is…how did you find that tunnel in the first place? For that matter, HOW did you manage to catch up with the Lewis kid before he got away?"

The tone of his voice told the doe-bunny that this was going to require some seriously fast talking; she could only hope that she was up to it.

Taking a chance, she hopped up into the chair Gazelle had just vacated; it made her chest hurt a little but it was nothing she couldn't handle.

"Ahhh, the answer to both questions is pretty much the same, Lieutenant. Remember that rabbit hole you had me check out…?"

From there she went on to a barebones explanation of how she'd located Conor's escape route, making sure to tell the squirrel, "When I tried to report in, I couldn't get through; there's no phone service down in that tunnel. Anyway, I found a door pretty quick, but it was padlocked. And that was when I knew the Lewis boy had been down there, too. After that I had no idea which way he'd gone, so I just played a hunch and took the right-side tunnel, and…well…"

Continuing with her story, she gave Tufts a blow by blow description of her fight with the fugitive young silver fox.

"I admit it sir; I underestimated that kid—badly. But that's not how I got this." she reached up to touch her bandaged eye. "When he ran past me, I tried to tackle him, but I only managed to get my paw on his collar…and when I did, he just completely flipped out; it was almost like he'd gone savage except he was scared instead of mad."

"Same thing he did with Wilde?" the Kaibab squirrel asked, surprising her. Of course he'd remember that incident—but up until now, he had refused, point blank, to believe the young fox's contention that when he'd lost it with Nick, he hadn't known what he was doing.

But now Judy had to wonder…had Tufts really never believed Conor's story?

Well, she sure as heck believed it; you couldn't even try to fake that kind of berserk. However, that was a subject for another time.

"No sir; this was worse, a LOT worse. When the Lewis boy bit Officer Wilde, he snapped out of it almost as soon as he let go. Not this time; he kept on coming, full throttle at me, even after he clawed my eye. I had to practically ram that nightstick down his throat to get him to back off."

Nightstick….Oooo, that reminded her of something else. Dangit, her head had been all over the place, ever since she'd awakened in that hospital. She couldn't even remember which one it had been right now. Was it her injuries, or had there been something in that IV…?

"Head up, Tufts is giving you the eye."

She pulled herself together again.

"Sorry, they must have given me some kind of meds in the ER. But I just now remembered something. Conor had a weapon, too…a collapsible baton. Did the SWAT Team or anyone else find it?"

"No," the squirrel admitted, rubbing a paw over an ear, "No sign of that tranq-dart gun you mentioned either; why?"

"'Why' is because the Crime Scene Unit team needs to keep an eye out for those weapons," she said. "I think he may have abandoned them."

Tufts's tail began to flip.

"After going to all that trouble to retrieve them—why would he just dump them?"

Judy crossed her fingers…and crawled out onto the limb.

"Lieutenant, even before Gazelle told us that there were more tunnels like the one I found, I was pretty sure there had to be another hidden doorway somewhere in that auditorium. That was how the Lewis boy originally planned to make his escape. But when the SWAT Team broke in, he knew he wouldn't have time to reach it. And then…I think when he saw me get hit by those tranq-darts, he also knew that I wouldn't be telling anyone about the door where we came in—not for a while anyway—and so he went that way instead. Believe me; if there's one thing I've learned about that silver fox kid in the time I've known him, it's that he's one heckuva fast thinker. Even so, when he doubled back, it was a spur of the moment decision. But then after he ducked inside that tunnel, he'd have had a minute or two to consider his options."

"And those options would have been…what?" Tufts asked her, raising an eyebrow. He was irritated but at the same time intrigued.

"Okay," Judy puffed out her cheeks, "Here we go; facts first, then logic…and then you can speculate."

"Sir, when Conor and I fought, I gave at least as good as I got. If I needed medical attention afterwards, it's pretty much a slam-dunk that HE would have needed it too."

"Only in his case, it's going to be a little bit more difficult that it was for you," the squirrel was smiling grimly…but then he chittered in frustration, "Dangit!"

"What sir?" Judy asked, regarding him wide-eyed. She actually knew, but was going to make him say it.

"Hnnngh!" he said, making the closest thing possible to a growl for an animal of his species. "We need to notify every hospital, clinic, and urgent-care facility within five miles of here to be on the lookout for that fox-kid…only if we do, and he's monitoring…" Without any warning, he slapped his paws together. "Wait, I've got it!"

"Sir?" Judy's ears were up and her nose was twitching. Okay, this was something she hadn't expected.

Tufts pressed a finger to the side of his face. Hmmm, Judy hadn't noticed the headset before; dang those tranq darts. "Quino? Get your wooly, little tail in here ASAP."

The alpaca wasn't halfway through the door before the squirrel was barking orders at him.

"All right Quino, listen up, there's a Fur's Electronics store not far from here on Bushwillow, and they should still be open for a little while longer. Get someone down there and have them pick up a dozen burner phones. Tell whoever you send to use the lights and siren if they have to, but get there before that store closes. Oh, and tell them to stay off the radio, too; that's a direct order."

The alpaca stared at him and blinked. "B-Burner phones…?" he started to say, and then quickly caught himself. "Yes, sir, right away!"

He hastily ducked out the way he had come. Tufts watched him and then sat back in his chair, chittering under his breath. "Two can play at that game, kid."

While they waited for the phones to arrive, Judy gave the Lieutenant a more detailed account of the events leading up to her encounter with Conor Lewis. She was itching to bring up the subject of Erin, but not yet…not until he gave her an opening. (Actually, she'd had one earlier—but Gazelle had been in the room and so no dice.)

She began her explanation with a fuller description of how she'd ended up in the tunnel beneath the amphitheater. To her surprise, and annoyance, Tufts seemed to find her description of how she'd literally fallen right into it highly amusing. Judy let it pass; there were more urgent matters to discuss, such as the padlocked door she'd found.

"I couldn't tell exactly where it led, but I'm betting that it opens up into the stage wings. How the Lewis boy got from there to the other side without being spotted, though—honestly, that's anybody's guess."

"Actually, no it isn't," the squirrel informed her, "There's a passage under the stage with a trapdoor at either end; Gazelle told us about it." There was no arrogance in his voice for once, not even a hint of condescension. "But I think you're right, Hopps; that door you found almost certainly opens up into the right-side stage-wings."

Judy nodded in agreement. "Well, we'll know soon enough, Lieutenant." Dangit, why couldn't he be this civil ALL the time?

He leaned forward, with an elbow on his knee. "Yes, we will. In the meantime, tell me about that other branch or the tunnel; the one that went off to the left."

"Hmmmm, can't say for certain where that one went," the doe bunny answered, chewing thoughtfully on her lip. In fact, she had a pretty good idea, but now was not the time…and the crime-scene guys would find out soon enough anyway. "But it seemed to head off in the direction of the theater seats." To herself, she added. "Dangit, I should have asked Gazelle what those tunnels are FOR."

Tufts's response to this was interrupted by a knock at the door; not Quino with the burner-phones, but Officer Jackson, with an important piece of news. Judy's guess just now had been spot on; at the other end of the unexplored tunnel the ZPD Crime Scene Unit had come upon another hidden door, this one opening out into the amphitheater's VIP seating section.

"They also found these," the lion reported grimly, laying a pair of items on the desktop, next to the Kaibab squirrel. The first was a chartreuse hoodie in small mammal size; new and unworn by the look of it. The second one was…

"…A gas-mask!" Tufts's tail was flipping like a rag in a gale. "Great, cracking walnuts; that fox-kid thought of everything."

"I know sir," Officer Jackson replied, pointing, "And that's no second-paw surplus model either; it's better than the ones we use."

Judy, for her part, thought the Lieutenant was overreacting. Go to practically any protest demonstration these days and you'll see half the crowd wearing gas-masks. It surprised her not in the least that Conor would have had one.

"Mmmm," Tufts chittered, regarding the mask as if it had just crawled out from under a rock, "I can understand why he ditched that thing…but why the hoodie?"

"Because he didn't want to be mistaken for one of the rioters," Judy spoke up at once, and then looked to the right. "Jackson, do you happen to know where, exactly, the CSU team found those things?"

He responded with a quick nod. "Yes, right by that door to the VIP seats."

In other words, right where Judy had suspected they'd be. Okay, she figured, this was as good a time as any to advance her theory. She focused again on Lieutenant Tufts. "Remember what I said about that kid needing medical attention, the same as me? Well, what I think he did first was try to get rid of any incriminating evidence. And then after he sneaked out through that hidden door, my guess is that he tried to pass himself off to one of the EMTs as an innocent bystander—an unlucky kid who just happened to get caught in the crossfire."

"EM…T's?" Tufts was his old self again, regarding her with a mixture of confusion and contempt.

And once again, she was ready for him.

"Sir, I may have been out of it for this riot, but I've worked a few others in my time. And if there's one thing I know about these blow-ups it's that there's always some uninvolved citizens getting hurt—and always some emergency medical fursonnel around." She frowned, and looked at Officer Jackson. "Only, where the heck are that baton and that tranq-dart pistol? Didn't the CSU team find either of those things?"

The lion's eyebrows jumped in surprise.

"What, the kid had a TRANQ-DART gun?"

"Yes, and a telescoping baton too!" Judy could feel her chest beginning to ache and toned it down a little, "And I don't understand; those should have been the first things he threw away." She looked in Tufts' direction again. "I'll bet you anything that wasn't the only gas mask brought in here today…and almost every kid in that audience was wearing a chartreuse hoodie. But if the Lewis boy had been caught with either of those weapons, it would have been all she wrote; he'd never have been able to explain away something like that." To emphasize her point, she pantomimed the act of putting the cuffs on somebody.

"Maybe he waited until after he left the tunnel before dumping them," Lieutenant Tufts suggested, unexpectedly concurring with her, "hoping some other kid would pick them up."

"Could be," Judy nodded. Loathe as she was to admit it, his idea made perfect sense. What kid of the anarchist bent could have resisted either of those goodies?

Officer Jackson, however, wasn't so sure.

"I-I-I don't know, Lieutenant." His voice was a low growl. "Wouldn't the EMTs have asked for some ID?"

Tufts pointed to the desktop and bared his incisors sardonically. "The Lewis kid came here with a gas-mask, Jackson; do you think he did that and then DIDN'T think to bring along a fake ID?"

"And even if he didn't, he could always say he lost it in all the confusion," Judy pointed out.

The lion-cop remained unconvinced.

"Well maybe, Detective…Lieutenant; but for crying out loud, how brazen can you GET!"

Tufts's voice turned contemptuous and as caustic as lye.

"He snuck into a place that he knew was wall-to-wall with peace officers, just to watch Detective Hopp's sister give her audition performance. Is that brazen enough for you, Jackson?"

Judy tensed and clenched the fingers of her uninjured paw. Ready or not, that was her cue—and if there was one thing she knew by now, it's that there was no point in trying to be tactful. No matter how she phrased it, Tufts was going to blow up at her like an overstressed boiler.

So, she might as well throw down the gauntlet.

"Yes, about that sir," she said, ears laying flat against the nape of her neck, "exactly where do you get off arresting my sister?"

That did it; the Kaibab squirrel's chair became an instant catapult. In half a nanosecond he was on his feet with a spiking tail.

"You watch your mouth, Hopps."

"Detective Hopps," she hissed, "And maybe you didn't hear me just now? I'm speaking as a sister, NOT a police officer."

For the barest of seconds, Tufts glanced at the door, making Judy wonder if Gazelle had been having words with him about Erin when she'd been in here. It was anything but unlikely. According to what Swinton had told her, the popstar had been none too pleased with any of the Kaibab squirrel's actions.

"All right, Detective," he spat out the word like a cherry pit. "As a matter of fact, I wanted to let your sister go…but noooooo, she had to go running out on that stage and throw a lit firecracker into a gas tank."

One more time, Judy was ready for him.

"Oh come on Lieutenant; Erin wasn't trying to start a riot, she was trying to get me to come and help; she had no idea that those hoodie kids would go off like that. Look, I know my sister; she gets a little emotional every once in a while—she's that age—but she'd never try to start a riot on purpose."

Tufts folded his arms.

"On purpose or not Hopps, that IS what she did. It's just a lucky thing we had SWAT standing by, or who knows how much worse it could have been. Have you seen what those kids did to the amphitheater stage? Did you know that when Catano ran out to get your sister, she got hit on the head by a sports-bottle—and almost got her knee taken out by a tire-iron? That's right; it missed her by something like less than an inch."

"No sir," Judy admitted, and then batted the news aside like a mosquito, "But whoever pegged that thing at her could just as easily have hit Erin. You know how rioters are; throw first, and aim later. Honestly, do you think my sister would intentionally put HERSELF in the line of fire?" She could feel her chest, beginning to ache again. Easy, easy…watch your breathing.

"What I think is academic at this point," the squirrel informed her coldly. "Even if I wanted to let your sister walk, you know as well as I do that there's nothing to be done until the courts open up on Monday. And even then, it'll be out of my paws; the Judge will make the decision."

Judy's ears shot even further back, and if it hadn't been for her injuries, her foot would have been beating a hole in the floor. The way he'd said the word 'judge'…it left her with almost no doubt.

And the HECK with whether it hurt or not, she was not going to let this go unchallenged.

"You'd better not be talking about Judge Predd…I-I mean Judge Schatten."

Tufts regarded her as if she were an idiot.

"He's the senior Judge of Zootopia Juvenile Court, Hopps. Who else would I be talking about?"

THAT…did it. Ignoring the pain, Judy shot up out of her seat.

"Why, you bushy-tailed little…you are NOT putting Erin up in front of that speciest jerk!"

She expected another explosion…but this time the squirrel's only reaction was a toothy smirk.

"Why Hopps…thank you so much for the lovely present; just what I always wanted, an excuse to fire you with cause."

She returned his smirk with interest.

"Except you can't, Lieutenant…because as of right now, I'm a little too valuable for you to lose. If I hadn't told you about that hidden door in the auditorium, you wouldn't have found it for at least a day or two, maybe never." She leaned forward, looming over the Kaibab Squirrel and pointing in the direction of the Amphitheater. Her left side was shrieking in protest but she barely noticed. "So, here's how it is. You can get rid of me…or you can finally get Conor Lewis. But you can't have both."

Behind her, Officer Jackson was turning and reaching for the doorknob, murmuring to no one in particular. "I see nu-thing, I know nu-thing!"

At that instant, it practically blew right off its hinges.

Chapter 24: Unintended Consequences (Cont'd...Pt. 2)

Summary:

...and some help from unexpected quarters.

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 5—Unintended Consequences
(Cont'd…Part 2)

"WHERE is he?"

Officer Rex Jackson would later swear that the angry red panda in the doorway had appeared in a puff of crimson smoke and was big enough to fill the frame. "No kidding; she had eyes like super-bright headlights and a mouth like one of those martial-arts throwing stars—and FANGS. And whoooo, that voice; like death metal on triple espresso."

"Where IS he!" Zootopia City Councilmember Claudia Nizhang screamed again, sweeping her gaze over the room before zeroing in on the animal perched on the desktop in front of her. "You!" she snarled, and stormed into the office on her cane, at the same time waving a manila envelope above her head. "You STUPID idiot, you incompetent little jerk; do you know what you've DONE? Do you have any idea?"

Without waiting for a reply, she tore open the envelope and slapped the contents down in front of Lieutenant Tufts like a winning poker hand…so hard it nearly blew the hapless squirrel off the desktop.

It also caused one of the documents to fly free of the pack and drift away—almost directly into Judy Hopps's lap.

It was a 5" X 6" photograph of what looked like a massive tree-trunk. Gouged into the bark was a crudely rendered version of the V-for-Vendetta/Fox-Face logo. The surrounding flames and accompanying text had been applied with bright-red spray paint. The vandals, whoever they were, had apparently run short on time.

The message they'd written read, 'We're Not Gonna Take It!' and below that, three more words in all-caps, 'LET! THEM! GO!' Still further down, hastily inscribed, was a final word, in bold text and underlined for effect, 'ACAJ.'

Judy felt her skin beginning to crawl. She knew that acronym; there wasn't an officer on the force who didn't know it: ACAJ–All Cops Are Jerks.

And it didn't take a whole lot of brainpower to guess which 'them' the second part message referred to…or that the rest of those pics showed more or less the same thing as the one she was holding.

Lt. Tufts, meanwhile, had recovered most of his composure and had drawn himself up on his haunches.

"Councilmember Nizhang, you have no business here. Officer Jackson? Kindly escort this red panda…"

She spun on her heel, pointing her cane right between the lion's eyes.

"Back off, cat…before I put this thing so far up your nose, you'll need a team of doctors to remove it."

Raising his paws–and suppressing a grin–Jackson did as he was told. It wasn't that he was afraid of her…or of what might happen to him if he was caught putting his paws on a member of the Zootopia City Council. Noooo, he was just thoroughly enjoying this; Claudia Nizhang was saying all the things to Lieutenant Tufts that he wished HE could say. Those were Judy's thoughts anyway; it was sure as heck what she'd like to have told that bushy-tailed little tyrant.

In the meantime Claudia had turned to face him again. Judy saw her reach out with talon fingers and for a moment, it looked like she was going to pick the Lieutenant up by his tail. Okay-y-y, that was out of line, but she knew she'd never make it out of her chair in time to intervene. Officer Jackson was quicker, but pulled up short when the red panda only snatched up one of the photographs instead.

"You know where these were taken, Tufts?" she said, waving it in his face like a big, diamond ring, "Sequoia Park. That's right, the toniest neighborhood in Old Growth City. So imagine what it's like down in Happytown and the Marshlands right now. Congratulations idiot, you just turned Zootopia into a powderkeg!"

The Kaibab squirrel reeled back slightly; stunned but also bristling with indignity.

"A powderkeg…seriously? Oh puh-LEASE; take your fake news somewhere else, Councilmember."

She only leaned over him on the head of her cane.

"Don't tell me," she purred, "Tell the officers out on the barricades, in front of Precinct-1."

"Wait, what?" Judy's chair had suddenly turned wobbly. Claire Swinton hadn't said a word about any standoff on the ride over from the hospital. But then, maybe she simply hadn't known; Rex Jackson looked every bit as flabbergasted as she was.

Lt. Tufts wasn't dumbstruck, he was dubious. "Oh, reeeally?" he chittered, paws against his hips. "Then how come I haven't heard a single word about it, Ms. Nizhang?"

"Fine," the red panda sniffed, folding her arms, "If you don't want to believe me, how about your own eyes?" she pointed to a large-rodent laptop, lying open on the desktop beside him "Go on, call up the Savanna Central CCTV cams and see for yourself."

Tufts glared at her for a second, but then pulled the notebook computer in close and began typing. Someone else also had access and, unlike the squirrel, didn't hesitate. From behind her Judy heard a roar that made her want to duck and cover beneath her chair. Turning to look, she saw Rex Jackson, holding his phone in a shaky paw and staring bug-eyed at the screen.

"Ssssst, can I see?" she asked, and the lion obligingly moved the cell in front of her face.

For a second or two, her mind was unable to process the scene taking place on the screen before her. And then her good paw was flying up to her face and she was gasping under her breath, "Ohhh, sweet cheez n' cannon-crackers!"

Arrayed in a crescent around the Precinct-1 entrance was a two-deep phalanx of officers in riot gear. Directly in front of them was a black-painted prefab metal fence, about waist-high to a larger mammal. On the opposite side, a swarm of angry younger mammals had gathered, at least two hundred with more still arriving. Some of them were holding signs, many more were pumping fists and everyone appeared to be chanting something. Judy didn't have to think too hard to guess what it was. 'We're not gonna TAKE it!' Wait, no, it was only three words; so it had to be 'Let! Them! GO!'

"That's ERIN they're talking about!" she realized with another gasp. And Ho-leee Carrot-stix, how the heck had those kids managed to get organized so quickly? Judging by the state of things on the other side of the line, they must have shown up en masse and caught the ZPD by surprise. At least half the officers she saw were wearing riot gear that looked ill-fitting and unkempt—as if they'd thrown it on in a last-minute rush. Likewise the fence-line had been erected in a haphazard zig-zag; many of the sections appeared to be held together by zip-ties, and a few were even secured with duct-tape. If those kids decided to charge, it wouldn't last two seconds.

Judy had just enough time to digest this information before Jackson took the phone back and then there was Tufts, on the desk in front of her again. Oh-kay-y-y-y, now Claudia had managed to get under his skin; his tail had frizzed into a bottle brush and was shivering like a divining rod.

"Pleased with yourself, Lieutenant?" the red panda growled, pointing to the laptop, "That's all on you."

In the next few seconds, Judy Hopps had to grudge the Kaibab squirrel one thing, if nothing else; you could put this little so-and-so off his stride—but you couldn't make him stay there.

"So, what should I have done instead, Councilmember?" he demanded, fluttering his fingers in gesture of derision. "Maybe we should have just let those poor, misunderstood, little angels go and given them lollipops?"

Claudia threw up her paws like an enraged red-panda and leaned over him again, this time with her fangs showing.

"DON'T you talk to me that way, you little twerp; I was busting crooks when you were getting stuffed into your high-school locker!" She lowered the paws and also her voice. "No, what you should have done was to keep everything low-key; interview those kids one at a time, and only gradually bring up the subject of Conor Lewis. And absolutely, having them arrested should have been your last resort." She snarled and swatted the air, as if wiping away something filthy. "But no, YOU had to go charging in there like Elephant Ness and make a big show out of everything—and this is what happens!" She was pointing at the laptop again. "And quit pretending Lieutenant; we both know what your game is. You busted those kids in the hope that the Lewis kid will give himself up in exchange for their freedom…didn't you?"

Judy startled and felt her ears lay back again, instantly realizing that Claudia was right; that was exactly the squirrel's plan. You could see it in his face; set in stone but with a smirk attempting to break though. And now she understood the purpose of that veiled threat in regards to Judge Schatten. Anyone hauled up in front of that groundhog was as good as on their way to juvie—and who'd know it better than the silver-fox kid he'd once ordered put in V3 restraint?

Well, if this nut-cracking little jerk thought he was going to drag HER kid sister into his scheme…

"In that case, Lieutenant, you might as well save yourself the trouble—it won't work."

All eyes immediately turned in the doe-bunny's direction.

"And just why would you say that, Hopps?" Tufts asked her, drawing himself up to his full height. Had it not been for his rank…that gesture might have been good for a snicker, a bushytailed Benito Mouselini.

"Yes…why?" Claudia Nizhang echoed. The tone of her voice was curious rather than caustic.

Judy looked at them each in turn before answering.

"Because the Lewis boy is absolutely terrified of what will happen to him if he gets caught; he's ready to die before he'll let that happen."

"Oh, give me a…!" the Lieutenant started to say—but then stopped when Claudia waved him to silence.

"Go on…"

Judy puffed out her cheeks and continued. "Conor Lewis, don't forget, is not that boy's real name. We don't know who he really is...but after what I saw in that auditorium, I'm willing to bet that if he's ever caught, he'll end up facing something a LOT worse than anything we could ever throw at him."

Claudia Nizhang pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow.

"Hrrmmm, even I have to admit that's a bit of a stretch, Detective."

"Is it?" the doe bunny asked, leveling her gaze like a laser-sight at the red panda, "Think about it, Councilmember. He broke out of jail, even though had better than a 50/50 chance of beating the charges against him. For crying out loud, he had Vern Rodenberg as his defense counsel. And then, when I surprised him in that theater, he just plain refused to surrender and attacked me. That's right, he struck first."

"He did WHAT?" Claudia's paws were up again, but this time not in a gesture of anger. And then she was pointing at the doe-bunny's bandaged eye "You mean….HE did that to you?"

Ohhhh, Judy wanted to groan. Right, right, right…she wouldn't have known about that. Neither, for that matter, would Officer Jackson, who was looking at her as if he'd just seen an apparition.

"You better believe he did," the doe-bunny said, "and this time it wasn't any post-traumatic reaction; he knew exactly what he was doing." She turned back to Lieutenant Tufts, "And I actually heard him say it. When I told him that Mr. Rodenberg was still willing to represent him, all he said was, 'He can't help me,' and then later on, he told me straight up, 'I'll die before I go back there.'"

"What, now?" Claudia asked her, head tilting sideways, "Go back where, Judy?"

"I…don't know," she admitted, shrugging, "But wherever it was…"

"Wait, hold it…what's this about Vernon J. Rodenberg?"

Albert Tufts was standing with folded arms and a cool expression…and Judy was once again fighting the urge to reward herself with a facepawlm. Just when she'd thought her head had cleared completely …

Ah, well….now that she'd spilled the beans there was nothing to do but go with it.

"Yes, when I met with Mr. Rodenberg earlier—when he helped me get in to see The Red Pig—he asked for a favor in return for his assistance."

"For you to be put on the Lewis investigation…yes, yes I know." Tufts was waving and looking elsewhere.

"Yes, that's true Lieutenant," Judy nodded. Oh-kay, here came the tricky part, telling him just enough to make her point but not enough to give cause for disciplinary action. "But he also asked a fursonal favor of me; to pass on a message to the Lewis boy if I got the chance—that he was still willing to represent him in court."

"Which you did," Tufts was working his incisors against each other, the way a member of his species does when spying an particularly tasty morsel. "And I hope you realize something Detective; going out on your own like that is a direct violation of ZPD police procedure. And this is the second time you've done that."

Nuh-UH! This time, Judy felt no need to plant one in the center of her face. She was ready for the Lieutenant wagging a finger and shaking her head.

"Actually, sir…no, it isn't," she said, and then threw up her paw as if tossing a carrot-green into the wind, "Ohhh, it might have been if I'd set up that meeting with the Lewis boy in advance—with the express purpose of giving him Mr. Rodenberg's message. But that's not what happened; I practically stumbled right into…"

"Now, wait a minute," Tufts tried to interrupt, but it was no good; this bunny was on a roll.

"And the first thing I did when I saw that fox-kid was try to apprehend him. It wasn't until later that I passed on Mr. Rodenberg's message…and even then it was to try to persuade him to give it up." She leaned forward, regarding the squirrel with her one good eye. "If you think Chief Bogo…or anyone on the Police Board is going to call that improper police procedure, I have an iceberg in Sahara Square to sell you."

"Then why am I only hearing about your promise to that sleazeball lawyer now?" the squirrel demanded, sounding not unlike an adolescent who wants to know WHY he can't go to that party.

But whoops…petulant or not, he had just put Judy on the spot; there was no easy answer to that question.

Or…was there? From out of nowhere, Claudia Nizhang spoke up again.

"Oh, come on Lieutenant…don't tell me you've never strung someone along in order to get them to cooperate."

Judy couldn't help grinning, she knew he had; there isn't a cop on the planet who hasn't played that game.

And in that context, her agreement with the rat-attorney was something she wouldn't have needed to report to her superiors. After all, who'd a-thunk she'd ever get the opportunity to make good on that pact?

Lieutenant Tufts regarded her for a moment with a look of boiling acid. What she hadn't said—but what both of them knew—was that Mr. Rodenberg's offer might yet prompt Conor to give himself up and take his chances in court. It was an extremely unlikely scenario, given the events of the past 24 hours—and the young fox's fear of whatever awaited him if he surrendered—but it was by no means impossible. As Judy had pointed out earlier, he was going to need medical attention every bit as much as she…and the only sure way for him to get it would be by surrendering to the ZPD. If, somehow, it came down to that or dying—perhaps then the fugitive young silver fox would be willing to put his fate into the paws of John Law. It's all too easy to say you prefer death to this or that fate. But when you're faced with the actual choice…

"That's it, I've heard enough." Tufts slapped his paw against his legs, and then jabbed a finger at Judy and Claude Nizhang. "Jackson…get these two out of my sight, and right now."

"Why Lieutenant," the doe bunny smiled sweetly, "Don't you want to hear my full report?" D'aggggh, what the heck had made her say that? There was no point in antagonizing him any further. "It must be the aftereffect of those tranq-darts again."

"As a matter of fact, I do," He told her, returning her smile with an added dose of venom, "You're to wait outside in the hall until I call for you; you too, Councilmember Nizhang."

The red panda smirked and narrowed her eyes, as if the squirrel just challenged her to an arm-wrestling match. "YOU don't give me orders, bub," She sneered, turning to go nonetheless.

"Come on Detective Hopps, you too." Officer Jackson said, looking extremely unhappy. She patted his paw as he helped her down from her chair; none of this was his fault.

Outside in the foyer, she was greeted with another unpleasant surprise. Claire Swinton was nowhere to be seen. When Judy called out the pig-cop's name, Kii Catano told her that she was somewhere over in the Lionheart auditorium, "The Crime Scene Unit wanted her for something." In other words, her driver had become unavailable.

"And I'M the one who called in that CSU Team! Way to go, Jude-the dude." If it wouldn't have hurt like heck, she would have thumped her foot in frustration.

Someone tapped her on the arm; it was Claudia Nizhang, beckoning her close with a crooked finger and speaking under her breath. "Y-You're not thinking of leaving are you? You heard what the Lieutenant said." She sounded partly wary, but mostly conspiratorial; a kit making plans to ditch school for the rest of the day.

Judy thought for a second and decided to trust this red panda. Narrowing her eyes, she dropped her own voice down to a whisper.

"The heck with him, I'm going to go see my sister," she said. And then, in for penny, in for pound, "Do you have a car?"

Claudia started to shake her head, but then another voice spoke from behind them, "I do."

Both of them turned…and saw Gazelle standing a couple of feet away. Those big, funnel ears of hers might not have been quite as sensitive as a bunny's…but they still got the job done.

The popstar bent down and also lowered her voice.

"I have my limousine waiting outside,"

"Okay let's go," Judy whispered right back, but Claudia quickly waved a paw.

"Hold it, hold it; if you're going to do this, do it right. Put your arm around me and pretend like you're in pain."

"Ummm, I don't need to pretend…"

"Never mind, just do it…"

Judy followed the red panda's lead, putting an arm around her waist and letting the other animal take hold of her, just beneath the shoulder. And then, with Gazelle walking ahead of them, they began to make their way towards the door, the doe bunny dragging her foot for added effect.

Inevitably, a voice called out, "Hey you, the Lieutenant told you to stay here until he calls for you."

Claudia turned and looked back at Officer Quino.

"What's the matter with you?" she demanded, indignantly raising her muzzle, "Can't you see this bunny needs to get back to the hospital?"

"Mom?" Judy groaned blearily, "Mom, is that you?"

Claudia hissed out the side of her mouth, "Don't overdo it, rabbit!" And to the alpaca she said, "Or maybe you'd rather explain to the Police Union how you kept an officer, injured in the line of duty, from getting…"

"All right, all right...go, go, GO!" Quino waved his arms and hastily turned away.

Gazelle's limo turned out to have just what Judy needed, plush seating, with plenty of room to stretch out. It was no surprise; the popstar was a large-animal species after all.

She was also in a king-sized funk.

"I-I cannot believe it." She said, pointing and shaking her head sadly. "Conor…he really did that to you, mi coneja?"

"I can hardly believe it myself, Gazelle," the doe-bunny admitted, "Especially after he saved my life."

"He did WHAT?" The words flew out of her companions' mouths almost simultaneously. Judy briefly related the story of how the young silver-fox had caught her in a flying tackle—just before a pair of electrical cables had hit the water in which she'd been standing.

"Madre de Dios," Gazelle crossed herself and then nodded, "THAT sounds more like the Conor Lewis I know."

"If you don't mind my asking," Claudia Nizhang queried from the seat next to Judy, "How the heck did that fox kid manage to lay that kind of pain on you? You've handled much tougher animals than him according to some of the stories I've heard."

Had it been anyone else asking, that would have been an offensive question. Yet coming from this red panda, somehow it wasn't. In fact, it was kind of flattering…knowing that a member of the Zootopia City Council had been keeping tabs on her career.

"Well, first of all I need to point out—again—that I gave at least as good as I got." She said this and then sighed. "Annnnnd…okay, I admit it, Conor got the jump on me. I was trying to talk him out of resisting; reminding him that I was a cop and he was just a kid…and before I could get even halfway finished he was on me." She sighed again and shook her head. "I swear…I knew he might try to fight, but I never thought he'd attack first."

Claudia looked at her for a second and tapped her fingers together, "That's WHY he attacked first, Judy; he knew you weren't expecting it. Ever heard of a sea-mink named Kieran McCrodon?"

The name was only vaguely familiar to Judy but, surprisingly, not to Gazelle.

"Of the McCrodon family, the one that used to own Finagles nightclub?" she asked.

"That's them," the red panda pursed her lips and bobbed her head. "He was The Mister's nephew, once removed. Mmmmm, you used to be almost a regular at that club if I recall correctly."

"Si, I used to love Finagles," the popstar admitted, "It was right near The Heights, so it was very popular with the local Latino animals—that is, when they could afford it." And then she shuddered slightly. "I'm just glad I wasn't anywhere near that club, the day it burned down in that police raid."

"As well you should be," Claudia informed her dryly, patting her bum knee. "I was!" And then turning once more to Judy she said, "But getting back to Kieran McCrodon. He was the head of the Company's hacker crew…but he was also an awesome fighter. He won several MMA amateur championships before his uncle made him give it up, and he was even more dangerous on the street. Anyway, one of his favorite tactics was to attack the minute his opponent started spouting trash talk. He took out more guys that way; I saw him do it. He even had a little rhyme he made up about it. She took on a bad Irish accent 'When they open their yap, it's time to scrap!'" And then resuming her own voice she shook her head, "And believe me, he's not the only animal who knows that tactic."

Judy sucked on her lip for a second.

"Ahhh, yeah…that's probably true. Every time afterwards when I tried to say something to that fox kid, he went right after me again." She stopped, frowning as she remembered. "Exceppppt for the one time I started talking to try and make him come after me. Didn't work, he just stood there."

Claudia smiled and her eyes crinkled.

"Let me guess; you pulled back into a defensive stance first, right?"

"Yes that's right, I did." Judy blinked in surprise at the red panda, "How did you know…? D'ohhh….riiiight!" Once again she had to resist the urge to treat herself to a face pawlm. Of course; that was how Conor had seen through her gambit…dumb bunny!

She decided that a quick change of subject was in order.

"How bad was the riot anyway? Swinton told me what happened backstage, but what about the rest of it?

The rest of it wasn't nearly as bad as it might have been. No deaths, thank goodness and most of the injuries had been minor.

Most, that is…but not all of them. Assuming that Judy's theory about Conor's escape-ploy was correct, he'd have had little difficulty hitching a ride in an ambulance—no questions asked.

The next thing she wanted to know was, "What about the amphitheater?" Lieutenant Tufts had made it sound like the place was a write-off.

As with so many other things, he'd exaggerated.

"Ai…if it hadn't been a GREEK amphitheater, it could have been so much worse," Gazelle's smile was both stoic and forlorn, "After all, it's a little bit hard to tear up seats made out of stone."

For some reason, the rioters had elected not to touch the lawn, and except for some spray painted graffiti and two broken mirrors, the bathrooms up front had also emerged largely unscathed. Where they'd done the most damage was the stage itself; torn up curtains and ripped up flooring. But even that hadn't been the debacle that it might have been; ZPD SWAT had shown up just in time to prevent the rioters from tearing down the lighting scaffold.

But unfortunately, the relatively light damage to the Gazelle Amphitheater was only partly due to the SWAT team's timely arrival. The main reason was that the rioters had chosen to direct most of their wrath against the officers trying to protect the theater rather than the theater itself—and the ZPD hadn't gotten off quite as easily as the rioters and/or bystanders. At least three other officers besides Judy had needed to be taken to the ER—including Officer Wolford, who'd ended up with a broken fetlock and had nearly lost his tail in the melee.

"Ohhhh," Judy groaned and looked away. Of all the cops…Wolford had been the last animal she'd seen before her fateful encounter with Conor Lewis. And when she'd fought with the fugitive young silver fox, she'd been wielding the tonfa-nightstick HE had given her. For some reason, that made it really sting.

"How many arrests?" she asked, unable to think of anything else.

In response Claudia rolled her eyes.

"At least three dozen…I know, right? That èrbī squirrel went overboard there too, any kid who so much as looked at a riot-cop crossways got taken into custody…his orders."

"Hnnnngh," Judy let out a ragged breath. "I'm beginning to understand the reason for all the graffiti and all those protesters out in front of Precinct-1."

"And today is only the beginning, Judy," the red panda reminded her with a growl, "Just you watch; by tomorrow afternoon the Savanna Central greenspace will be the ANARCHY Central greenspace, maybe thousands of kids instead of a hundred or so." She rapped her knuckles on the armrest of her seat. "I mean it Detective; this is going to be much worse than last summer….worse even than after the Lewis kid escaped from jail. And that's even if we don't get any more incidents. "

"All thanks to El Tiente Tufts." Gazelle moaned, slapping a hoof against her own armrest. "I only wish I could see his face when he's fired from this investigation!"

Claudia looked at her for a second and then at Judy. Seeming not to find what she was looking for in either of their faces, she shook her head and sighed.

"Ahhh don't bet on it sister. Like it or not, that squirrel's got two big points in his favor." Leaning forward, elbows on her knees, she looked once again from the popstar to the bunny-cop. "Tell me something Gazelle…Judy, did either one of you think Conor Lewis was actually going to show up at today's auditions?"

"Uh, no," the antelope confessed, sucking air through her teeth and shifting her gaze through the window at the passing scenery.

"Me neither," said Judy. For her the admission was easier. Up until the moment she'd fallen into that hidden tunnel, the fugitive young silver fox had been the furthest thing from her mind.

"Neither did I," Claudia sat back, letting out air through a pair of puffed cheeks. "And neither did practically anyone else—except for Lieutenant Tufts. And guess what…he was right; he was right when everyone else was wrong. That's why he's going to keep his job. That…and because of the SWAT team he brought in. Like I already said, if it hadn't been for them, that riot could have ended up a lot worse than it did."

Judy grimaced, showing all of her teeth, and again, it wasn't from the pain of her injuries.

"Yes, and did you know that almost didn't happen? No kidding, Chief Bogo nearly laughed that squirrel out his office the first time he made the request; turned him down flat. So, he was right even when the Chief was wrong; if he gets pulled from this investigation now, it's going to look like sour grapes."

"Ai!" Gazelle smacked her hoof against the armrest again, still directing her gaze out the window.

Claudia Nizhang, for her part, was more curious than frustrated.

"If that's the case, then how did he end up finally getting that SWAT team?" It was a well-known fact around the ZPD, and elsewhere, that when Chief Bogo said 'No', he meant 'NO!'

Judy shrugged as best she could and flipped a paw. "The usual; he went over The Chief's head to the Attorney General's Office and…bingo, here's your SWAT team; is there anything else we can do for you?"

"Hnnngh," The red panda grunted and folded her arms. "Why does that not surprise me?"

"Well, I have to admit, it surprised ME," Judy told her, half confused and half exasperated. "For the life of me, I've never been able to understand WHY Lieutenant Tufts always seems to have the AG's office in his corner."

"Ahhh," Claudia raised a finger, her face assuming the placid expression of a Zen master. "Allow me to enlighten you, Detective Hopps. You see…the Attorney General happens to be an elected official. And being a politician myself, I know a thing or two about how that works. Suffice it to say, the Bankers Lobby has been all over Attorney General Sayanov about The Phantom ever since they first became aware of him. And, being as they're one of his most generous campaign contributors, you had better believe that when they speak, HE listens."

"And since the Lewis boy is the only lead we have on The Phantom, they've naturally taken an interest in recapturing him." Judy nodded bitterly, "Right, I get it."

"The Phantom; who…?" Gazelle started to ask, and then answered her own question, "Oh, wait…that big-time loan shark, isn't he?"

"Not that big, but yes you're right," Judy said and then, probably needlessly, she added, "The Lewis boy was his cash runner."

"Mmmm yeah," Claudia Nizhang was scratching at an eyebrow. "You know there's something about that whole business that's never felt quite right to me."

"What's that?" her two companions asked, almost simultaneously.

"Well, look." The red panda's paw had moved to the back of her neck. "The reason the bankers SAY the Phantom's such a big deal is because he's gotten way up into their databases—far enough inside that if he wanted to, he could cause some serious damage, am I right?"

Both Judy and Gazelle nodded…though somewhat warily in the popstar's case; all of this was new to her.

Claudia nodded back and threw up her paws, bumping her knuckles on the limo's roof in the process.

"Exactly, so why the heck hasn't he? If he's as clever as everyone says is, he HAS to know that the Bankers Association is the real force behind the drive to take him down—and if he's that deep into their computer mainframes, he has the power to make them go away any time he wants. Hit them with a ransomware attack, and tell them to lay off if they ever want to see their files again. That's what Kieran McCrodon would have done, and in a Zoo York minute. So why hasn't The Phantom done it?"

It was a rhetorical question, and so Judy didn't respond, instead waiting for the red panda to answer it herself.

"I don't know, but I think that's not the real reason the Bankers Association wants that loanshark's pelt so bad. There's something else going on, something they're keeping to themselves." Her shoulders jumped in frustration. "But what that something else could be, I have no idea."

"Madre de Dios, look there." Now Gazelle was pointing out the window. Judy looked, and what she saw wasn't quite as big a shock to her as it was to the popstar.

But it was still a shock; the protesters massed in front of Precinct-1 and the lines of riot-police facing them. No screenshot could compare with seeing it live and in furson.

"Does that crowd look bigger to you than before?" She was speaking to Claudia Nizhang.

The red panda worked her mouth for a second. "Maybe a little…but did you notice something else, Judy? Look at the barricade."

She already had…and had noted that the steel fence had been replaced by a row of concrete barriers, of the type used in highway construction zones.

"Yes I know," she said, "looks like Chief Bogo thinks we're in it for the long haul."

"We probably are," Claudia pulled at the back of her head, "Unless at least some of those kids who got busted today are let go on Monday

"E-Excuse me Ms. Gazelle," a tentative voice interrupted from the front of the limousine. It was the driver, a blackbuck, speaking through the sliding window that separated him from his passengers. "I-I do not think we can go any further this way."

Judy craned her neck. She was unable to see, but she could guess. The way ahead was likely choked with angry young mammals.

"We should use the back entrance anyway." she said. "There's an alternate route. Do you know how to get from here to…?

The driver did…and in practically no time at all, the limo was pulling up to the rear entrance of Precinct-1's parking lot. Back here there were no protesters, not a single one in sight. Even so, Chief Bogo wasn't taking any chances. Two officers in tac-gear, McHorn and Snarlov, were standing sentry duty by the gateway, and a series of concrete barriers had been set up so that any vehicle entering the lot would be obliged to move in a slow zig-zag pattern.

They really were in it for the long haul.

At the limo's approach, Officer McHorn stepped forward, making a stopping gesture with one hoof and a rolling motion with the other.

When the window came down and he saw who it was, he snorted in surprise and then tipped up his visor.

"Office….err, Detective Hopps. Aren't you s'posed to be in the hospital?"

"I'm here to see my sister," she informed him, flatly…in a voice that brooked no argument.

Nor was she going to get one; since her breakup with Nick, the rhino's attitude towards her had mellowed dramatically.

"Understood," he said, waving the limo through. "You can go in, Detective…but only you."

Another face appeared beside the doe-bunny.

"She'll need some help, officer; I'm going with her."

"Ah, didn't see you there, Councilmember Nizhang." McHorn looked slightly abashed. "Yeah, you can go too. But I'm afraid you'll have to wait outside Gazelle."

"Si, I understand."

But then, after her limo driver had threaded his way through the barriers and pulled up next to the curb, she asked Judy and Claudia to hold up a second.

"There's…something I need to tell you." Her mouth pulled inward and she took a short breath. "You are not going to like this, either of you, but I'd rather you heard it from me. Judy, when your sister Erin was the last one picked to perform, that wasn't the luck of the draw; it was done on purpose."

"What!" The doe-bunny's ears were standing up and her foot was trying to thump against the floorboards.

"What do you mean, 'on purpose' Gazelle?" the red-panda next to her demanded, speaking in a near-snarl.

"It was El Tiente Tufts," the popstar replied, head hanging and shoulders slumping, "He had a search warrant that would have allowed him to close the school while he conducted it. But he said that he wouldn't serve it, if we agreed to his 'conditions'."

"One of which, let me guess, was moving Erin Hopps to the final slot, am I right?" Claudia was beginning to look the way she had when she'd burst in on the Kaibab squirrel.

"Si that's right." Gazelle answered, blinking wetness from her eyes, "We would have had to postpone the auditions for a day at least…maybe until next week. And all of the kids from out of town who'd come to audition; they could not wait for that long."

"But…WHY?" Judy cried out, causing another glassy pain to stab into her chest, "Why would he do that?"

The antelope-singer's face became a study in melancholy.

"Because he thought—he KNEW—that Conor Lewis was coming to see your sister perform, mi coneja…"

"And the longer she stayed, the longer he'd stay." Claudia finished the sentence for her, showing her fangs.

"That dirty, stinking, little…" Judy was just glad she wasn't back in that office right now…or else she'd be the one picking up Tufts by his tail—and then slam-dunking him into the nearest trash-can and then they could go ahead and fire her!

"I am so very sorry," Gazelle sniffed. She sounded exactly the way she had at the peace-rally she'd held during the Savage Predator crisis. "Can you ever forgive me?"

Judy looked her straight in the eye. "Just tell me one thing; when my sister won that scholarship, she won it fair and square. It wasn't done, in any way, to make it up to her for having to go last; tell me I'm right."

The popstar held up a hoof and crossed herself.

"I swear mi coneja...yes, you're right and no, it wasn't. The only animals on the judges' panel who knew about it were Dr. Vignius and myself; not anybody else."

"It's true, Judy," Claudia nodded, "I was on that panel too. And you already know that I had no idea the drawing was fixed. Your sister earned that award all on her own." But then she turned and cast a flinty gaze at Gazelle. "That being said, it's just a good thing you decided on your own to come clean about this. If I'd had to find out for myself, I'd resign from the Academy Board of Regents right now. And rest assured, I WILL be taking this up with Dr. Vignius."

"I would have expected nothing less," the popstar told her quietly.

Judy reached out and laid a paw on top of her hoof, "All right then I understand….but you know, it's not me who deserves an apology."

"Si, I know," Gazelle was contrite and yet firm in her resolve. "The first chance I get, I will speak to your sister, I promise."

"Okay," the doe-bunny answered and then reached for the door handle, at the same time speaking to Claudia.

"Come on, we need to get going."

"Yes, right," the red panda agreed, sliding out of her seat, and reaching to offer the doe-bunny a helping paw. "Only…she's your sister Judy, but if I were you, I wouldn't tell her about this just yet."

"Don't worry; I'm not going to," the doe-bunny answered firmly, "Later, for sure, but not yet." She said this while looking at Gazelle

They almost made it. On any regular day, they would have made it—but not tonight. Judy and Claudia were halfway across the Precinct-1 lobby when an all-too-familiar basso-profundo voice hailed her from behind.

"Hopps! What the Devil? What d'you think you're doing here, then?"

"G'ohhhhh." The doe bunny groaned silently and then screwed her eyes shut. Chief Bogo should have gone home by now; if it wasn't for that mob of protesters, he would have gone home. But not now, not with another potential riot brewing—right outside of Precinct-1's front-door! In his way, the great Cape buffalo was every bit the Ranger Scout she was. And now, here he came, striding purposefully in the direction of her and Claudia, with not an ounce of nonsense to spare.

"You're supposed to be in hospital Detective," he said, pointing straight at the door where she and her companion had entered. He said nothing further, but his meaning was clear.

Judy felt herself shrinking inside. She could pull rank on Swinton and tough it out with Tufts—but there was no such option here. All she could do was throw herself on The Chief's mercy and hope that he'd show some sympathy.

She looked up, paws clasped, and ears falling backwards.

"Sir…please; let me see my sister first. She needs me; just a few minutes, that's all I ask.

Bogo snorted and folded his arms, drumming his fingers in the crook of his elbow while gazing up and to the right.

Then his ear flickered and he looked at her.

"All right then, five…fifteen minutes and then straight back to hospital, no ifs, ands, or buts."

That was good…but not good enough.

"Sir, I need to see my family first, and then I can…"

"I'll take care of that, Judy," Claudia Nizhang interrupted, "You just go talk to your sister and then get on back to the hospital. I'll fill your folks in on everything they need to know."

"Thanks Claudia," the doe bunny answered, smiling weakly…and then, it was just too much to resist. "But er, Chief…Lieutenant Tufts is expecting me to make my full report and…"

"I'LL deal with him!" the big Cape Buffalo rumbled; clearly every bit as unhappy with the squirrel as she was—just as she'd known he'd be.

Claudia could only accompany her as far as the City Youth Jail's reception desk, but that was just fine with both of them. Chief Bogo had elected to tag along, and the red panda wanted to have a word with him in private.

As for Judy, she intended for the conversation between her and her younger sister to remain strictly confidential. Towards that end she had already given the order for the recorders to be turned off.

A moment later she was seated at a table in one of the small-mammal interview rooms, and—thank God—it wasn't either of the ones where she and Nick participated in the questioning of Conor Lewis. THAT was a memory she didn't need right now.

The door opened and Erin entered.

She had traded in her stage clothes for a pair of jeans and a simple chambray shirt. Good; mom had been able to get in to see her–which meant she'd also gotten the note that Judy had sent her.

Equally obvious was that over the past few hours, the young, white-furred bunny hadn't been through nearly as much of a wringer as her mother; her fur was still relatively in place, and her cheeks were still dry…but she wasn't in a good place, either, and was that any kind of surprise? One minute she'd been the toast of the ZAPA auditions, and in the next, she'd been listening to an officer inform her that she had the right to remain silent.

Erin's face at the moment was a kaleidoscope of emotion; defiant one second, contrite the next, followed by fearful, dignified, embarrassed, proud…and ultimately horrified.

"Oh, my God Judy, what happened to you?" Her eyes were half again their normal size and her paws were pressing into her cheeks. Hmmm, Mom must have told her only that her sister had been hurt, and avoided giving any details.

"In a minute, sis," the older bunny said. She'd tell Erin how she'd acquired her injuries soon enough…but not until the moment presented itself. In the meantime, she got up and held out her arms to the younger bunny, "Take it easy though, 'kay? I'm still pretty sore right now."

"'Kay," Erin nodded, and if the hug that followed wasn't the tightest one ever, it more than made up for it in warmth…

…If not in length; they had a lot to talk about, and not much time. Seating herself at the table again and inviting Erin to do the same, Judy got right down to business. She had heard from Swinton about her sister's confession to Lieutenant Tufts and Gazelle, but…

"…but how, sis? How did Conor manage to get you out on that stage?" The question had been gnawing at her ever since she'd heard about what happened.

Erin looked away for a second and came back with a 'show-me' stare.

"He told me that if I didn't get out there, he would…and that when he did he'd tell everyone who he was."

"Whoa, wait, hold it, stop right there!" Judy said this and made the 'time out' sign with her paws. "All right sis, did anyone indicate to Conor that if he did that, he'd get caught by the ZPD?"

"Um, yeah," the answer came out slowly accompanied by a nose twitching in perplexity. "I forget who said it, but they told him with that many cops around, there was no way he'd make it out of that theater without getting busted. And then he said, 'then that's what's going to happen' and…. Uhm, why are you asking?"

Judy let out a rough breath and then leaned across the table as best she could.

"All right Erin, now listen very carefully. Until I tell you otherwise, this is the last time you're going to say that…and I mean to anybody, the correctional officers, the other kids in here…and especially anyone from the ZPD. Until I give you the all clear, you don't talk about how Conor got you to perform to anyone…not even mom, not even ME. Are we clear on that?"

"Um, all right Jude…but why?" Her sister looked more confused than ever.

"Because," Judy tapped the table, looking very serious, "Technically what happened on that stage was, Conor nearly got caught—and he might have BEEN caught if you hadn't stopped it from happening…I know, I know," she said, hastily lifting her good paw. "And I don't blame you, not one little bit…but a judge may not see it that way."

"Judge?' The word came out in a wobbly squeak." J-Judge…you mean I might have to go on trial or something?" Erin's eyes had gotten big again and her paws were working, as if she was making a snowball. She plainly hadn't thought her situation through—but then what girl her age ever does?

"I hope it won't come to that sis," Judy informed her frankly, "But we have to be ready for any possibility. In the meantime, I've already spoken about you to a member of the Zootopia City Council and also to Gazelle; they've promised to do everything they can to help.

They actually hadn't but the doe-bunny had no doubt that they would—and in any case, Erin needed all the reassurance she could get right now.

"Thanks, Jude," Her young sister answered, laying a paw atop of hers, "I know you're doing all you can."

Judy took the paw and clasped it. Okay-y-y…now comes the hard part.

"Sis…this isn't going to be easy for you to hear, but there's something else I need to tell you. She allowed her face to harden and then pointed at her bandaged eye "Look at me, Erin. Do you see this here?" She lifted her shirt to show her other injuries. "Do you see this here?"

"Y-Yes I see," the younger bunny swallowed, stared, and then asked it again. "What happened to you?"

Judy answered her in a taut, icy voice, "Conor Lewis happened to me, Erin; he did this."

Her sister jumped back from the table as if 110 volts had just gone through it.

"Wha…? Noooo, no way!"

"Yes way, Erin," the older bunny informed her pointblank, "I caught him trying to escape and instead of giving up he went for me." She leaned even further forward, enunciating every word. "He…went…after…ME. He attacked first; do you understand?"

The younger bunny understood all right, but that didn't mean she believed it. She stood up, shaking her head wildly, as if a hornet had just landed on it.

"No….Conor wouldn't; he couldn't. He'd never do a thing like that…NEVER!"

Judy looked at her, mulling her next move. This was exactly how she'd known her sister would react. What she didn't know was what in the world she was supposed to say next. But…at least she knew what not to say.

So maybe the best course of action would be to take the opposite approach.

"I know sis, and I don't blame you one bit for feeling that way. I wouldn't have believed it myself if it hadn't happened to me. And I'll tell you something else; even now I don't think Conor's a bad kid."

Erin said nothing to this; she fell back into her chair and then her head fell forward onto the table…and then she began to sob. Okay, Judy sighed inwardly, she had gotten through to the younger bunny—but it sure as heck didn't feel like a good thing.

She pushed up out of her chair and, using the table as a support, edged her way around to the other side and laid a paw on her sister's shoulder. Erin tried to bat it away, but it was a feeble gesture at best, and she didn't try again.

"Oh, sis, I'm so sorry I wasn't able to come and help when you called for me."

"S'alright Jude," Erin sniffed, face still glued to the tabletop, "Mom told me you got hurt."

That was when Judy realized something. If Swinton had thought she'd been injured in a fight with one of the rioters, her mother probably thought so too. Well, she could straighten things out with mom later. Right now…

"Erin…look at me again for a second?"

The young white-furred bunny sniffled and looked up; her deep-blue eyes shot through with red.

"I just want you to know…if I could have, I'd have come running when you called me. What my Lieutenant did backstage was way out of line—and I don't just mean when he had you arrested. When he busted those three other kids, he was also wrong. And believe me; I'm not the only one who thinks so."

"Really?" Erin asked. Her smile was weak, but hopeful.

"Cross my heart," the older bunny replied, making the appropriate gesture, "You should have seen Councilmember Nizhang when she spoke to him. For a second there, I thought she was going to grab him by the tail."

"Wha…Whoa!" Okay, there we go; her sister was sitting up straight again and so were her ears. As someone with a squirrel for a best girlfriend—and a cop for an older sister—she knew all too well that picking up a member of that species by the tail was grounds for an assault charge.

"Yep," Judy grinned, "That's the kind of support you have, Erin. So just hang in there for one more day okay?" And now it was time to bring up the other unpleasant fact. "We'll do everything we can to get you out of here, but it'll have to wait until Monday when the courts open up."

"Wha…?" Erin's nose was twitching and her foot even thumped once or twice, "What do you mean, 'not until Monday.' Conor got out on a Sunday!"

"Yes he did," the older bunny reminded her dryly, "with a fake writ of release."

"Oh…uhhh, right," Erin's eyes turned upwards and the insides of her ears flushed sunset red.

Judy smiled but inwardly, she was uneasy. Even after learning of her fight with the fugitive young silver fox—and the damage he'd done—her younger sister could still speak about him in… Well, if you couldn't call her tone admiring, it wasn't exactly disparaging either.

Someone was going to have to sit this bunny-girl down and have a long talk with her about…

Any further thoughts along this line were cut off by a knock at the door. When it opened, she saw Officer Howell standing there, pointing uncomfortably at his watch. "Sorry Detective," the red wolf told her, almost apologetically, "It's time."

"Okay," Judy nodded and spread her arms for a farewell hug. This time, it was way too tight, but she barely even noticed. "Don't worry, little sister, it's going to be alright…I promise you, everything's going to be alright."

Returning to the City Youth Jail reception desk, she found Claudia Nizhang waiting for her. No sign of the Chief, though.

"So, how'd it go?" the red panda asked, getting up from her chair and folding away the document she'd been perusing.

"About like I expected," Judy answered with a drawn-out sigh. She actually wanted to say that it had gone, 'way too fast,' but instead opted for, "Erin just about cried her eyes out when I told her about my fight with Conor…but not because of what he did to me."

"Ahhh," Claudia answered, offering a sigh of her own…this one of the knowing variety. "I SO am not looking forward to when my Lisa turns thirteen."

Judy's ears went up. "I didn't know you had a daughter."

"Yep…apple of my eye," The red panda replied, offering an elbow. "Shall we go?"

On the way back, she informed Judy that she'd had 'a nice talk' with Chief Bogo during her absence. "He promised to do everything he can to help your sister, too."

"Ohhh, thanks," the doe bunny said, speaking as much to the absent Cape buffalo as to Claudia. Chief Bogo's word wasn't just ironclad; it was plated in face-hardened steel.

That wasn't the only thing the Claudia had talked to him about, though. Most of their conversation had swirled around the antics of a certain Kaibab squirrel. She and the Chief had both been of the opinion that this time he'd gone too far. "Of course what happens next depends on how Attorney General Sayarov feels about it; and he's out of town until Monday. I'll say this though. The Bankers Association can't be any too thrilled with Lieutenant Tufts right about now; they want The Phantom, not another outbreak of vandal…Judy, are you all right?"

She had doubled over and was clutching her midsection.

"I…I think so," Her voice was half a gasp, half a groan. "But I…I think I'd better get back to that hospital right now."

"Okay," Claudia ducked down slightly to give her access, "Put your arm around my waist again; there, that's it. Okay now… slow and easy."

"'Kay," Judy wheezed, letting the red panda take the lead again—and this time it wasn't an act. "What was that I said about 'giving as good as I got?' Yep, right…surrrrrre I did."

She might have reclaimed those words had she been able to see her opponent right then. Conor Lewis wasn't in quite as much pain as her, but that came mostly from the fact that he was currently zonked out on Purrcocet. At the moment, he was floating in a waking dreamworld, not even certain of which planet he was on, much less of his exact location. If Tuffguy Tufts were to come strolling in right now, he could have taken down the fugitive young silver-fox with one paw tied behind his back.

That fact didn't greatly upset Conor, very little did, in fact…although he had a lot of things to be perturbed about right now.

He had escaped from that theater only through pure dumb luck; if even one of those tranq-darts had hit him, he'd be cuffed to a bed right now, with an officer standing guard outside the door. It didn't bother him; if that SWAT Team hadn't shown up he might have escaped anyway; heck, he probably would have gotten away. At the moment they'd broken in on him and Judy, there'd been something he'd known that she hadn't.

Earlier, when she'd caught up with him in The Lionheart Auditorium, he'd been the one to draw first blood. But that didn't bother him either; it was how he'd been trained to fight:

"Ye can ferget right now about, 'Never throw the first punch, but always throw the last one.' That un's rubbish, boyo! In a street fight, lotta times the first punch IS the last one. And bein' able to say 'At least Oi didn't start it' is no kind o' comfort when yer laid out in the casualty ward, put there by the animal that did start it. So you listen to me now, son…any time yer gettin' ready to scrap an' yer opponent gives ye an opening, don't think—TAKE it!"

Conor had heeded that advice…and in the process he'd ended up hurting the bunny whose life he'd once saved. Cripes if that didn't seem like a million years ago.

But that didn't bother him either. If anyone were to ask him, he'd have insisted that Judy had fought by the Golden Rule—and then some. She had actually given more than she'd received. If hurting her was a sin, then he had already done his penance.

Most of the damage he'd done to her had taken place during that Post Traumatic episode; the worst one since the first time it had happened to him. That should have bothered him but it didn't. Never once, since the day he'd had his face broken, had anyone grabbed him from behind in the heat of battle—much less in the midst of a desperate fight.

Of course Erin wouldn't feel that way when she found out; she'd hate him through and through for what he'd done to her sister, never mind how he'd helped with her audition. That didn't bother him either…no really, it didn't; he was probably never going to see her again anyway.

But now she was in jail, along with three of his closest friends—and okay, THAT bothered him, it bothered him a lot. Erin and his buds had been locked up for helping HIM…and even in his semi-fugue state Conor was aware of Tuffguy Tufts's game. 'Give yourself up and I'll let them go'.

As!

IF!

He'd had to ditch his weapons before leaving the theater…but not before wiping them down, and making sure the dart-gun's magazine was empty—and then disposing of the contents in a restroom toilet. It was no great loss, he had plenty of spares where they'd come from.

So, why did that bother him? He had no idea—or perhaps he did, but he just didn't want to own up to it.

On the other paw, there was something that should have bothered him, but didn't; when Judy had called his bluff with that dart-gun. He'd been unable to pull the trigger on her, and she'd known that he couldn't—and then she'd disarmed him. THAT was something he was actually glad for. Only…dumb fox; he should have loaded that thing with tranq-darts instead of…never mind; what was done was done.

He couldn't help being bothered about his injuries—or to put it properly, being bothered BY them. The painkillers helped, and he had plenty more where the ones he'd popped had come from, but he couldn't rely on those things for too much longer, not unless he wanted to end up on the hook again.

But even that wasn't his biggest worry; the top spot belonged to something else entirely.

His cover was blown. Up until now, he had managed to stay off Aker's radar screen and by extension, Jack La Peigne. Not now, not anymore; if that hulk-bunny and his goon-squad weren't on to him already, they would be very shortly. Conor didn't know how he knew this, or even why—but he knew it in the very depths of his soul.

They were coming for him.

And it couldn't be happening at a worse possible time…when he was injured and especially vulnerable.

"I should never have gone to those audi…" he began to tell himself. But before his brain could complete the thought, the Purrcocet took hold of him the rest of the way. In the blink of an eye, he was sleeping the sleep of the damned.

Chapter 25: Unintended Consequences (Cont'd...Pt. 3)

Summary:

Morning has broken...and so have several other things

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 5—Unintended Consequences
(Cont'd…Part 3)

One Police Plaza, Zoo York City – Sunday Morning.

"But I'm telling you I AM a police detective. Look, see? Here's my badge…hey, give that back!"

"Stop resisting or I will Taze you."

In the background, Nick could hear a hubbub of amused voices…mostly indiscernible, but every now and then a word or two would break through to the surface. "Detective…" "Yeah, right…!" "…believe this guy?" "…a fox!"

That last word was repeated several times over, and by several different cops…but always in the same tone of voice.

Holy foxtrot, Claudia had warned him to expect an unfriendly reception from the ZYPD, but he'd never imagined anything like this!

After checking into a Hare BNB, off Atlambtic Avenue, near the Bearclaw Center, Nick had been too exhausted from his flight to do any business. He had then discovered that he was also too hungry to sleep; airline food—meh!

Fortunately, there'd been a Shake Shack right around the corner from where he was staying. A 'Shroomburger and fries later, and feeling wonderfully revived, he'd returned straight to his pad. It was only then that the feeling he was being followed had come over him—and being a fox, he knew enough to take that sensation very seriously.

Hailing a cab, he had tossed the driver a twenty and told him to drive 'a few blocks anywhere fast'. Two streets later, and right after the cabbie turned a corner, he'd bailed and ducked into an alleyway. After that, there hadn't been long to wait. In the skip of a heartbeat, a coal-black Chevy Vole had glided quietly past his hiding place. Stepping out into the street again, Nick had watched as it zeroed in on the cab like a heat seeking missile—but at the same time keeping its distance.

That got rid of whatever lingering doubts he might have had; the Zoo York City Police Department was aware of his presence in their fair city…and they were not pleased to have him here. He'd suspected it ever since leaving the airport, but now he was sure. Oh yes…it had been Zoo York's Finest on his tail alright. Back in Zootopia, electrically powered vehicles were also becoming the conveyance of choice for shadowing suspects; their silent motors and unobtrusive appearance made them almost ideal for that purpose.

Oh well, it wasn't as if he hadn't been told to expect a cold welcome.

Cold—but not hot…and certainly not this hot.

"This is your final warning, fox," it was the bongo this time, "Cease resisting, or…"

Arising earlier than he'd planned—thank you jet-lag—Nick had elected to hold off on breakfast until later, settling instead on a blueberry cappuccino from the Squarrel Café, just up the street from his rental. After locating the Bearclaw Center subway station, he had given his map a quick study, and been delighted to find that the way to One Police Plaza was a direct, if somewhat circuitous route; no need to switch trains on the way.

His buoyant mood had vanished at once when the first one pulled into the station. Stepping on board, Nick had instantly been filled with an urge to step right back off again. Compared to the Metro trains back in Zootopia…Ahhh, not to put too fine a point on it, this thing was a rolling landfill, food wrappers, drink bottles and discarded whatnot strewn everywhere. Half the seats were occupied by larger animals, laid out under blankets and snoring like ripsaws. It had almost been enough to make him reverse course and call a Zuber—almost, but not quite. Technically, he had already gone that way twice since his arrival; the ride from the airport, and when he'd used that cab to get rid of the cops who'd been following him. Chief Bogo would not be pleased if he made it a three-fer—and besides, he'd already paid his train-fare.

And so, mentally holding his nose, Nick had found an empty seat and hunkered down for what he'd hoped would be a short excursion.

So it had been, although it had hardly been uneventful. Along the way, he'd been witness to a screaming match between a gerenuk and her impala girlfriend—which had ended abruptly when the sleepers they'd awakened had risen up and summarily ejected them at the next station. The two had then proceeded to run alongside the departing train, throwing whatever objects they could lay their hooves on at the windows.

Returning to his makeshift bed, one of the animals they'd disturbed—a sloth bear, missing half his fur—had paused in front of Nick to make a request for spare change. His conduct in this matter had been not unlike that of a drill sergeant, 'requesting' that a new recruit 'drop and give him twenty.' Luckily, a quick flash of a police badge had been all that was needed to send the ursine panhandler shambling on his way…though not without making a few comments under his breath regarding the hygienic habits of foxes in general.

Arriving at his destination, Nick had once again been pleasantly surprised. Talk about familiar surroundings, the foyer in One Police Plaza was almost a carbon copy of the Precinct-1 lobby; wide-open spaces and a circular reception desk.

Presenting his bona-fides to the elephant behind the counter, he had been instructed to take a seat in one of the chairs along the wall. Settling in for what he'd assumed would be a nice, lonnnng wait, he'd instead found himself surrounded on both sides by an elk and a bongo—who had then proceeded to haul him roughly to his feet.

The next thing he'd known, his legs were off the floor and kicking helplessly in the air…as the ZYPD cops marched him in the direction of the front entrance.

At first, he'd been almost amused, "Holy Foxtrot, I expected to be slow-walked, not given the bum's rush!"

But then they'd turned in the direction of the hallway, rather than the exit—and if this place was really that similar to his home precinct, it meant he was on his way to a holding cell.

No, no…that couldn't be right.

"Hey, what's going on," he'd asked, only to be curtly informed that imfursonating a police officer, even an out-of-town cop, was a serious offense in Zoo York City. In other words, he was about to be cuffed and read his rights. Nick's first reaction had been an extreme sense of relief that his mother couldn't see him now; ("I TOLD you so!") The second had been to raise a serious stink, which had resulted in a gathering crowd of ZYPD cops and the business-end of a Taser pointing straight at his ribcage.

That only prompted him to struggle even harder…and at first it seemed to be having the desired effect. The pair of officers released him and set him down again.

But only so that the bongo could get out of the line of fire; and now he heard the elk begin to recite the familiar litany.

"Taze…taze…"

"Hold it; hold it…back off," a new voice intervened. Nick turned to look…slowly, in case the elk was of the nervous trigger-fingered bent, and saw a tapir advancing towards him—although waddling might have been a more accurate description. Benjamin Clawhauser had nothing on this individual—in the belly department, if not in sartorial splendor. The animal coming his way was dressed in a snappy, three-piece suit that must have cost more than the average ZPD officer made in a month. But if he thought he was dressed to impress…sorry, better luck next time. As far as a certain red fox was concerned, that outfit only served to bolster his first impression of the newcomer.

Desk jockey; the closest this individual had ever come to working the street was when he showed up at a crime-scene for a photo-op.

Even so, there was no dismissing his air of authority.

"Put that away, what's the matter with you?" He spoke sternly, aiming his prehensile snout at the elk, who responded by looking properly abashed.

The bongo, on the other paw, was not so easily browbeaten. He pointed at Nick with a rigid finger.

"Chief, that's a…"

"I know he's a fox, but he's who he says he is," the tapir informed him wearily, and then turned to Nick with an outstretched hoof, "Really sorry about this, Detective Wiley. I'm Gil Anta, Chief of Detectives, ZYPD."

"Detective Wilde," The fox replied, putting just the slightest edge on the correction. As they shook, he took note of the tapir's buffed and highly polished hooves. Yep, definitely not a streetwise type, "Pleased to meet you," he added, although privately he was anything but. Who the heck did this stuffed suit think he was fooling with his crude, little charade? They'd never really intended to Taze him; the indicator light on the elk's pistol had stayed dark from the moment he'd drawn it. The whole thing had been an act, aimed at softening him up.

Not likely…"If Finnick and I had ever tried to run a hustle as sloppily as this, we'd have laughed been right off the street."

And he hadn't missed the way Chief Anta had said the word, 'fox' either. He filed that away for later consideration and then gave the tapir a quick demonstration of how an expert presents a faux-convivial façade.

"Since you recognized me Chief, may I assume you know the reason why I'm here?" His smile was all warmth and deference.

"Yes, of course," the tapir nodded. "And I want to assure you…" He stopped abruptly, raising a hoof and reaching into this jacket. Fumbling for a second, he drew out a cell-phone and frowned as he studied the screen. "Sorry, I need to take this," he told the fox, and then placed the phone against his ear and walked away, in the direction of a hallway. "Commissioner…what seems to be the problem? I wasn't expecting you to call me on a…"

There was more, but Nick chose to ignore it, instead concentrating on keeping his eyes from rolling. From this close, his sharp, vulpine ears could easily detect the buzz of a phone—even when it was set on vibrate.

And Chief Anta's cell had remained silent from the moment of his arrival to the moment of his departure, "Sheesh, welcome to amateur hour."

Apparently, he wasn't the only one who thought so. All around the visiting fox, officers were exchanging embarrassed expressions, in particular, the elk and the bongo. If it hadn't been for the way they'd just tried to roust him, Nick might actually have had some sympathy for the pair. Imagine having to put up with Chief of Detectives Gilberto Anta, 24/7 and 365 days a year. That bushytailed tyrant, Albert Tufts might be a jerk in his own right—but at least he wasn't afraid to get his paws dirty.

Even so…as glad as Nick was to have that bloated blowhard out of his face, Chief Anta's departure had left him hanging; who the heck was he supposed to talk to about his assignment now? No use asking the officers who'd pretended to Taze him; they wouldn't have a clue as to where he should go, or who he should talk to…and anyway, they were out of here too. Ditto for cops who'd been watching their exchange; they had also dispersed to the four corners of wherever. The One Police Plaza lobby had become suddenly as empty as a burned out blimp hangar.

Aggggh, grrrr…dangit; and he hadn't even had the chance to deliver his prepared speech, the one he composed on the flight over from Zootopia and then carefully nurtured ever since his arrival at Idlewilde.

With no other option, he turned his attention back to the reception desk. "Um, excuse me?"

Unlike Zootopia's Precinct-1 here, there were two animals on duty, a zebra-mare and the short eared elephant he'd spoken to earlier. And now the pachyderm leaned over the top of the counter, looking half bored and half annoyed.

"Yes, what is it?"

Nick tried to respond, but found that his voice was uncharacteristically failing him; Ju…his former partner would have been amazed if he could see him now.

Although, perhaps, she shouldn't have been; what the heck was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to condense even the gist of his reason for being here into only a few sentences?

As things turned out, he didn't have to; just then, he realized something.

"Can I get my phone and badge back…please?" The elk and bongo had departed without returning them.

As anyone could have predicted, it took many long minutes for the items to be brought back. The only upside was that it gave Nick time to explain his mission in detail to the elephant—although he carefully avoided any reference to Finagles and especially the raid in which it had burned down.

He was just wrapping things up when the bongo returned with his cell-phone and badge, dropping them off without either ceremony or apology…and with the elephant, rather than with him directly. And while he was at least willing to make eye contact with Nick, there was hoarfrost in his gaze as he turned to go.

"Oh-kay-y-y, I get it, I'm not welcome here," the fox sighed inwardly as he watched the ZYPD cop departing for the second time, "But for crying out loud, you don't have to drive it in with a sledgehammer!" He turned his attention back to the reception desk. "All right," he said, reaching up to take back his badge and phone, "who do I need to see?"

In response, the elephant scratched at his forehead with his trunk…while Nick had to struggle yet again to keep his eyes from rolling. Oh, come on…seriously? Benjamin Clawhauser would have known the answer right off the top of his head. If they were going to string him along, fine...but did they have to keep insulting his intelligence with it?

"Ahhh, let's see," the pachyderm told him, "You probably want the Intelligence Bureau's Liaison Office.

"Probably…" Once again, it took some effort on the fox's part to maintain a straight face.

"Okay-y-y, and uh…where would I find that?"

The elephant jerked his trunk in the direction of a bank of elevators, once again looking bored, "Room 763, seventh floor."

Expecting more, Nick waited for a second, but the ZYPD cop was already directing his attention elsewhere. With an inward growl of vexation, he got up on his toes, and rapped with his knuckles on the edge of the counter.

"All right, and, uh…who should I see when I get there?"

The elephant barely glanced at him.

"Whoever's on duty…"

"Okay," Nick turned to go, but was immediately brought up short when the zebra called him back.

"Just a minute, you'll need a visitor's badge first."

It came as no surprise that the reception desk was 'fresh out' of this item, and had to send upstairs for more. Nor was that the end of the fox's ordeal. At the metal detectors fronting the elevators, he was obliged to go through twice and allow himself to be wanded two times more. For once, however, the ZYPD had miscalculated. Compared to what he'd gone through—literally—at the MSA checkpoint back in Zootopia, this was just plain sailing.

However, he strongly suspected that his biggest frustrations were still ahead of him.

Nor were they long in coming. Arriving on the seventh floor, Nick immediately discovered that he'd been sent to the wrong room.

"This is Operations and Analysis," the Officer in Charge, a she-wolf, informed him, "Liaison Division's down the hall, room 768."

Returning to the hallway, Nick had wondered whether sending him to the wrong room had been an accident or intentional. If you only look quickly, a 3 isn't all that different from an 8—and elephants are not noted for having the keenest eyesight.

He finally decided the heck with it.

Intel Division turned out to be housed in a room that could have been transplanted wholesale from the ZPD—or from practically any police department anywhere. Desks, cubicles, workstations, fluorescent lighting, and the obligatory overstuffed bulletin-board, tacked to a wall of an indeterminate color. Here the OIC was a member of Chief Bogo's species, although smaller and much more affable than his Zootopia counterpart.

He was also not particularly helpful. After listening to about half the fox's story, he brusquely raised a hoof.

"Wait, hold it…y'all say you from Zootopia now?"

"Yes, that's right," Nick nodded, hiding his annoyance. What the heck, hadn't he already said that when he'd come in here?

The small Cape buffalo set down his coffee and looked at him oddly, "Whatchoo doing HERE then fox?"

Nick returned the strange look with interest.

"What do you mean, what am I doing here? This is where I was sent; isn't this the Liaison Division?"

"Yeah," the buffalo spread his arms, "International Liaison; you know, Scotland Yard, the Surete, Interpaw…stuff like that. We don't do nothin' here with no domestic law enforcement agencies." He picked up his cup again. "Who was it, sent you here anyway?"

"Ahhh, the elephant down at the reception desk; I forget the name." Nick said this and then added to himself "Keep it together, fox; never let them see that they get to you."

"Yeeeah, shoulda thought so," the buffalo answered with a knowing nod. "That'd be Toby Greyling. He new here; rookie just outta the Academy, doesn't know the ropes yet."

"Oh, I see," Nick answered, smiling, as if that were the most helpful piece of information since the dawn of creation. It wasn't, but he'd just had an idea. You didn't have to be a sly fox to know what was coming next. However, being a sly fox, perhaps he could turn that to his advantage, in at least a small way.

But first…

"All righty…if you're not the animal I need to talk to, do you have any idea who that might be?"

"Hmmmm," the buffalo stroked his chin with a hoof, eyes angling up and to the right, "If dis diamond mule a Company guy, he technically a fugitive; whyn't y'all try F.E.D., down on 5, room 504…I think."

"Okay, thanks," the red fox answered—and then went into his prepared speech. "Before I go, can I just say something?" Without waiting for a reply, he went on to tell the buffalo, "I'm here to try to get information that might help the ZPD identify this diamond smuggler—and that's all I'm here for. I didn't come to Zoo York to stir up trouble or to dig up ancient history. Whatever else went on here between the ZYPD and The Company, it doesn't interest me, and as far as I'm concerned, it's none of my business anyway—or the ZPD's; I just want to be clear on that, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," the Cape buffalo answered, raising his coffee as if making a toast, "But that got nothing to do with me, Detective."

"Like HECK it doesn't," Nick thought but didn't say. What he did say was, "Thanks anyway; I'll see myself out."

FED turned out to be an acronym for Fugitive Enforcement Division, a name with considerable promise. What wasn't so promising was that this unit's OIC—a wild boar—was the quintessential bureaucrat, right down to his oversized, black-rimmed spectacles.

"Well, you must understand Detective Wilder…"

"It's Wilde…"

"We cannot list someone as a fugitive until they've…A. evaded capture or escaped from custody…"

"Which the diamond courier did," Nick pointed out, trying not to sound exasperated. Aggggh, grrrr; even before he'd joined the ZPD; bean-counters like this animal had never failed to ruffle his fur.

"Well, yes," the boar admitted, adjusting his glasses for something like the tenth time in the last minute, "However, as I was ABOUT to say…and B. have been positively identified." He peered over the rim of his spectacles. "HAVE you made a positive ID on this suspect, Detective?" His expression was a smirk of triumph.

"I wouldn't be here if we had," the fox replied, and then launched once more into his prepared speech.

His next stop on the ZYPD merry-go-round was the Detective Bureau's liaison office. By rights he should have felt that this must be the place…but by now, he knew better. Sure enough, he had hardly gotten his foot in the door when he was informed that once again, he'd been sent to the wrong division. "This is where we coordinate with the DA's office, not with the other police agencies," the caracal in charge told him, "Why don't you try Cold Cases, one floor up?"

Oh well, at least this feline seemed to be showing some sympathy. When Nick delivered his prepared speech, he received an appreciative nod.

Cold Cases turned out to be a busted flush, too…since The Company's diamond courier had never actually been part of the ZYPD's caseload. Where they sent him next dispelled any and all remaining doubts that he was being given the runaround.

"Uhm…I don't understand why you were told to come here, Detective Wiles; this is the office of Clergy Liaison."

For once, Nick didn't bother with his prepared speech.

That was where another animal might have thrown in the towel—except the Hartebeest in charge suggested that he try CEIS, the Criminal Enterprise Investigative Section; in plain language the organized crime division, the ZYPD equivalent of the bureau he was working for. When he got there, he found out that yes, this was the right place and no, the detective he needed to speak to wasn't in today.

Well, at least he got to deliver his prepared speech…and after reciting it one more time, he decided to call it a morning.

That is…until he was back on the subway platform and happened to glance at his map again. Grand Central Station, it seemed, was only a short distance away from his current location. Hmmmm, Grand Central….Grand Central; why did that name sound so familiar?

But then he remembered and pulled out his wallet. After a moment or two of rummaging, he found the business-card Claudia Nizhang had given him.

The address was One Grand Central Place.

Waving the card like a Polaroid picture, Nick angled his gaze upwards and sucked on a corner of his mouth, thinking. Most likely the animal he needed to see wouldn't be in on a Sunday. Heck, the place probably wouldn't even be open, a private company after all. On the other paw, there was that all-seeing eye again, together with the words, 'We Never Close.'

All right, Nick decided to chance it; in any case, he hated the idea of giving up this early, or rather…Chief Bogo would hate it if he did.

When his train arrived, this time he DID hop right back off after getting on board…but that was to throw off anyone tailing him rather than from any sensitivity about cleanliness. It probably wouldn't work, but he wanted the ZYPD to know that he knew they were tracking him.

Making his way to the opposite platform Nick jammed his paws in his pockets and rocked on his heels, whistling an off-key tune.

Had he been paying closer attention to what he was doing he might have realized something; the song he had chosen for his impromptu performance was, "I Fought The Law."

St. Bartholomeow's Hospital, Savanna Central, Zootopia –Sunday Morning

Several time zones away, at an earlier hour, Judy Hopps was just then opening her eyes. This time, she woke up quickly…and realized at once that she was in a hospital bed. Looking to her left, she saw her sister Violet, dozing in a chair with an open book in her lap. When she shifted her gaze to her wrist she noted that once again her watch was missing, replaced this time by a hospital band. Adjusting her eyes still further downwards, she saw that she was clad in a patient's gown, but didn't remember putting it on. What she did NOT see was an IV drip…although just above her left shoulder, an EKG monitor was dutifully keeping tabs on her heartbeat, pulse, etc.

Bracing herself, Judy pulled up on her elbows; there was pain, but not as much as the night before—and not nearly as much as she expected.

"Vi…?" The word came out as a froggy croak and she tried again, "Vi, are you awake?"

"Mmmn, I am now," the other bunny yawned, stretching her arms grumpily. And then, realizing where she was, she sat up, fully alert, hastily pushing her granny-glasses back up the bridge of her nose. "Oops, sorry Jude; how're you feeling this morning?"

"Better," the doe bunny answered, slowly. It was beginning to dawn on her that she actually felt a lot better.

But not ALL the way better, she could still only see out of one eye. And when she reached up to check, yep, the bandages were still there; same thing for the ones encircling her midsection, she wasn't quite done with it yet.

And, now that she thought of it, neither was her kid sister.

"I saw Erin, Violet," she said, figuring she'd better get the crucial issue out of the way first.

"I know," her sister answered, nodding. "Ms. Nizhang told us all about your visit with her. You're lucky to have her for a friend, sis. Did you know she comes from a farm family, too?"

"No, I didn't," Judy answered, surprised and also fascinated, never mind that it was a relatively trivial matter.

"Yep," Violet grinned, "bamboo growers, going back something like five generations."

"No kidding, well what do you know?" Judy answered, trying not to yawn. Given the dietary habits of red pandas, that wasn't especially surprising. Even so, she was fascinated and wanted to know more.

But…not right now; at the moment there were more important matters to discuss, "Okay, what's going on with the rest of the family?"

Violet thumped her foot…but not in anger.

"It's all taken care of, Jude. Dad and Stu Jr. are taking the kids and Erin's friends back to the Burrow on the early train, and Mom and I are staying over in Zootopia until we get things squared away with Erin."

Judy wiggled herself up even further on her elbows. That was probably going to take a lot longer than either her mother or her sister realized—AND they were supposed to be out of that Hare BNB rental by sometime, early this evening.

"Have you got a place to…?"

"Hey, I just said, everything's taken care of," Violet interrupted, almost laughing. "Gazelle offered to put us up in her guest suite at the Palm Hotel for the duration. Don't worry Judy, we'll be fine."

"Oh, that's wonderful," the doe bunny clapped her paws. Hmmm, it looked like she had another good friend besides Claudia. Privately, though, she disagreed with her sister. Nobody was going to be fine until Erin walked out of jail…without any charges pending. And for the moment there was nothing she, or anyone else, could do about it.

But…'for the moment,' ah yes, that reminded her…

"What time is it, Vi? How long have I been asleep?"

The other bunny consulted her watch. "Just a little bit after 8:30."

Huh, so she'd actually awakened a little bit earlier than she thought; was that good news or bad?

Someone knocked on the door and a nurse came in, a bandicoot this time.

"Good morning, how are we feeling today?"

She was midway through taking Judy's vitals when Dr. Jarabal followed her into the room.

"Well, you look much better this morning."

"I feel a lot better, too." The doe bunny admitted, rubbing lightly at her side and then looking up with a sheepish expression. "And okay, from now on the doctor's always right. I'm here until you tell me otherwise."

"Hmm, let us see about that," the cuscus replied, plugging the ends of his stethoscope into his ears. After a brief once-over, he surprised her by saying, "Well, all things considered, I believe we can let you go this afternoon."

"After the state I was in when I got here last night?" Judy's nose was twitching and her ears were standing at full attention. When Gazelle and Claudia had brought her back to St. Barts, she'd been unable to walk, even with their assistance; they'd had to call for someone to bring a wheelchair.

"Ah, those were only muscle-cramps," Dr. Jarabal informed her with a dismissive wave and sardonic gleam in his eye, "brought on by stress—which is why I know I can count on you to follow my instructions once you're discharged, yes?"

There was no arguing with that one.

Before making his exit, the cuscus informed Judy that he had made a referral for her with the Serengeti Eye Clinic. "You'll want to call them for an appointment, first thing, tomorrow morning."

"I will," she told him, having every intention of keeping her promise this time.

On her way, out the nurse asked Judy if she wanted some breakfast and, hospital food or not, the doe-bunny all but jumped at it. She hadn't eaten a nibble since lunch yesterday, and that had barely counted as a snack.

When the breakfast tray arrived, it was followed in short order by another visitor.

"Claudia…hello!"

"Hello, yourself," the red panda smiled, "You're looking a lot better this morning, Judy."

"That's what they keep telling me", the doe bunny replied, taking a bite of her cauliflower pancake and indicating the other rabbit in the room with her fork. "You've met my sister Violet?"

"I have," the red panda replied, reaching forward for a paw-shake, "Nice to see you again."

"Likewise," Judy's sister replied, "and thanks again for all your help."

Claudia lifted her paws in a throwaway shrug, "What can I say, I have a soft spot for cops." She patted her crippled knee adding, "Especially cops who get hurt in the line of duty."

"Speaking of the line of duty," Judy waved her fork again, "Any news about our fugitive fox-kid?" She didn't think there would be, but was in no mood for any more talk about her injuries.

"Glad you asked; there's plenty," the red panda informed her, taking a seat in the other chair…and prompting both Hopps sisters to lean in close, not wanting to miss a single word.

"First of all, chalk one up to Detective Hopps," Claudia pantomimed the act of applauding. "You got it exactly right, bunny. After he snuck out of that tunnel, the Lewis kid managed to cadge himself an ambulance ride."

"Not to here I hope," Violet said, giving voice to her sister's thoughts; as far as Judy was concerned, she was getting too much irony in her diet already. Imagine having been that close to Conor without ever knowing it.

"No," the red panda shook her head, "al-Razi Medical, over in Sahara Square." In response, Judy nodded knowingly. Separate district or not, that was the second closest Emergency Room to the Performing Arts Academy.

"And may I assume that he was long gone by the time we tracked him there?"

"You may," Claudia nodded, tight-lipped, "Clever kid; I have to give him that. They wanted to admit him, just about insisted on it…and do you know how he got out of it? He told 'em his family was broke and didn't have medical insurance, and that was that. They patched him up and sent him on his way."

"What?" Violet Hopps might not have been a cop, but she understood how some things worked. "How could they have just turned him out on the street like that? He's a minor."

"Ah yes," the red panda replied, assuming her patented Zen-master's expression, "Directly following his treatment, such as it was, young Master Lewis made a phone call—to his father, or so he said—and a little while later, a car pulled up to the ER entrance. He got in and they drove off and that was the last time anyone saw him. None of the animals in the ER got a look the driver or the license plate; heck, they're not even sure of the make and model of the vehicle that took him away. 'Black, with tinted windows; looked like a muscle car;' that's the only description the ZPD has." She crossed her arms and huffed, "Fursonally, I think it had to be one of his online buddies that picked him up. According to the admitting nurse, while he was waiting to be treated, he spent the whole time working on a laptop he'd brought along."

"Great, another dead end," Judy's voice was bitter with disappointment. While it was practically a given that Conor wouldn't have hung around wherever he'd been treated, she'd at least been hoping that he might have left some clues behind.

As if reading her mind, Claudia smiled.

"The good news is…right again, rabbit; in fact, you actually gave better than you got in that fight. According to the Lewis kid's ER medical report...hmmm, let me see if I can rememberrrrr…he suffered a minor concussion, a badly sprained knee, a dislocated shoulder, a bunch of scrapes and contusions, and possibly a cracked rib. There was also a fair amount of internal bleeding; that was the worst of it, according to the ER Docs. At least one of them wanted to keep him there, insurance or no insurance. In any event, that fox-kid is going to need more medical treatment—and sooner rather than later."

Judy could have forced a positive reaction to the news, a smile and declaration of approval; when Conor tried to go in for that medical treatment, the ZPD would have him. No matter what kind of disguise he adopted, they'd know it was him by his injuries—and it was all thanks to her insight.

Except…he had to know that, too. What if he waited too long to get help or, even worse, what if he'd really meant it when he told her, "I'll die before I go back there?" If that young fox ended his life in a lonely place, it would all be on her shoulders; he was in that precarious state in the first place because she had put him there.

That burden was one that Judy didn't know if she could carry. Yes, yes…Conor had drawn first blood in that fight, but what about before? If it hadn't been for him, they'd be laying flowers on HER grave right about now.

And so she only nodded, somberly. Sensing her discomfort, Claudia quickly moved on to another subject.

"We also have his baton and dart gun."

It was exactly what Judy needed to hear. All at once, her ears were up and her guilt-feelings were flying out the window. At last, here was some pure, unfiltered, gen-u-wine good news. "No kidding? How'd that happen?"

The red panda's mouth went in two different directions.

"Ahhh, much as I hate to admit it, that's one our dear Lieutenant Tufts got right. The Lewis boy dumped them in the theater seats, hoping some other kid would pick them up…just like he said would happen. And someone did; a couple of raccoon brothers." Her face split open in a cynical grin. "But then, whoops… their dad found 'em in one of their backpacks, and he was none too thrilled, according to what I heard; marched his kids right through the front door of Precinct 6 and made 'em turn in those weapons fursonally. Forensics has them now."

"Where's Precinct 6?" It was Violet, speaking from her seat in the corner.

"Old Growth City," Claudia pointed to the north and then turned back to Judy again. "That baton he had though; great gods, I'd love to know where a kid his age got hold of something like that. Talk about cutting edge; the knob on the end wasn't lead, it was tungsten—and the springs were made out of NITINOL!"

"Nitinol?" Judy's nose was twitching so hard it was making her injured eye hurt—and her sister Violet was even more bewildered.

"Nitinol, what the heck is that, some kind of sleep-aid?"

"Nope," Claudia told them, entirely serious, "it's an alloy of Nickel and Titanium; has the highest molecular memory of any metal. You can bend it any which way you want, a zillion times over, and it'll still retain its original shape."

"I see," Judy said, drawing out the last word and remembering what had happened when she'd hit that baton full force with her nightstick—practically no effect. Yeah, where the heck HAD Conor gotten that thing? She put it away for later scrutiny; her visitor was still talking.

"As for that tranq-dart pistol…Nice piece, a Tip-X Defender, shoots a variety of different pellets. The magazine was empty, and those raccoon kids insisted it was that way when they found it. When I left P-1, the lab boys were just starting to check the barrel for residue. Who knows, maybe they'll get lucky."

"I doubt it," Judy huffed inwardly, but kept that to herself. Ah, but she wished Monday would get here and things could start moving again. For now, the Conor Lewis case–along with her sister Erin's–felt like a fly trapped in amber.

La Peigne Estate, Meadowlands District, Zootopia - Sunday Morning

In a whirl of dust and detritus, the helicopter lifted off from the landing pad, rising up and over the ridgeline before turning southbound in the direction of ZTP Airport. Shading his eyes with his ice-bleached paw, Seth Whitepaugh watched until it disappeared, and then turned around. He had told the pilot not to wait; this would probably take a while.

Looking downwards he could see, a hundred feet below, the warren of his employer, set out amongst a sprawling plateau in the foothills of the Meadowlands.

Most of it was invisible to the naked eye, and for a very simple reason. Ever true to his species, Jack La Peigne had chosen to build his home largely under the earth. Not only that, the aboveground sections hearkened unmistakably back to his Bunnyburrow roots—except for certain changes befitting his rank and station. Here, the cupolas weren't rounded into egg-shapes and painted in pastels of pink, yellow, magenta, etc. Instead, they more closely resembled Gothic arches, and were done up in rich earth-tones. Adjusting his gaze a few degrees upward, Whitepaugh took note of the swimming pool and, on the hillside up above, his employer's private mountain-bike course. Narrowing his eyes and shading them again, he noted a few lingering wisps of dust strewn out along the track. The big rabbit was either in the midst of his usual Sunday-morning ride, or else he had only just finished with it.

Tucking the tablet he'd brought beneath his arm, the wolverine stood and waited; there was no point in making his way down to the house. Though he'd given no advance word of his visit, he knew someone would be along to pick him up shortly. It was impossible that his arrival had been missed; after all, he hadn't exactly been discreet about it. And the fact that he'd shown up, unannounced, on a Sunday morning, and by helicopter, could mean only one thing—his reason for being here wasn't merely important, it was borderline urgent.

Whitepaugh's eyes narrowed further as he spotted a vehicle ascending the meandering roadway to the helipad. It looked something like a stretched-out, passenger version of a ZPD meter-maid car…except big enough to accommodate larger mammals.

When it pulled to a halt in front of the big mustelid, he was surprised to see Polly Walters get out and open the door for him. That was curious; Jack La Peigne normally gave his fursonal assistant the weekend off—and he had never before seen the opossum here. Could the big rabbit possibly have anticipated his visit?

Whitepaugh didn't think so; the more likely reason was…biological. Over the past few weeks, he'd begun to notice a number of subtle changes in Jack La Peigne's routine and demeanor—ever since his 'unauthorized' experiment in self-infusion. Simply put, he was becoming more and more of an alpha male at the expense of everything else…and the wolverine didn't like it.

"Good morning, Mr. Whitepaugh," Polly told him as he sidled into the seat behind her. She would not ask why he was here; if she didn't know better by now than to make such inquiries, she never would. The same held true for the bighorn sheep in the driver's seat beside her.

"Morning," he acknowledged with a grunt, taking note of her haggard state. While Polly always looked a bit fatigued, today she seemed downright stressed.

"He's waiting for you in the massage room." she said, pointing as the cart began to roll.

"Not in his private office?" If wolverines had been capable of pricking up their ears, his would have been through the vehicle's roof right now. Didn't that dumb bunny understand something; his senior field operative would never have come here at this time, and in such a manner, unless what he had to discuss was of a highly sensitive nature.

"No sir," Polly explained, trying not to yawn, "'A good rubdown first will keep me alert,' was how he put it to me."

"Mmm, all right," Whitepaugh nodded. Okay, that made sense, but still…

When he walked into the big rabbit's neo-Roman massage room, he was greeted by yet another surprise. There was Jack La Peigne, faced-down on a padded table and being tended to by not one, but three arctic-fox vixens, all of them still in their bluish-gray summer coats. They were also clad in bikinis and fitted with what looked like ear tags…no, wait, those things were all in gold and etched with some kind of ornate design. Not tags, but…ohhhh, never mind, when the heck had his employer hired these girls? And foxes…didn't he loathe foxes?

At the wolverine's approach, the big bunny raised a paw and made a fluttering gesture with his fingers. "That's enough for now…go."

The vixens ceased their ministrations and disappeared through various doorways, giggling all the way—but only the first two. The third fox-girl had to pass by Seth Whitepaugh on her way out, and the look he gave her was enough to send her scurrying out of the room with her tail between her legs. To put it mildly, he was in a towering fury. Those three should never have been brought on board without him being consulted, or at least notified. Good God, did his employer want to be assassinated? It would have been a slam-dunk just now; one of his most hated rivals was an arctic fox. For all that anyone knew those three masseuses could have been Dimitri Oloshenko's sisters. Had hiring three members of that particular species been Jack La Peigne's way of thumbing his nose at his enemy? A month, even a week ago, the wolverine would have dismissed the idea as ludicrous; now, he wasn't so sure.

"I won't insult your intelligence by asking if this is important," the big bunny said, swiveling up and into a sitting position. He was naked, but it wasn't anything his senior field operative hadn't seen before. "However, I'd rather not give that impression to anyone else, which is why I asked you to meet me here instead of my private office."

Whitepaugh nodded, keeping his expression neutral. Here was another explanation that was just a little too neat.

"All right then," the big rabbit hopped off the table, and stretched his arms. "Let me get changed and I'll see you there in five minutes."

When he entered his employer's richly appointed office exactly five minutes later, the wolverine found him sitting at a conference table with a breakfast tray set out before him. This time, he wasn't put off; Jack La Peigne had never worked well on an empty stomach.

On the other paw, his normally preferred Sunday attire was Docker pants and a polo shirt; today he was done up in pre-faded desert-camo khakis…a little aggressive, even for him.

But even that paled in comparison to something that the wolverine might have noticed earlier, but for the presence of those arctic-fox vixens.

All too often Jack La Peigne's opponents tended to underestimate him, largely because of his species—and his size. He was, to put it simply, a big bunny—a description that never failed to conjure up an image of a big, fluffy animal.

Nothing could have been further from the truth. For one thing, it's hard to apply the word 'fluffy' to an animal with fur the color of pig iron, and eyes like blue-black quartz.

And the word 'big' was a wholly inadequate term of description for him; he literally soared over every other rabbit Whitepaugh had ever encountered. He was at least of a size with the wolverine himself; perhaps even a little bit larger.

And it wasn't just his height, Jack La Peigne was also big and brawny, a living statue of a Hellenic demigod; Cellioni's Purrseus brought to life.

Or rather, that was how he'd appeared the last time Whitepaugh had seen him. Today, his physique bore a closer resemblance to that of an overly-endowed comic-book hero—or villain, if you preferred. In any event he seemed to be sporting a wee bit too much muscle for his own good. And, was it only his imagination, or had his employer somehow become an inch or two taller since their last face-to-face encounter?

These thoughts were cut off when the 'big bunny' grunted and set down his glass of V-9 Juice, indicating the chair across the table from his own. "All right, what seems to be the problem?"

Taking his seat, the wolverine leaned forward with his elbows on the table; he knew that would annoy his boss—still a country boy at heart—but it would also get his attention.

"The problem is that an old friend of ours just popped up in Zootopia…although he's actually been around for some time now." He allowed himself a little smirk, "And old friend probably isn't quite the correct term."

La Peigne picked up his fork but instead of taking a bite of his waffle, twirled it in the air in a gesture of 'get on with it.' This, they both knew, was how Seth Whitepaugh always rolled when delivering a report; first a teaser, to pique his listener's interest, then a brief explanation of context, and then finally the nitty-gritty.

Extracting the tablet from his lap, the wolverine set it on the tabletop and slid it across to his chief. It was already booted up; he'd taken care of it before sitting down.

"Are you familiar with what happened at the Zootopia Academy for the Performing Arts yesterday?"

La Peigne picked up the tablet and looked at it. "Yes-s-s-s, something about a riot I believe." He set it down again, looking across the table with his nose twitching. "How is that any of our business, Whitepaugh?"

The wolverine raised a pointed finger.

"What makes it our business has to do with the reason that it started in the first place. Are you also familiar with the animal known as The Phantom?"

For perhaps a second, La Peigne's iron-blue fur seemed to turn jet black and his face became equally dark. Had it been anyone else on the other side of the table, he would have been on his feet and loudly ordering his visitor not to play games with him.

But Seth Whitepaugh wasn't just anyone else and so, after that second or two, the big rabbit's expression returned to normal. "Let me see," he said, scratching his cheek and thumping a foot as he tried to recall, "He's that loanshark the bankers are all up in arms about. If I recall correctly, the ZPD busted the kid who muled cash for him, but then the kid escaped from custody—probably with his help—and there's been no sign of him since." He stopped and looked directly at the wolverine, his words edged with sarcasm. "Is that about right?"

"Not quite," Whitepaugh raised another finger, this time wagging it from side to side as he spoke. "He turned up at the Performing Arts Academy auditions yesterday, presumably to watch one of the performances. The ZPD was waiting for him, but he got away again."

"Amateurs," La Peigne grumbled in disgust. The wolverine ignored it.

"So, instead they arrested a bunch of other kids for aiding and abetting his escape…and that's what started the riot."

"Fine, but you still haven't answered my question!" the big bunny snapped, "What does that have to do with US?" Now, he was halfway out of his chair—and his visitor wasn't happy. It normally took a little bit more than this to get his boss so badly riled.

"I'm just getting to that," he answered smoothly, "There's a detail I wasn't aware of until just last evening. The Phantom's courier, as I mentioned, is a kid." He leveled his gaze directly at Jack La Peigne and gave him both barrels, "And he's also a fox—specifically a silver fox."

All at once the room became deathly still, and his employer was taking his seat again—very slowly. And then he spoke just three short words.

"Is it him?"

"Yes," the wolverine's nod was equally laborious, "Yes, it's him… and yes, we're sure. The ZPD sent a sample of his cheek swab to the Zootopia Health Sciences University Genetics Lab for a DNA comparison analysis. For some reason, they've been dragging their feet, but they've at least managed to create a template of that fox-kid's genome. On a hunch, I had our cyber-security department obtain a copy and forward it to our own genetics lab. It's him all right; 99.96% certainty."

La Peigne's ears stood up and pointed at the ceiling. "They got a match already?" The process normally took a week, or more.

"Well you have to remember," Whitepaw leaned back in his chair. "We've had that fox-kid's genome in our database for several years now. With a head-start like that, it took practically no time at all."

"Ah, that's right," the big bunny pushed aside his breakfast tray, no longer interested, and picked up the tablet instead. "Tell me more about…sweet cheez n' crackers, you know, I can't even remember his name?"

The wolverine thought for a second, "Alan Murphy…that's not his birth name, of course, it's the one he had while he was in our custody, back in Zoo Jersey. Since then, he's gone through several more aliases, but these days he calls himself by the name of Conor Lewis; that's Conor with one 'N' not two."

"Conor…Lewis?" La Peigne repeated the name slowly, as if searching for a hidden meaning, "Where'd he ever come with that one?"

"No idea," his senior field operative admitted, "We're still gathering intel, but it appears that Kieran McCrodon may have created one of his custom-shop identities for the kid."

"What, now?" the big bunny's ears were flat against his neck and his right foot was thumping, "He didn't say anything about that during his interrogation."

"I've got our Zoo York Office looking into it," the wolverine waved a reassuring paw; for once, he'd been able to anticipate his boss's reaction. "But most likely it's because he just wasn't asked. That's trouble with 'the stuff', it makes you too scared to lie, but then you're also afraid to volunteer anything."

"Mmmm," La Peigne grunted, and the wry expression twisted across his dark grey muzzle. "The whole time…right under our noses; can you believe it?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," the wolverine responded at once. "If I didn't know better, I'D have thought Zootopia would be the last place Conor Lewis would turn up—and for just that reason."

"Conor Lewis?" the big rabbit's nose was twitching. "Why are you referring to him by that particular pseudonym?"

Whitepaugh answered with a simple nod.

"For the sake of avoiding confusion; it's the name his friends and associates here in Zootopia know him by, to say nothing of the ZPD. But you see what I'm getting at with why he ended up here, of all places; it's the old Purloined Letter gambit, hiding in plain sight."

"Yes, riiiight," La Peigne worked a finger against his jawline for a second and then picked up the tablet and scrolled. Two pages later, and then his ears were standing up again.

"I should get that much of a workout," Whitepaugh thought to himself, indulging in a rare bit of humor.

It was an even less common occurrence when his employer looked thoroughly bewildered, but that was the expression on his face right now.

"Great lettuce heads…according to this, not only did the ZPD know the Lewis kid was coming, they had half a division of cops waiting for him. How the heck did he manage to pull off an escape with that much working against him?"

"Are you surprised?" the wolverine asked him. "Remember; he's also the only detainee ever to escape from Granite Point."

"Don't remind me," the big bunny winced, wiping his face with the back of his paw, his voice was like a shovel of dry gravel dropped on a thunder-sheet.

"And I believe I already mentioned his escape from Precinct-1," Whitepaugh pointed with a finger, "but if you scroll to the next page, you'll see that this time, he wasn't able to make a clean getaway."

Following his operative's suggestion La Peigne stroked a finger down the tablet's screen—and then drew back suddenly, as if he'd gotten a static shock. When he looked up again, his face had darkened into a thunderhead, and the air in the office seemed to have chilled by at least twenty degrees.

"He did what?" the big rabbit demanded, in a voice so thick with menace you could have cut it with a knife. And then, seemingly to no one but himself, he added, "If that little thug hurt Judy Hopps seriously…I swear, I'll tear off his tail with my bare paws."

Had it been anyone else sitting opposite, they would have been shocked, perhaps even stunned by the iron-furred bunny's display of venom. Seth Whitepaugh was merely curious. Well now, this was something he hadn't expected.

It was also something he didn't much care for; and so the time had come to change subjects…and also gears.

…But not without engaging the clutch first.

"She's got nothing wrong with her that won't heal completely within a week or two," he said, stretching the truth just a little. La Peigne looked only slightly mollified, and he quickly amended, "And from what I understand, she 'gave as good as she got.' While we still don't have any details on the Lewis boy's injuries, I think I hardly need to remind you that if he's hurting too, it works to our advantage." Now, at last, the big rabbit's ears began to rise up off the back of his neck. "In the meantime, I suggest we notify the ZPD immediately of our own history with Lewis boy, including his real identity."

"No," La Peigne's response to this was flat, and to the point—and also not unexpected, as the wolverine quickly realized; he should have qualified his proposal.

Moving quickly to correct that error, he said, "Well, obviously we don't want to tell them everything."

"We don't want to tell them anything," the iron furred bunny retorted at once, "not yet, anyway. As matter of fact," he went on, tapping the table with a pair of crooked fingers, "I'd rather they didn't learn anything from the ZHSU genetics lab either." It was an order by any other name.

Whitepaugh stared for a second with his head tilted sideways. All right, now he'd been caught off-guard. "I'll…take care of it," he said "but may I ask why?"

La Peigne sat back in his chair, polishing the knuckles of his left paw with the pawlm of the right one; it was something he did frequently when mulling over an issue.

"Several reasons; first of all, I'm not sure the ZPD can be trusted with this information; not right now. They already let that fox-boy get away from them, not once but twice."

"This is true," Whitepaugh was nodding again. However, in this instance his boss's too-neat answer was not going to go unchallenged. "But then, he also got away from us on two separate occasions, once when he escaped from Granite Point, and the second time…" he stopped, grinding his teeth and wincing tightly for a second. When he spoke again, the words came out like a pair of extracted molars, "And the second time was…when he evaded capture during and after the Finagles raid." God, it stung, having to bring that up again. There'd been a LOT of whispering behind his back in the wake of that debacle.

"Also true," the rabbit across the table agreed, this time raising a pair of fingers, "but don't forget…back then he had help; those last two times he was on his own."

"Was he?" the wolverine wondered. He was none too sure about that, especially the breakout from the Precinct-1 jail. However, he was not about to contradict his boss on such a relatively minor point. Besides, the big bunny hadn't finished speaking yet.

"And not only that, have you seen who the ZPD has in charge of that investigation?"

Without waiting for a reply, he spun the tablet in a 180 and pushed it back in Whitepaugh's direction. It was well that he did; somehow the big mustelid had missed that particular detail. Leaning over the tablet, he saw a name and…ohhh-kay, for once he had to admit that his boss had a point.

"Oh yes…that little nonentity," he half snarled, half sneered. However, it didn't mean he was going to concede. "But even a blind squirrel finds an acorn every now and then. Practically nobody else but him thought that fox kid was actually going to show up at those auditions. Honestly, if I'd been informed in advance of his plans, I'd have been the first to suggest he was tilting at windmills." He tapped two fingers of his own against the tabletop. "And if I were in his position right now, I'd do exactly as he's doing, hold the Lewis boy's friends as hostages; either he surrenders or THEY get the book thrown at them."

"You think that'll work?" the big rabbit asked, ears up and nose twitching.

The wolverine half shook his head

"Yes…and no; it won't be enough to make that fox-kid give himself up—I don't think anything could make that happen—but there's a very good chance it'll cause him to make a careless move, especially if he's hurting. And do we really want the ZPD recapturing him without any help from us?" There…he could make a neat argument, too.

And Jack La Peigne could neatly shoot it down. "Who cares, Whitepaugh? The ZPD can take all the credit they want for the Lewis boy's capture. Whoever nails him, don't forget, WE have first dibs."

After several seconds of thought, the wolverine frowned, deeply.

"Mmmm, I don't know…a week ago, I would have agreed with you. But now, after that riot…the ZPD might not be so willing to hand him over."

"Willing or unwilling, it isn't going to matter if they don't have a choice." La Peigne smirked and slapped his paw against the tabletop "And trust me, they won't—I'll see to it."

Whitepaugh nodded, but he was far from placated. While that was probably true, his employer was uncharacteristically failing to see the bigger picture. If the Aker Group intended to realize its ultimate goal in this town, it was vitally important to keep the City of Zootopia on their side or, at the very least, a disinterested party. Once the first phase of their plan was complete, it wouldn't matter. But until then, getting into a turf war with the ZPD over one fugitive fox kid—even this fox-kid—was a luxury they couldn't afford. The only exception would be if it came down to a choice between that and losing Conor Lewis altogether….because nothing, absolutely nothing was more important at this moment than once more getting their paws that fugitive young silver fox.

"I'll tell you this much, Whitepaugh," the bunny sitting opposite said to him, "It's a good thing we suspended Project Fire Triangle. After this, we'd have to do it anyway." Without warning, apparently without thinking, he snatched up a length of rhubarb from the breakfast tray and began to rapidly nibble his way down the stalk. To the wolverine, he looked not unlike a rabbit wood-chipper. Again, it was something he'd seen many times before—and an unmistakable sign of unease in his employer.

Even so, the big mustelid had to agree with him about one thing, if nothing else. It was a very good thing that the Fire Triangle op was offline. And until Conor Lewis was safely back in Aker's custody, it was going to have to stay that way.

And on the subject of GETTING him back in their custody…

"Very well, sir. If we aren't going to pass this information on to the ZPD, what do you want us to do with it?"

La Peigne tossed aside the rhubarb stalk and looked at him sharply, at the same time thumping his foot. As both of them knew quite well, whenever his senior field operative called him 'sir' in that tone of voice, it meant he was seriously peeved.

"Are you getting pouty on me, Whitepaugh?" he demanded.

In response, the wolverine's face showed not even the tiniest hint of emotion. If there was one thing he'd learned over his years with Jack La Peigne, it was when to keep his feelings to himself—and right now was one of those times.

Sure enough; as nearly always occurred in these situations, it was the bunny that broke first.

"All right, I admit it. I do have another reason for keeping the ZPD out of the loop right now. It's what my instincts are telling me to do."

"Then you should have said so in the first place," the wolverine thought, but didn't say. Even now, he wasn't close to feeling satisfied. While that also might have been true, it almost certainly wasn't the whole truth. The actual story was probably something that Jack La Peigne didn't yet know himself; something else that was new and 'not good.'

Meanwhile the big bunny was speaking again. "Before we go any further, Whitepaugh, let me be perfectly clear about something. My decision not to notify the ZPD of what we've learned is only temporary—and it's the only stipulation I have right now. Other than that, you have free reign to act as you see fit."

"Very well," the wolverine answered him, coolly but finally with a measure of satisfaction. He should have been enraged, except…who gets angry at having an assignment dumped on them that they would have demanded anyway? There was absolutely no one else within the Aker Group that Seth Whitepaugh would have trusted to carry out this task. Besides, he had the Finagle's failure to make up for.

And, if nothing else, he had to admire his boss's knack for turning the tables in a debate; a talent that had served him well many times in the past.

But now, he'd been challenged…and he'd better deliver.

"Then what I propose first is to create a 'wanted poster' for young Mister Conor Lewis and have it distributed to our operatives and security officers in the greater Zootopia metro area." A scowl formed on La Peigne's face, and the wolverine quickly amended. "I don't intend to initiate an active search, you understand, but if any of our mammals should happen to cross paths with that fox kid by happenstance…well then, we absolutely wouldn't want them to be unable to take advantage of such an opportunity. With that in mind, I also want to put a couple of our takedown teams on a rotating stand-by. They probably won't be needed, but again, we shouldn't take any chances."

"Very good, I approve," the big bunny told him and then lifted an ear, "Anything else?"

"Yes, I've already got our research and intel departments trying to piece together what that fox-kid got up to in Zootopia, prior to his enrollment in the Performing Arts Academy. So far, they haven't found much, and I don't think they're going to…but again, you never know."

"But of course." La Peigne reached for his glass of mineral water, and lifted it before taking a sip, as if to seal the deal, "All right Whitepaugh, I'll leave you to your work. Let me know at once if there are any new developments, and oh…" he pointed to the tablet, "Leave that; I may have some new ideas later."

"Yes sir," the wolverine replied with a neutral expression, but when he stood up, the hairs on the back of his neck quickly followed suit. He had just been dismissed—without actually being dismissed. It was something his boss did all the time…but only with the lower echelon employees, practically never with the senior mammals, and certainly not with him.

Closing the door behind him as he exited his employer's private sanctum, the big mustelid departed at a brisk walk...one that turned almost immediately into an angry stomp. By the time he reached the front door, his cell phone was out and he was holding it in a near-crushing grip. "…and I want that chopper back here NOW!"

As a rule, Seth Whitepaugh had always detested clichés, but now, as he slipped the phone back into his pocket, he couldn't help delivering one to himself. Softly, almost under his breath, he snarled, "That was not the Jack La Peigne I know."

Notes:

Author's Note:

 

Much thanks to O.H. Shoot and E.O. Costello, for their valuable advice and suggestions regarding Nick's adventures in Zoo York City.

Chapter 26: Unintended Consequences (Cont'd...Pt. 4)

Summary:

More adventures in Zoo York with Nick

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 5—Unintended Consequences
(Cont'd…Part 4)

One Grand Central Place, Zoo York City, Sunday Morning.

"I've been watching too many stupid film noir movies; that's my problem." Nick huffed as he gazed up at the edifice before him.

He'd been expecting a crumbling brownstone, complete with dingy windows, cracked front steps and a rusty, wrought iron railing. Instead he found himself in front of a tall, neat, and rectangular Art-Deco building in 'wedding-cake' configuration, each block of floors stepped back from the one below.

Entering through the front door, he found that the interior of One Grand Central was also like nothing out of a Dashiell Hamster novel. There were no tired and stuttering lights, no worn carpet, or fading wallpaper; no surly, half asleep door-mammal. The lobby, in fact, wasn't even located at ground level; it was one floor up, via escalator.

Arriving at the top, Nick found himself in a long hallway trimmed in cinnamon-colored marble and topped with an arched, honeycomb ceiling. The lighting was both soft and cheerful.

So was the concierge behind the reception desk, a graying fallow deer doe who seemed to think that being helpful to any and all visitors was her mission in life.

"You know, you didn't have to come in through the front door, Mr. Wilde. We have direct access to Grand Central Terminal here. See me again on your way out and I'll direct you."

"I'll be sure to do that," the fox replied. She had addressed him by the wrong title, but since he hadn't yet shown his badge, it was a more than forgivable sin. Nor did he present it now, instead laying the business card Claudia had given him on the counter-top. "Anyway, here's who I'm here to see," he said, making sure to put on his best, poor-humble-red-fox demeanor; it was always most effective with animals of this sort. "I realize they're probably not in today, but I found myself with some extra time this morning, and I just happened to be in the neighborhood, and so…" He concluded the sentence with a shrug.

The deer-doe picked up the card, studied it for a second, and then returned it. "I don't know if Mr. Pennanti is in this morning; he's kind of hard to keep track of. But there ought to be someone on duty up there; like the slogan says, they never close. Nick was about to nod his thanks when she held out a hoof. "But can I see some ID first, please?"

As things turned out the concierge was spot on with her conjecture; the door to Suite 4216 was wide open. Stepping inside, Nick's first thought was that this place looked more like an upscale law firm than a detective agency; plush carpets, comfy chairs, and walnut paneling. The effect was negated only by the flurry of framed photographs, decorating the walls; vintage pictures, detailing the history of the Minkerton Detective Agency. Here was the founder, Alan Minkerton, together with Abraham Lincoon, there was the legendary James McPurrland, the detective who brought down The Lizzie McGuires. And over on the other side…what the heck? That photo looked more like it belonged on the wall of a Tombstoat saloon than a Zoo York City Detective agency. "Who's the cougar with the cowboy hat and the six-shooter?"

To the fox's surprise, someone answered him; he had addressed the question to no one in particular. "That's Charlie Bintrongo; the Cowboy Detective; he helped take down Butch Catsidy and the Wild Bunch."

Turning around, Nick saw that the speaker was not the goat behind the reception desk but a much younger animal; a badger in shirtsleeves and suspenders. Nick sized him up at once as a new hire, more than likely an intern.

But, as long as he had everyone's attention, it was time to put on his most professional air. "Oh, good morning; I'm Detective Nicholas Wilde of the Zootopia Police Department." He pulled out his police badge, making certain to display it long enough to quell any and all doubts as to its authenticity. Returning the badge to his pocket, he replaced it with the business card Claudia had given him. "I was hoping to talk to Detective Martin Pennanti this morning." Laying it on the reception desk, he tapped it with a finger. "Is he in today, by any chance?"

The she-goat picked up the card and scrutinized it with the corners of her mouth pulling back and downwards. "Ahhh, that's hard to say Detective Wilde," she told him, passing it back, "Detective Pennanti's kind of a hard mammal to pin down; comes and goes as he pleases, if you know that I mean."

Nick knew; he'd already heard it downstairs…but before he could respond the badger spoke up.

"Well, if he is here, he'll be at his desk; I can go check, if you like."

"Yep, newbie," the red fox decided, "just so eager to please." He switched his expression to an ingratiating smile, and proffered the card to the young intern. "Oh, that'd be great, could you?" And then, disguising his words as an afterthought he added. "If you do happen to see him, can you tell him Claudia Nizhang sent me? And oh…" There's nothing like a little irony in your diet; now he really had remembered something else, "And tell him, 'Justice does not descend from its own pinnacle.' He'll know what it means."

"Will do," the badger replied, taking the card and disappearing like a shot through the door to the offices beyond—while Nick could only smile.

"Hrmph, I know  beavers  who aren't that eager."

His amusement was destined not to last; in less than three minutes the young badger was back—and the expression on his face said it all.

"I'm sorry Mr….er, Detective Wilde; Detective Pennanti isn't in today."

He sounded not unlike a mechanic, mournfully informing a customer, "I'm sorry, but that part is no longer available."

Oh well, it wasn't as if this turn of events was unexpected.

"Okay," Nick nodded, "I understand; ummm, when might he be expected to return?"

The badger shot his gaze up into the ceiling lights, as if they had unexpectedly begun to flicker. And then, he looked uncomfortably at his visitor again, "Not for at least two…uh, three more days; according to his assistant, he's out of town right now."

"Ohhh, darnit…that's too bad." Nick snapped his fingers in disappointment. What he wanted to do was subject the badger to the third degree; where, exactly, had Detective Pennanti gone on his assignment?

And what he really wanted to do was grab this kid by the collar and get right in his face, "Go ahead and lie to me, but DON'T insult my intelligence!"

He'd already had enough of that from the ZYPD.

"I'm truly sorry Detective," the badger informed him dolefully, holding out the card that Nick had given him like a peace offering.

The fox was barely able to stop himself from snatching out of the intern's paw. But when he finally took hold of it…heyyy, wait a second; he didn't remember the card feeling this thick. And when he rubbed his thumb and forefinger, he felt a sensation of paper sliding against paper; he'd been given back two cards for the price of one.

Forcing his ears not to prick upright, Nick thanked the goat and badger for their time and made a graceful, if somewhat hasty, exit.

When the elevator arrived, there were at least three other animals on board, a wallaby and a pair of marron sheep. It was only after they exited—three floors down—that the fox felt safe in retrieving the extra card. It was an exact copy of the one he'd received from Claudia, and for a moment he thought he'd grabbed the original by mistake. But when he turned it over, he saw written on the back,

Lou's Deli
4th Ave between 35 and 36 th  St.
1 hr.

Pennanti

He stuffed the card back in his wallet with his brows beetling at full tilt. He was sorely tempted to go straight to Lou's, grab a table, and wait. He might have done just that, except his instincts were fox-screaming, 'Bad idea!' Detective Pennanti would be just as put off if he showed up early for their meeting as he would be if his visitor walked in late. Checking with Zoogle maps on his cell phone, Nick saw that the place was about a 15 minute walk from One Grand Central. Okay-y-y, there was no rule saying he couldn't go check out the location, provided he didn't actually go inside. Hmmm, now there was an idea with merit. It'd be just his luck on this fine Sunday morning to wait a while and then get lost on the way—and then, by the time he finally found the place, Martin Pennanti would have long since departed and sorry pal, you had your chance.

Nick didn't get lost, and he found Lou's Diner and Deli right away. It was pretty hard to miss; what with a front all done up in fire-engine red, and a parade of umbrella tables—and patrons—lining the sidewalk out front. Stepping around the corner, he spotted an unoccupied bench and settled down to wait. It was muggy in Zoo York this morning and rapidly getting warmer. He expected the wait to last forever, but it seemed like no time at all had passed before the appointed hour was upon him.

Entering through the diner's front door, the first thing he heard was the scream of another fox, "ORDER UP!" The second thing he noted was that the line of animals waiting for a table stretched all the way out through the door—and halfway up the block, even further than he'd first surmised. No wonder Detective Pennanti had wanted to give it an hour before meeting him.

"Hi hon," a voice spoke from behind, and he turned to see an attractive grey vixen in a waitress' uniform, standing with a notepad in her paws and a pen at the ready. "Gonna be about an hour's wait for a table." She was shorter than Nick and he was obliged to adjust his gaze downwards a little in order to speak to her.

"Ahhh, I'm actually supposed to be meeting somebody. Martin Pennanti; is he here yet?"

By way of response, the vixen turned and called over her shoulder, "Morrie, that guy just walked in!"

"I'm comin', I'm comin'" a voice answered from behind the counter, and then a slightly stooped bison came shunting around the end, wiping his hooves on an apron as he approached. For some reason, he reminded the fox of his old attorney, Vern Rodenberg.

"You Wilde?" he asked, and before the fox could manage even half a nod, he turned and beckoned with a pair of crooked fingers, leading the way towards a door at the back of the eatery. As it closed behind him, Nick found himself in a short hallway, with several more doors to choose from. Stopping in front of one of them, the Bison rapped on the wood and said simply, "Your guy's here."

"Send him in," a muffled voice answered from the other side, and the buffalo swung open the door for Nick to enter.

Inside was a small private dining room, papered in red, like the front of the deli. There were several tables to choose from, but only the one occupied was the table reserved for small-mammal species.

Nick knew without asking that the occupant was the animal he'd come to see; he'd made a point of memorizing the fisher's photograph even before leaving Zootopia. This was Martin Pennanti all right, noooo question about it.

He was big for his species, nearly as large as a honey-badger; big and lean, with fur the color of dark-roast coffee and not an ounce of fat to spare, together with the alertness common to fishers and martens. Even though he was perhaps a few inches taller than Nick, his paws were easily twice as big as the fox's. Were it not for the graying around his muzzle, he could have easily passed for the same age as his visitor.

He was dressed for the occasion in a pair of dark slacks with a lizard-skin belt and a dove gray shirt, open at the collar with a medallion on thick, gold chain encircling his neck. His facial fur was combed, trimmed, and slicked back up top. He could almost have been one of Mr. Big's soldiers.

Almost…because there was something about this fisher that said he'd jump into a barrel of vipers before he'd become part of La Cosa Nostra.

"So you're Wilde," he said, getting up and offering a paw, "I'm Martin Pennanti, ex ZYPD; pleased to meet you." His grip was firm and dry, and as they shook, Nick became aware of the prickle of some very sharp claws. Though he seemed to be harboring not an ounce of malicious intent, this fisher was undeniably someone you didn't want to mess with.

"Nice of you to see me, Detective Pennanti," Nick answered, nodding as he took his paw back. He had already decided to keep it formal, at least in the beginning.

"No problem," the fisher replied, taking his seat again and tilting his head sideways. "So Claudia sent you, huh? How's her boy?"

"She has a son?" Nick's head was also canted to the right, "I didn't know that, I only met her daughter." Sensing that he was being tested, he quickly added, "Nice kid; plays a good game of softball."

"Yep," Pennanti nodded, beginning to look satisfied, "And how's Chief Sabratha treating you these days?"

"Wouldn't know," the red fox shrugged, "I work out of Precinct 1, in Savanna Central." Yep, the fisher was definitely testing him. Hisham Sabratha, an addax antelope was the ZPD's head honcho in Sahara Square. Nick wasn't offended by his host's line of questioning; had their positions been reversed, he would have probably done the same thing.

"So," Pennanti slapped at his knee, "Got one heckuva runaround at One Police Plaza, didja?"

NOW Nick felt his ears prick up. "You heard about that?"

"Didn't have to," the fisher shrugged, "I know the guys in charge down there. Did you happen to meet Commissioner Waghorn during your visit?"

"No," the fox admitted, "I only talked to Chief of Detectives Anta." And for only perhaps a half a minute, but he decided to keep that part to himself.

"Lucky you," Pennanti replied, in a voice that was either a hiss or a growl. "That bum makes Chief Anthill look like Captain Cooperation." He waved a paw at the chair opposite, "Sit down, sit down…take a load off."

"Thanks." Accepting the invitation, Nick came to the swift conclusion that it would serve him well to keep his words to a minimum. "In the interest of saving time Detective Pennanti, I think it might be best if you told me how much you already know about my reasons for being in Zoo York.

"Yeah, okay," the fisher said, waving a paw. His reaction was as laconic as if they were discussing last week's weather, but again the fox suspected it was all a front.

In less than a moment, he was proven exactly right

"First of all, let's get this out of the way." Pennanti leaned forward and clasped his paws on the table; his eyes were like greased ball bearings. "I know the reason you came to Zoo York has something to do with The Company—And I'll only go so far in discussing that subject, understand? And I'll tell you something else; the only reason I'm talking to you at all is because of Claudia, especially that quote she had you lay on me. If it wasn't for that, I'd have been 'out of town' until after you left Zoo York." He opened his paws and spread them, "Just so we understand each other."

"Okay," Nick nodded, but there was one thing, at least, that he didn't comprehend. "But if you don't mind my asking, what quote are you talking about?"

The fisher looked at him curiously for a second, but then seemed to realize something.

"Right, yeah…I guess she never told you. 'Justice does not descend from its own pinnacle.' It's one of my two favorite quotes by Dante Alighieri."

Now it was Nick's turn to stare across the table with a strange expression on his face. It lasted for only a bare second; the answer to his unspoken question was already on the way.

"My other favorite quote of his," the fisher explained, unclasping his paws and spreading them, "is this one, 'He who sees a need and waits to be asked for help is as unkind as if he had refused it.'" He looked away for a second, as if gazing upon a distant realm, murmuring to no one in particular, "Stinkin' little band-tailed strega; she always did know how to ring my guilt-bell." And then, as if to signify what was done, he clapped his pawlms on the table. "I also know you're a rookie detective. That badge you flashed back at the office is way too bright and shiny for otherwise. You're also street smart rather than book smart; I can spot that a mile away. But don't misunderstand me; as far as I'm concerned, that's points in your favor. You're also single, never been married; no ring on your finger and no change in fur color where you'd normally wear one. As for why else you're here, aside from the fact that you're trying to pick up on the trail of a diamond smuggler, I know zip about your assignment and I don't want to know…not until I hear it from you."

Nick chewed on that for a second, trying to decide where the heck to go from here. The answer turned out to be obvious, and he responded with yet another recitation of his prepared speech, wrapping it up by informing the fisher, "Just so you understand where I'm coming from." For a second, he wondered if that might have been a little too bold, but Pennanti only raised a thumb. "Glad to hear it, Detective. Did you, by any chance, mention that to anyone back at One PP?"

"Everywhere I went," Nick told him, hoping it wasn't the wrong thing to have done. It must not have been, because his host's smile became almost beaming.

"Such wisdom from one so new to the game; I think I'm beginning to like you, Wilde." But since it was only a beginning, the fisher became instantly serious and aimed a finger at the door. "You know you were followed here, right?"

Nick rubbed the back of his neck. "I didn't notice anyone…but I'm not surprised; they're been on me ever since I got here." He described the previous evening's experience, when he hailed a cab to get rid of the car that had been tracking him.

"Nice move," Pennanti nodded, before inserting a pin in the fox's bubble, "But you also know paisan, Chief Anta would have had someone following you on foot too."

Or…maybe there was no bubble to burst; "Well, if he did, it was busywork," Nick raised a throwaway paw, adding, "All I did was grab a bite to eat and head straight back to my rental. Anyway, that was mostly to let the ZYPD know that I knew they had a tail on me." He had more to say, but was interrupted by a growling from his midsection; the mention of food had awakened the realization that he'd skipped breakfast earlier.

The noises from his stomach were not lost on his host.

"What's up, you haven't had breakfast yet? Ah, neither have I, hold on a second."

He got up and went to the door, "Be right back," and then exited, returning a moment later and taking his seat again. "Okay, I ordered us each a Nova omelet, with hash browns and juice on the side."

Nick felt his ears rising upwards. "Um…a what now?" A Nova omelet; what the heck was this, breakfast on The Enterprise?

Pennanti's dark eyes seemed to sparkle for a second "Nova lox, the best in the five Burrows; trust me, you'll love it."

Nick felt himself grinning sheepishly. "I-I-I'll take your word for it, Detective Pennanti." He was beginning to understand how Judy must have felt, her first few days in Zootopia.

The fisher flipped a paw back and forth. "Ahhh, I think we're past titles at this point; call me Marty."

It was then and only then that the fox knew he'd finally passed muster with his host. Whoa, he'd have hated to have this animal looking to nail him, back in his street-hustling days.

But those days were long gone, and so he smiled. "Okay Marty…and I'm Nick, or Nicky if you prefer."

"All right Nicky," Pennanti leaned forward with an elbow on the table. "Lemme say, first of all that you don't have to worry about anyone interrupting us or listening in on us while we're in here. You know how Lou's Deli and Diner got its name?"

It was a silly question to ask; of course Nick wouldn't know that. But by now he'd managed to figure out that there was a point to all of the fisher's questions—and so he just shook his head.

Pennanti responded by waving a paw at the door.

"It's from the fact that this establishment was started by a Zoo York City Police Lieutenant. That bison you met out front? That's his grandson, Morris…and his daughter Ruth used to be on my team, back in the day. If anyone comes in up front, and starts asking questions about us, the only thing they're gonna get is shrugs and dumb looks…and forget about anyone being allowed within ten feet of that door over there; it's not happening."

Nick pursed his lips and nodded; now he was beginning like the fisher; he was beginning to like him a LOT. "If Claudia were here right now, I'd probably try to hug her."

"All right" Pennanti sat back from the table and clapped his paws together, "I told you what I know about why you're here in Zoo York. Now, let me flesh it out a little. We—by which I mean the ZYPD—we knew all along that The Company was dealing in conflict diamonds; there isn't a gunrunner on the planet that doesn't trade in those things. Having said that, your Zootopia connection is a new one on me; up until that shipment went out, The Mister did all his diamond business with a couple of brokers down in Furrida. We didn't find out who they were until after the dust settled, and by then, there wasn't enough evidence left to charge 'em. But from what I heard, they had a good working relationship with that sea-mink." His mouth pulled inwards and he scratched at his neck with a finger claw. "Why he decided to go looking for another buyer, I admit I don't have a clue."

"I think I might have an idea about that," Nick answered, but then cocked an ear in the direction of the door, "Uhm, but I think our food's here; can it wait until after we eat?"

"Works for me," the fisher said, just as the waitress knocked.

Nick's omelet was heavenly, and the coffee wasn't half-bad either. Even so, what he had to say couldn't wait until he was finished eating. "I think the best thing for me to do would be to tell you the story from the beginning. It all started with a sting operation, down in Sahara Square…"

It took less than half a minute for Pennanti to raise a paw.

"Ah, lavender diamond, huh? Oh-kay-y-y, is that why you think the Company might have been looking for another buyer?"

"Mmm, the thought did cross my mind." Nick reached for his glass of orange juice while his host offered a short, tight nod.

"Yeahhh, I think you're onto something there. Even back then, lavender diamonds were hard to unload, since the only ones in existence…"

"…were either artificial or conflict diamonds," the fox finished the sentence for him. "Yes, I know; Claudia told me."

"Right," Penannti waved his fork and then speared up a bite of his omelet. "Please…go on."

Nick did just that. Several times in the course of his tale, he was obliged to pause, while the fisher made another observation. "The Red Pig, huh? Whoa, there's a piece of work for ya; those jackals must have really been desperate to get in bed with THAT guy."

"…kissed her? Mmm, I gotta admit Nicky, I never would have thought a' that. But I'm assuming it worked, or you wouldn't be sitting here, right?"

"…Your Chief Bogo had the right idea, springing you and your partner on those jackals without any warning. Sometimes a short, sharp, shock is all you need to…"

Nearly all of the fisher's interjections were of the casual variety—that is, until Nick came to his discovery that the diamond drop had occurred the day after the Finagles raid. When Pennanti heard that, he pounded the table so hard that several pieces of silverware fell onto the floor and the coffee-creamer nearly tipped over.

"I knew it; I TOLD that big scemo Wagfinger that it couldn't have been Junior!"

Nick just nodded solemnly and then went on. As he continued with his tale, the interruptions became fewer and further between. Those that did occur became increasingly of the appreciative bent…especially when he related the story of his Nocturnal District interview with the Rafaj Brother

"Mama mia, you turned those guys' own lawyer against them?" Pennanti was laughing so hard, he had to set down his coffee cup. "Ahhh, I wish I coulda been there to see it, Nicky. A thing of beauty; that's what that was."

When he finally wrapped things up, his host insisted upon waiting until the dishes were cleared before finally offering any opinions. But when he did, there was plenty that he had to say.

"Whoever your diamond runner was, it had to be someone The Mister had leverage over; given the choice between bribing a guy and blackmailing him, he'd go with blackmail every time." He threw up a paw and offered a reluctant nod, "And, much as I hate to admit it, that sea-jerk had it right. If you pay someone a bribe, you can rely on their loyalty only until the money runs out. But if you blackmail 'em, you own 'em for good."

"Mmmm," Although Nick had come to seriously respect this fisher over the course of their meal, he wasn't quite sure that he agreed with him here. "Not necessarily, Marty; you can always offer them immunity."

"True," Pennanti acknowledged, rolling a pair of fingers in the air, "But that'll only keep you from going to jail; it won't protect you from any civil penalties. Let's say your mark is a rich guy who's been cheating on his wife, or—this is an actual case I know of—this investment banker guy who was married to two different wives and had two separate families, one here and one in Vancougar. He never went to jail when he finally got found out—but he was fired from his job, had his broker's license taken away, and you don't want to know what his wives did when they got him into court. None of this had anything to do with The Company mind ya, but that's exactly the kind of leverage The Mister was always looking for."

"Mmm. I see." Nick answered slowly, feeling a little like kicking himself. He should have realized that for himself. Even so, "I have to admit though; there is one thing that's always kind of puzzled me. While The Mister was here in Zoo York, his diamond mule was going to be all the way over in Zootopia. How the heck do you maintain leverage on someone from that far away?"

"Oh there's only about a million ways that can happen, Nick." Pennanti told him, sitting back and clasping his paws, "Maybe the mark had family back in Zoo York, maybe he had a warrant out on him in Zootopia, or…this was one of The Mister's favorite schemes; he called it fire-and-forget blackmail. That's where the only thing keeping you out of jail was his protection; if that went away, so did you." He tilted his head and cocked an ear. "Claudia told you that thing he always said, right?"

"'I never trust anyone I can't destroy with a single phone-call,'" the fox recited the words deadpan, feeling his tail beginning to frizz. More than ever he was glad that James 'The Mister' McCrodon was no longer of this earth. But on the subject of Claudia Nizhang, "You know, she thought the diamond courier might have been one of Kieran McCrodon's hacker crew."

"Mmmm, I-I-I don't think I necessarily agree with that idea Nicky," Pennanti drew out the words like taffy. "The Mister might have gone for it, but not Kieran; that animal was fiercely stinkin' protective of his guys. He'd never have stood by for putting one of 'em at risk like that…and scared as he was of his uncle, he had one heck of an argument on his side. Try to leverage any one of his crew and the rest would bail in a Zoo York second; no way were they gonna hang around to see the same thing happen to them."

"Agggh," Nick winced as if a tooth were bothering him. His host was probably right—heck, he WAS right—but there went the fox's own pet theory about the diamond runner's identity, right out the window.

"And there's another thing, Nick," the fisher continued, turning very grim and lifting a finger to emphasize his point, "Whenever blackmail failed him, The Mister always had violence to fall back on. Nobody, I mean nobody was better at threatening to whack you without actually saying so than his guys—especially the Danaconda. And McCrodon never gave passes, not to anyone; once you were on that sea-mink's hit parade, the only way off it was six feet under, capisce?

"Yeah I get it." Nick's answer was mostly as a grumble; his chances of unmasking the diamond mule had just taken another step backwards. You can blackmail someone only if they're vulnerable…but you can threaten just about anyone with violence. "Allll right," he said, slowly, "but if it wasn't one of Kieran McCrodon's crew, do you have any idea who it could have been?"

"That's what we're gonna see if we can find out," Pennanti answered, and then to the fox's surprise, got up from his chair and tossed a couple of bills on the tabletop. "C'mon, let's go."

"Alll riiiight," Nick answered slowly, rising up from his seat even more slowly, "but, uh, where are we going."

"Roarkefeller center," his host replied, reaching for the door.

Nick felt his head tilting sideways again. "Ummm, okay…but what's there?"

The fisher turned and winked over his shoulder, "The Diamond District."

That was all Nick needed to hear, and he swiftly raised his paws. "Ahh, in that case, say no more; lead on, mon Capitaine."

Pennanti regarded him over a shoulder again, this time with a sardonic expression, "Nicky, if we're gonna get along over here, there's one thing you need to understand; I ain't Furench, I'm Italion…got that?"

There are some things a clever fox just can't resist; Nick snapped to attention and smartly saluted him. "Oui…I mean Si."

"Ahhh, Jeez," the fisher groaned, "Like we don't already have a million unemployed comedians in this town."

Notes:

Author's Note:
Another chapter will be coming on Monday, featuring a special guest-appearance.

Chapter 27: Unintended Consequences (Cont'd...Pt. 5)

Summary:

Nick meets a kindred spirit, a familiar face to some readers, at least.

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 5—Unintended Consequences
(Cont'd…Part 5)

They were within easy walking distance of Roarkefeller Center, but Detective Pennanti insisted on driving…and there was no denying that he had the car for it, a gleaming-black Heardst/Coltsmobile with a 442 under the hood and the weirdest looking shift array Nick had ever seen. Luckily for him, the fisher had the driving skills to go with his ride; he was especially adept at weaving his way through gaps between vehicles driven by large mammals.

Not everyone on the road right then was as proficient as him. On East 45th, they watched a Lepus came barreling out of a parking garage and nearly run a motorcyclist right into the oncoming traffic. When they came to the next light, the rhebok on the motorbike jumped off his machine, threw down the kickstand, and proceeded to stick his face in the Lepus' driver's-side window, screaming his head off. He was ten seconds into his tirade when a female jaguar broke from the sidewalk, leapt onto his bike and took off at full throttle, nearly creaming a FerEx driver as she sped through the intersection against the light.

The response from the crowd of onlookers was a mixed bag of applause and rolling on the ground, laughing. The response from Nick Wilde was wide eyes and an even more wide open mouth. "Uhhhh…"

The reaction from Martin Pennanti was half a sigh, and half a groan of resignation, "Welcome to Zoo York, Nicky." He pulled out his cell phone and began to scroll.

"You're…not going to go after her?" the fox asked incredulously. His host's reply was delivered with a glare and a snarl.

"With all those jerks uptown who'd just love ANY excuse to take away my driver's license? I don't think so, paisan…Ahhh nuts, there goes the traffic-light. Here..." he passed the phone to Nick. "Hit that third number on speed-dial and hold it up to my face, wouldja?"

The fox did as he was asked. A short pause followed and then the fisher began to speak.

"That you, Joey? Oh, good. Yeah, it's me…listen, I just saw some jaguar-chick jack a motorcycle on 45th and Bark and take off westbound, might be making for the Lincoon Tunnel. License plate's 28BH68, Kowasaki Ninja..." his lips pulled back, revealing a fang. "Yeah, I'm sure; what other bike comes in that ugly green color—hmmm?" His eyes darted sideways at Nick for a second. "Yeah, that's right…why?" Whatever it was, it caused the fisher's grip to tighten on the steering wheel and made his brows flatline. "Ahhh, let 'im; I don't care what that bum thinks any more. Yeah, yeah…thanks for the warning anyway; I appreciate it. Ciao! Uhhh, you can take the phone away now, Nicky."

"Okay," the fox complied regarding his host expectantly, "Uhhh, do I want to know what that last part was all about?"

"No, but you need to," Pennanti replied, keeping his eyes on the road, "Seems Commissioner Wagfing…Waghorn is aware that you and I made contact." He flashed that sardonic smirk again. "I'd tell you what he had to say about it, but I don't know if you can handle that kinda language."

Nick leaned back in his seat and spread his paws. "I can deal with it, but you don't need to tell me the details; I get the idea." His next words were like a mouse, venturing cautiously from its hole. "Ummmm, but is this going to affect our…?"

"Hey, didn't you hear me say I don't care what that guy thinks?" The fisher's eyes were still glued to the traffic ahead of him. Nick nodded, but he wasn't quite sure how much his companion had actually meant what he said.

It wasn't until they were on board another elevator, this one a brushed-steel box, that the red fox realized; he hadn't been told where they were going, not the exact destination anyway. Before he had time to ask, the doors opened and he found himself in a wide, brightly lit corridor with midnight blue carpeting and walls the color of eggnog. No numbers were visible on any of the doors, but Pennanti seemed to know exactly where they were going. About three doors down from the elevator, he paused before one of them, which, like the others, had no number, but which DID have a card-reader and an intercom. Nick watched as he pressed the button and a second later, heard a voice could have passed for a badly scratched old vinyl record. "Yes, sir…how may I help you?"

The fisher leaned in close as he spoke, "Martin Pennanti for Mr. Wolf."

"Just a second," the voice replied, and then went away for almost three minutes. "He's not here yet, but you can wait; hang on, I'll buzz you in." A click and hum followed as the door unlatched. Stepping halfway through, Penannti held it open for Nick, and then followed, letting it close behind him. Looking around, the fox saw that he was inside a hexagonal antechamber, furnished with a pair of modernesque couches and not much else. The wall directly in front of him consisted of a steel-framed door, fitted with what looked like armored glass. Behind a window of similar construction next to it, a plumpish marbled-polecat was typing briskly away at a workstation, indifferent to her visitors.

Peering through the thick, glass door, Nick spied a septet of glass display cases arranged in a rough semicircle. Behind them, lining the honey-colored walls, he saw a wraparound row of more displays, featuring a variety of necklaces, pendants, etc. In the center of the room was a circular case that appeared to contain an assortment of wristwatches. The illumination came by way of overhead track lighting.

He smiled bitterly as a wave of déjà vu swept over him. The room beyond that door was basically a compact, minimalist version of Rafaj Brother's Jewelers…although even more upscale; in fact, a lot more upscale. Why else would there be not one, not two, but three security guards on duty, a tiger, a rhino, and a bighorn ram. The only other occupants were a pair of otters, currently engaged in what looked like a loud discussion.

"Nick, come here a second, wouldja?"

Turning around, he saw Pennanti seated on the couch nearest, gesturing to the space beside him. He went over and parked himself on the cushions, waiting.

"Okay," the fisher said, leaning towards him with a paw clasped in the other, "When my guy gets here, he's either Mr. Wolf, or just Wolfie. Whatever you do, don't ask him his real name. He won't give it to you and he might even decide to clam up on us; got that?"

"Yeah, okay," Nick nodded, attempting to hide his confusion.

His thoughts were interrupted as the door buzzed again, and then opened to admit an odd assortment of mammals.

There were three of them, a grizzly bear, a Tasmanian devil, and sandwiched in between the two, a rangy Saiga antelope. What made the trio seem strange was their mode of dress; long, black coats that draped almost to the floor, dark, broad-brimmed hats of thick felt, and snow-white shirts, open at the collar, no ties. The bear was decked out in gold-rimmed glasses, and the antelope had a briefcase cuffed to his wrist. Diamond buyers—or sellers; Nick couldn't decide which. As they passed by the fox, they gave him not even the briefest look, instead making straight for the armored-glass door. Another buzz followed and the bear pulled it open. As the trio entered the shop, the otters came around the counter with serious looks on their faces, behind them the three security guards had fanned out behind the display cases with paws and hooves on their holsters.

Taking no notice, the antelope bowed deferentially and lifted his briefcase, as if preparing to open it. At that moment, the bear flicked his wrists and a quartet of black, serrated, metallic eggs dropped from his coat and onto the floor. In practically the same instant, the Tasmanian Devil dived into a forward roll, coming up with an egg in each paw and tossing them behind the counters. All three of the guards screamed. Nick couldn't hear their words, but he could read their lips, "Grenade!" and he could also see everyone leaping for cover–except for the trio of interlopers. He almost did the same but was brought up short by a paw on his shoulder, "Easy, Nicky…just watch."

The fox didn't comply right away, but instead stared peculiarly at his companion for a moment. When he turned around again, he saw the security guards kneeling with their arms raised—under the cover of three pistols and a sawed-off shotgun. All of their holsters were meanwhile empty, and their weapons were strewn haphazardly across the carpet. The otters remained pasted to the floor.

Again Nick tried to move, making a grab for his cell phone, and again Pennanti restrained him. "Just watch."

The fox did—and what he saw was the thieves abruptly stashing their weapons and the Tasmanian Devil reaching down to offer the otters a paw up. At the same time, the antelope was motioning to the security guards and gesturing towards the door. It buzzed again and then all six of them came marching into the waiting room, the guards looking like they just wanted to go off and die somewhere.

As the door clicked shut again, the antelope reached up with both hooves and began to fiddle with the back of his neck. When he took off his hat, the antlers came with it—and so did his face. Underneath was a sharp, unmistakably lupine visage with chestnut fur. This, Nick realized, must be the elusive Mr. Wolf.

"Whoof, am I glad to get that thing off," he said, indulging in a brief canine shake and then tossing the mask onto the empty couch. Turning ten degrees clockwise, he held out a paw to the Tasmanian devil, who obligingly passed him one of the grenades. Holding it up like a trophy, he pivoted ten more degrees, addressing the three security guards.

"Okay, first thing; when you pull the pin on a grenade, what that does is start a powder-train burning—and burning powder has an odor." He waved the grenade under the noses of the three security-animals. "Do you smell anything here? No, you don't, because this is a dummy grenade." He tossed it back to the Tasmanian Devil and then put his paws on his hips. "And it's a good thing too, because if those things had been real, we'd all be dead right now." He paused for effect, "ALL of us—including me, Mr. Shark, and Mr. Piranha." He gestured towards the bear and Tasmanian devil. "In a confined space like that, even one of those babies would probably be enough to do the job." Having made his point, he leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at the security mammals. "So, let me ask you this; how many thieves do you know that are going to blow themselves up before they even make their first demand?"

It was obviously meant as a rhetorical question, but the ram raised a finger just the same. "I…"

"That's right, nobody!" the wolf nodded as if the sheep had just wholeheartedly agreed with him. "Not then, not after they make their demands, not even if the cops show up and corner them. Forget about, 'you'll never take me alive,' just forget it. That stuff's for terrorists, not professional thieves."

He spent a moment looking over the trio, and then, apparently satisfied that they'd been properly chastised, he softened his stance a bit.

"I'm not doing this to be a jerk, you understand," he said, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms, "I just want to make sure that if someone tries that gag on you for real, you'll be ready." His jaw set into a hard, flat line and he pointed at the armored glass door once again. "And it just might happen. Over in Ewerope, that scam we pulled in there is the hottest new trend among jewel thieves. Only a few months ago, a crew in Antlerp got away with nearly a cool million in precious stones using fake grenades. But, uh…" He lifted his muzzle slightly. Nick thought at first he might be scenting the air but then saw it was eyes, not his nose that was engaged. He was looking past the guards to the armored door, where one of the otters was gesturing with a paw while pointing behind him with the other. "Uhm, it looks like one of you needs to get back to work, sooo," he reached into his pocket and pulled out three business cards, which he handed in turn to each of the security officers. "Go ahead and get in there—whichever one of you is still on duty; the rest of you can go take off. We'll meet at 7:30 at the address I gave you and go over things in more detail…and yes, you'll be paid for your time, and yes I'm buying. It was the last three words that finally brought a smile to the faces of the trio of guard-mammals.

For the next few minutes, Mr. Wolf remained silent, declining to speak again until the tiger had been buzzed back through the armored-glass door—and his two compatriots buzzed outside. Even then, he reserved his remarks for his companions; the most attention he was willing to concede to Martin Pennanti was a sardonic yellow eye. For all the attention HE was getting, Nick Wilde might have been the Invisible Fox.

"'Kay, I have a little business to discuss with the Lieutenant here, so why don't you guys head on back downstairs and I'll see you there after I'm done."

"Okay, but can you hurry it up?" the bear pleaded, in a surprisingly whiny voice for his species, "I haven't eaten yet."

No, wait…that wasn't him; the petition had come from somewhere beneath his overcoat. And as Nick watched in amazement, something dropped to the floor beneath the grizzly…not another grenade, but a member of Duke Weaselton's species, only slightly larger and a LOT less scrawny.

Seeing him, the Tasmanian Devil sniggered. "You ALWAYS haven't eaten yet, Snake."

At once, the weasel turned on him, "HA! Look who's talking, Mr. Walking Appetite." He had more to say, but was interrupted by a whistle that would have done a factory proud—and that also caused Nick to slap his paws over his ears.

He apparently wasn't the only one in that frame of mind. Just as Mr. Wolf was taking his fingers from his mouth, a cell-phone buzzed inside his pocket and then connected—all by itself, going immediately to speaker-phone mode without his intervention.

"For the love of Mike, Wolfie," a high female voice trilled angrily. "SOME of us like our ears the way they are…still working."

"Oops, sorry," the wolf rolled his eyes, avoiding the gaze of his other two compatriots. Down below, Nick could see his tail, curling between his legs. "Go ahead and shut down, I'll see you outside in a minute."

The unseen speaker didn't seem to hear him. "Wait, who's that in there with you? Oh, my Gaw…is that Pennanti? What the heck does HE want?"

She was cut off by a low growl from Mr. Wolf.

"Uh, what part of 'shut down', did you not understand Ms. Tarantula?" No longer contrite, but irritated, he powered off his phone before she could get in a rebuttal, and then turned to speak to the rest of his crew. "Out please…now," he purred, pointing stiff-armed at the door. When his companions were finally gone, he walked over and flopped down on the couch opposite Nick and Martin Pennanti. "Well Lieutenant," he said, clasping his paws like a maître d', "to what do I owe the honor of your presence?"

"Oh for the luvva…" The fisher looked at him with a pained expression, "How many times have I gotta say it, I'm not a cop anymore!"

The wolf spread his arms as if offering an embrace. "Awwww, but you'll ALWAYS be a cop to me, sweetie."

Pennanti snarled, and looked away, "Ohhh, shaddup!" And then he was drumming his fingers on his knee and grumbling, "I could have stayed away from your parole hearing, but noooooo!"

Sensing he had reached his limit, the wolf at last turned his attention to Nick, "Annnd I don't believe we've been introduced."

"I'm Detect…G'hum," Nick coughed and tried again; he had spent the last few seconds struggling to keep from laughing, "Detective Nicholas Wilde, Zootopia PD."

He stretched out a paw and the wolf took it.

"Wellll, someone finally had the brains to give a fox a badge; nice to meet you, Detective. You can call me Mr. Wolf or just Wolfie."

"Yes, I know," Nick answered, aiming a thumb at the fisher sitting next to him, "The Lieutenant already explained."

Pennanti's head snapped sideways. "Hey, don't you start!"

"Sorry." the fox coughed again. Anymore of this and he'd have wring his tail to stifle his amusement. And since a good trick was always worth repeating…"So Mr. Wolf…Mmmm, maybe I better just tell you the story from the beginning."

The report came out as a collaborative effort, with Nick delivering most of it and Pennanti filling in the blanks. When they had finished, Mr. Wolf immediately raised a triplet of fingers.

"Okay, gentlemammals…three words; wrong, wrong—and wrong!"

He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, while his visitors exchanged bewildered glances.

"What do you mean 'wrong'?" Detective Pennanti sounded profoundly insulted—and Nick felt a little affronted himself. Who the heck did this animal think he was?

"I mean," the wolf spread his paws open, "if THAT'S who you think your diamond mule is, good luck trying to nail him; you'd be better off chasing ghosts."

He sat back and laid his paws in his lap, a lupine guru waiting to see which animal would be the first to respond, the fox or the fisher. After a second or two, Nick cleared his throat.

"All right…how about enlightening us poor, unwashed mammals and explaining why you think we're wrong." He could get smart-mouthed, too.

"If you insist," the wolf stretched his arms over his head. "I never muled precious stones myself, you understand—but I stuck up enough guys that did. And, no offense to our fine, upstanding officers…and former officers, but running into to a guy like me was always their biggest fear, not the cops."

"Okay-y-y," Nick drew the word out slowly. Though he couldn't say why, he seemed to understand that this was an important point. "So you know the business, I get that. But again, why does that make you think we're wrong?"

"Yeah, why?" Martin Pennanti echoed.

"Several reasons," Mr. Wolf replied, getting up from his chair and gesturing to the wall behind him as if it was a blackboard. "First of all, your courier was transporting conflict diamonds. As a jewel thief, I always made it a point to stay away from those things; too hard to unload. And I especially made it a point to avoid boosting lavender diamonds—even before they passed that law, making it illegal to own them, those things were tougher than heck to get rid of. And because they were so rare, they were also a whole lot easier for the guy you robbed to trace back to you."

"Right, okay," Pennanti conceded. And then it was his turn to lean forward. Getting his Devil's Advocate on, he asked, "But then why not just rob the courier after they make the exchange? As the saying goes, 'cash is king.'"

"Yeah that's right," the wolf replied with a sardonic smirk, "King Henry the stinking Eighth! Dinero in the raw carries a lot of weight and takes up a lot more space than most mammals realize". He pointed at the armored-glass door. "If we'd really been robbing this place, we could have fit all everything we wanted in that briefcase I brought, and still had room for the watches. On the other paw, if we'd been trying to steal the cash equivalent, it would have taken either two trips, or two more guys, to get it all downstairs." Seeing Nick about to raise a finger, he moved swiftly to outflank the fox. "I know, I know; your diamond courier wasn't picking up nearly that much cash. But there's another, much bigger reason why I wouldn't have gone near him."

"And what's that?" his visitors asked in unison.

Taking his seat again, the wolf scratched at his muzzle with a foot. "Well, that's going to take some explanation—but trust me, it's all important. Now," he focused his gaze on Nick, "That jewelry store you mentioned, Rafaj Brothers…As a matter of fact, I know that outfit. A few years ago, a weasel out of Zootopia came to me with a proposal to rob the place; said it would be the easiest score ever. I checked it out, and what do you know, he was right, it would have been easy…a little TOO easy. And so I dug a tiny bit deeper and found out the owners were paying protection to none other than The Red Pig. Soon as I heard that, I told Mr. Weasel thanks but noooo thanks. He was none too happy about it I can tell you. Mr. Snake finally ended up giving him the bum's rush; he didn't LIKE being talked to that way by a member of his own species."

Nick just had to ask it; almost certainly it hadn't been that animal, but how could any fox resist? "Hmmmm, a weasel from Zootopia huh; his name wouldn't have been Duke by any chance, would it?"

"Ah, so you know that loser?" Mr. Wolf smirked, and then grew entirely serious, "But the point is this, Wilde." He poked himself in the chest with a thumb. "Given the choice between having either the Sahara Square Mob or The Company on my back, this big bad wolf would have gone with the little pigs any day of the week." He leaned forward again, even further than before. "But NOW do you get it? No jewel thief, period, was going to mess with one of The Mister's diamond shipments—not if he liked being able to breathe without a respirator."

For a moment, Nick was more bewildered than ever—until the pieces began to fall into place in his mind.

"Sooo…what you're saying is, knowing that his diamonds were safe from any thieves, the Mister could have concentrated all his efforts on keeping the police from intercepting them."

The wolf winked and cocked a finger at him, "Give the fox a kewpie doll, that's exactly what I mean." He shifted his attention to Martin Pennanti, "And as you know, Lieu…Detective, with that in mind, his best course of action would have been to go full on meek-and-helpless with his courier, am I right?"

"This is true," the fisher agreed, nodding—at Nick, not at the wolf.

"All right," the fox agreed, still not quite certain of his footing, "And what are some of the ways he might have done that?" He had a few ideas of his own but wanted to hear Mr. Wolf's thoughts on the matter.

"Oh there's all kinds of possibilities," the lupine jewel-thief suggested, "Crippled is always good; just make sure that whoever it is, they're handicapped for real and not faking."

"Riiiight," Nick nodded, drawing out the word into a growl. He was not inexperienced in that regard and knew that one careless moment is all it takes for a bogus disability to be exposed. "And of course, they wouldn't hide the stones in their crutches or a wheelchair."

"Nope, never, ever in anything you're carrying on with you," the wolf replied, "always with the checked luggage…and the best place to hide 'em is in something you're bringing in gift-wrapped. The only way MSA will open a gift-wrapped package—especially if it's addressed to a kid—is if they've either been tipped off, have probable cause, or if something shows up on the X-rays."

"And The Mister's guys would have made sure of that," Pennanti observed with caustic sniff. "Those dirtbags never skipped a detail."

"There is one problem I see with using a disabled animal to run contraband." Nick tapped at his chin, looking thoughtful, "Everyone keeps offering to carry your bags for you. Not much of a problem when you're bringing in the diamonds but later on, after you pick up the money, it might be a different story…especially since the weight may be a bit much for a handicapped animal to handle."

"Mmmm, good point there," Mr. Wolf mused, regarding Nick with what looked like an increased measure of respect. "Ahhh, sorry but I have to ask; you're sure it was cash money…not cryptocurrency?"

"Yep, 100% positive," the fox answered, slapping his thigh to emphasize the point, "I can't tell you how we know this, but those diamonds were definitely paid for in cash."

"And keep in mind that this was three years ago," Pennanti reminded them both, "before crypto really caught on."

"Oh, riiiight," Mr. Wolf's ears fell slightly downward…and Nick decided that this was as good an opening as he was going to get.

"Yes, and that brings up something else; I know this doesn't happen much anymore, but again, this was three years ago, and so… well a few seconds back you suggested that the best place to hide those diamonds would have been in a present for a kid. In that case, could our courier have been a kid himself?"

To his considerable surprise, the wolf's answering nod was both vigorous and immediate.

"Ohhhh yeah, good thought, Wilde. If I remember correctly, there was this one young fox kid that…"

"Forget it, Wolfie," Pennanti interrupted, glancing sideways at Nick for a second, "I know who you're talking about and that's strictly a non-starter; he's dead."

"Ahhhh," Mr. Wolf half groaned, half growled, "back to the drawing board."

"'Fraid so," the fisher agreed and then turned to Nick again, "Too bad, really; if that particular fox-kid was still alive he'd be your prime suspect right now. He was tough, street-smart…but you sure wouldn't have known it to look at him, not with that busted-up muzzle of his. Most pathetic looking thing ever." he shook his head, nose wrinkling in disgust, "And The Company practically owned him. Without those guys, he'd have had no place to go but the street, and maybe worse. If The Mister had given the job of running those diamonds to that kid…well, he didn't."

Nick forced himself not to grimace. Dangit, he didn't want to drop the subject, but now he'd have to. Otherwise his companion would get suspicious; and he wasn't quite ready for that, not yet.

The next twenty minutes were spent reviewing some of the other possibilities.

A female with a baby, "But make sure it's a real kid."

A pregnant female, "THAT you can fake, though I wouldn't recommend it."

An injured military service-mammal, "Those are always good. A guy on disability leave bringing presents home to the folks; what could be more natural? And you better believe the MSA won't be in a hurry to search their bags."

"Ahhh, I don't know about that." Pennanti was looking dubious. "It's all fun and games until you run into another service-mammal and they start asking questions that you can't answer. Next thing you know, you've got the MPs all over you. And if you're in a military uniform, even a fake one, it puts you under military jurisdiction. What that means is, they can pull you off your flight, any time they like, and have both you and your luggage strip-searched, no explanation required."

Feeling his ears rise up again, Nick studied his companion with a tilted head; the fisher seemed to be speaking from experience.

The rest of their conversation was more or less a rehash of ground they'd already covered. No, Mr. Wolf agreed, the courier probably hadn't been one of Kieran McCrodon's hacker crew.

But with one qualification; "unless he volunteered for the job without being asked—and that could have happened. The Mister might have been a dangerous animal to work for, but he always paid good money and sooner, rather than later. In that case, your guy Kieran couldn't have said no—not unless he wanted a mutiny on his paws."

In regards to the other likely culprit, however, his views were considerably dimmer.

"Nope, a professional smuggler wouldn't have hung around in Zootopia after picking up the money; he'd have been long gone."

"Maybe…but what if he was based there already?" Pennanti countered.

"Yeah," Nick agreed, "And wouldn't it be a plus to have someone carrying those stones who knew his way around the destination?" He had already made a note to discuss this with Lieutenant Saw the next time they talked.

"Well yes," the wolf nodded, seemingly ready to concede, "Except I never heard of a professional smuggler quitting the business to become a loan-shark, did you?"

Nick had to admit that no he hadn't—and neither had Pennanti—but that didn't mean he was ready to yield yet either.

"Well don't forget, he needed to find a way to launder that cash."

Mr. Wolf looked at him for a second and then threw back his head and howled. No, not howling, he was laughing. "Oh, puh-LEEZE; if anything, that proves your courier wasn't a pro. I could have had that money changed over in two, three days tops, and I don't know any other professional who could have gotten it done at least as quickly."

He had precious little more to offer in regards to the diamond mule's identity…but he was far from finished.

"The only thing I don't understand is why those diamonds ended up being delivered so late. Correct me if I'm wrong, but the way I heard it, The Mister liked to run a tight ship. He would have wanted his courier to make the exchange as soon as he left the airport and then head straight back to Zoo York, no overnighter in Zootopia, and no kidding." He was looking at Martin Pennanti.

"Also true," the fisher nodded, "But you have to remember what else was going on at the time. Maybe when the courier heard about the Finagles raid, he hesitated."

"Noooo, I don't think so." It was Nick, not Mr. Wolf. "If that had been me—when I heard about Finagles, I'd have wanted to get to Zootopia right now, before the buyers had time to get wind of that raid. Otherwise, there'd have been nothing to stop them from just taking the diamonds and not paying me."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Pennanti was sitting back and making stopping motions with his paws, "I hadn't thought of that, you're right Nick. Only…if that's the case, why did that exchange happen so late?"

Nick, in fact, had a theory as to why that had happened—but wanted to keep it to himself until after he'd done some research.

In any event, he wouldn't have had time to bring it up now. Just then, Mr. Wolf rocked forward on the sofa and stood up. "Gents, I hate to run out on you but…sorry, I've got to run."

"No problem," Martin Pennanti said, getting up as well. "I think we pretty much covered everything important." He held out a paw to Mr. Wolf. "Thanks for your help, I appreciate it."

The wolf took the paw and shook it, "Think nothing of it," and then he winked, "Lieutenant!"

Pennanti yanked the paw away. "Everybody's a comedian!"

When Nick's turn came he was equally grateful—and also curious.

"If you don't mind Mr. Wolf, can I ask you fursonal question?"

"Well, you can ASK," the wolf replied, regarding him with a smirk and a jaundiced eye. In the background, Martin Pennanti was frantically trying to wave him off.

Glancing sideways at the fisher for a second, Nick took in a short, deep breath.

Where the idea had originated the fox had no idea…or even when it had hatched in his mind. But there was no way he wasn't going to ask the question. Somehow—he didn't know how—he felt a kindred spirit with this wolf.

Or…maybe it wasn't so odd. In another life, they might have ended up working together. Heist crews were always on the lookout for a good hustler to fill out the roster. And who was to say that, with a clean record, Mr. Wolf might not also have ended up in law enforcement? He was certainly working on the side of the angels now.

And so Nick had to ask him, "Okay…one former grifter to another; what was it that finally made you decide to turn it around and go straight? I mean, for good."

The wolf smiled and winked at him

Ahhh let's just say it's amazing, what meeting the right lady can do for your attitude…if you know what I mean."

"Right," the red fox answered, nodding somberly. He knew exactly what Mr. Wolf meant…although, at the moment, he wasn't sure he wanted to.

Notes:

Author's Note:

Usually I make it a point to avoid including characters from other franchises in this story, except obliquely. The thinly disguised version of Porsha Crystal from the Meet on the Ledge arc is about as far as I've gone up to this point. However, in writing the current chapter, I happened to be in need of a former jewel thief going into the process. I had originally planned to create an OC for the part, but after seeing The Bad Guys, resistance was futile, as the saying goes; Mr. Wolf was absolutely perfect for the job.

However since there are no sentient fish, reptiles, or arachnids in the Zootopia Canon, at least not yet, it was necessary to change the species of at least three of his compatriots to something mammalian. The exception, of course, was Ms. Tarantula, since we never actually see her in the chapter; she's obviously a mammal too, but her exact species is something I leave up to the reader's imagination.

Chapter 28: Unintended Consequences (Cont'd...Pt. 6)

Summary:

Various doings, in Precinct-1 and elsewhere

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 5—Unintended Consequences
(Cont'd…Part 6)

"But anyway…good work, Wilde."

"Uhhh, can I get that in writing, Chief?"

"Don't push y' luck, fox."

Lieutenant Saw had been unavailable to take Nick's call, but Chief Bogo was at his desk, and had insisted on hearing his report immediately. Never one to buck too much authority, he'd complied without objection.

The next thing he said was a testament to his knowledge of just how far you could push the big Cape buffalo before backing off.

"Well…it's a pretty decent start Chief…but honestly, I don't know how close we're going to get to our suspect from this end."

A burst of static came over the line, a sound instantly recognizable to the fox as a snort of disdain—but not for his benefit, thank goodness.

"Yes, thanks to the ZYPD being just ever-so-helpful." Vinegar dripped from Bogo's every word as he spoke. "D'you know, I've already had my first complaint about you…an email from Zoo York City Police Commissioner Waghorn. Something about a scene you created at One Police Plaza…"

Nick grimaced and screwed his eyes shut, sincerely glad that this was an audio only call. Holy fox-trot, it was starting already. He could only hope that the ZPD Chief would have his back, as promised.

The next thing Bogo said had him pumping fist in the air.

"I read the first two lines and then deleted it. Crikey, after the way you bent over backwards to show you've NOT come to Zoo York to make trouble, you'd have thought they'd ease up a bit." Nick heard another burst of static, a sigh of frustration this time. "But no such luck, eh? Seems Waghorn's still determined to stonewall you; the blithering jerk."

There was only one correct answer to this, "Yes sir."

"Right, then," Bogo's voice faded slightly and he heard a rustling of papers before it came back again. "Where d'you go from here, Wilde?"

"Detective Pennanti's supposed to get hold of me later," Nick told him, choosing his words carefully, "He didn't say exactly what for; only that he needs to 'talk to a guy' about meeting with me sometime tomorrow."

"Hmmmm," Bogo mused, sounding both dubious and hopeful, "Has he got time to be helping you like that? Working as a PI is anything but casual labor, y'know."

Nick smiled even though he knew The Chief couldn't see him. "He said he's got nothing big on his plate at the moment and that Minkerton's owes him a ton of vacation time." Out of habit, he lowered his voice, "Just between you and me sir, I think he's hooked on this case."

Another snort rumbled out of his cell phone. "Not surprising that; right up until The Company went down in flames they were his baby, weren't they?"

"That's what I thought too, Chief," the fox replied, not bothering to mention his suspicion that former ZYPD Detective Martin Pennanti had another, darker motive for choosing to help him. It was the fisher's way of laying some spite on his previous employers. He and Mr. Big might have been polar opposites where the issue of law and order was concerned—but when it came to nursing a vendetta, they were on the practically same wavelength. "You ever meet him, Chief?" he asked.

"I have, that," Bogo replied. "Once in Zoo York City, and twice here in Zootopia—though I couldn't call our third encounter an actual meeting; he had to get back to Zoo York right away, 'Hello, I must be going,' and that was pretty much the end of it." He paused to emit a small grunt. "Those other two times though, I must say, I was quite impressed, very tough and professional. D'you know he was the first mustelid to be accepted to join the ZYPD?"

"Really?" Nick answered him, "No I didn't know that." True enough, he'd had no idea; just the same it was hardly a surprise. Given the treatment that he, as a fox, had received at One Police Plaza, it naturally followed that the ZYPD wouldn't be especially tolerant of a member of the weasel family either.

But now, he figured, was as good a time as any to make his request.

"Uhmmm, if possible, there's something I need you to do on your end, sir," phrased as respectfully as possible.

"I'm listening," Bogo answered him; a non-committal reply, if ever there was one.

Once again the fox had to cherry-pick his words. He began by dangling a teaser.

"You know what Oxxam's Razor is…right, Chief?"

"Yes, it's what I use t' shave me face every morning," The big Cape buffalo answered in an almost singsong voice…before immediately lowering the boom, "'The most likely solution to a problem is always the simplest one.' Listen Wilde, I've got better things to do than play Riddle-Me-This, so stop wasting my time and…"

"Sorry sir," the fox replied hurriedly, though he actually wasn't sorry. Sometimes getting Chief Bogo riled was the price you had to pay for getting his undivided attention. He went on quickly, "It's just…well, it seems to me that the reason those diamonds were delivered so late is most likely the obvious one; the courier's flight was either delayed or canceled."

"Hrrrmmmnnnn," The only answer he got was another rumble, but even so, Nick could imagine The Chief nodding his head in agreement. Who, amongst us, hasn't flown and been stuck in a holding pattern at least once?

"So," the fox continued, warming to his subject, "Putting that together with the fact that the Mister liked to, 'run a tight ship,' as Mr. Wolf put it…" he paused to review his figures, "I estimate that the diamond courier's flight must have landed no more than an hour, two hours at most, before he made the drop…and probably a lot less. That puts his arrival in Zootopia at anywhere between…" he consulted his notes again, "…09:00 and 11:00 AM ZST."

"Wilde," Bogo's voice was both pained and exasperated, "Zootopia and Zoo York City are only two of the biggest air hubs on this side of the planet. D'you know HOW many flights arrive here from Zoo York on any given day? Even in the time period you cited, there must have been half a dozen, at the very least."

"Yes sir," Nick told him and then laid down his trump card, "But only ONE that got in seriously late, I bet." He was unable to keep from sounding triumphant…but then, he wasn't really trying. "Find that flight and we find the one our courier was on. And then, once we have that information, we can check the passenger list, and…who knows, maybe we'll get lucky and nail him."

"Assuming a delayed flight WAS the reason for that late delivery," Bogo cautioned—but from the tone of his voice, it was clear that even he knew it was a weak argument. And in any case, he wasn't about to dismiss such a tantalizing possibility. "I'll get someone on it right away."

"Thank you, sir," Nick was almost beaming. Well-l-l, wasn't he entitled to feel a little self-satisfied? He'd made a heckuva lot of progress and it was only his first full day in Zoo York.

Unfortunately for him, those good feelings had less than a minute to live.

"Right then, Detective…"

Nick froze in place with his tail spiking. He had never before heard Bogo speaking in that tone of voice; unhappy, and also…unsure of himself? Something was coming, and it wasn't good.

"No sense trying to beat 'round the bush about it, Wilde; Detective Hopps had to be taken to the ER last night. By now, she's probably been released but…hullo, are you still there?"

Yes, Nick was still there, but he was too stunned to breathe, much less speak. Even though it wasn't…it couldn't have been that serious, not if she was already being released, but…

No, not Carrots, not his Judy!

"What…happened, Chief?" the words came out as a metallic rasp.

He was answered by another burst of noise, but this time without the accompanying rumble.

"I can hardly believe it meself Wilde, but Lieutenant Tufts was right all along; the Lewis boy did turn up at the ZAPA auditions." From there, he went on to a brief recap of all that had happened, the arrests, the riot, and everything else that went with it.

Nick felt his brows knitting as his horror gave way to bewilderment. When Bogo got to the part where Judy and Conor finally met, it brought back his fears with a vengeance.

"Hopps caught up with him in the school auditorium, as he was attempting to flee the scene, more or less stumbled right into him. She was alone and unable to call for back-up and so…" A moment of dead air followed, "And so, rather than give himself up, Mr. Lewis chose to fight it out …"

"WHAT?!" It came out as a fox-scream. Only seconds ago, Nick had been horrorstruck; now he was thunderstruck. Conor couldn't…he wouldn't; no way, it wasn't possible. For God's sake, he had saved Judy's life that one time!

"Yes, I'm afraid it's true," Bogo informed him wearily, having for once correctly interpreted the fox's silence. "And yes Wilde, the Lewis boy drew first blood; came at her with a collapsible baton. Luckily for her, she was also armed. But…"

The rest of his words petered out in Nick's head as he felt something strange coming over him. His entire body seemed to be clenching up like a fist, and if he hadn't known better, he would have sworn that he'd broken a fever. On the back of his neck, his fur seemed to be breaking out in shards of glass, while his tail was shivering like guy-wire in a gale. The thoughts that came into his head to go with all of this sounded guttural, almost demonic. "No good little silver-fox punk; when I get back to Zootopia, you'd BETTER have been caught. Because if you haven't, and I get MY paws on you…"

But the red fox's emotional roller-coaster had not yet reached the end of the line. Bogo still had one more piece of news to relate, "What really triggered it though was when Hopps grabbed him by the back of the neck. He went absolutely crackers, tried to bite her blasted face off."

Whoops, okay…now here was something Nick had NO trouble believing; he'd experienced for himself what happened when you grabbed Conor Lewis by the scruff of the neck…and had long since come around to the belief that the kid couldn't help himself in that situation. It wasn't enough to completely dampen his anger—in no way did it alter the fact that the fugitive young silver fox had attacked first—but it helped at least a little.

However, a final question remained to be answered.

"How…badly was Car…Ju…Detective Hopps hurt, Chief?" It couldn't have been that bad if she'd already been discharged from the hospital, right…RIGHT?

"A few cuts and bruises, a cracked finger," Bogo read off Judy's injuries like a laundry list, "Possible damage to her diaphragm; that's why she had to be taken to hospital. I've ordered her to go on light duty for the duration."

"What, no medical leave?" Nick was more than a little incredulous.

He was answered with a snort and a snigger. "I would if I could, but you know HER, Wilde. She'll make up a hundred excuses to come into the precinct—and then, 'as long as I'm here anyway, do you mind if I take a look that the case file again?'"

Nick couldn't help snickering back; that was Carrots all over the place. "Mmmmmm, yeah…true enough, Chief."

"At least this way, I can keep track of her, and try to limit her activities" the big Cape buffalo was saying. And then a familiar buzzing came up in the background; someone was hailing him on his desktop intercom. "Right, I've got to ring off now, Wilde. I'll let you know if we have any luck finding that delayed flight."

Nick just had time to say, "Thank you sir," before the call disconnected.

He did not set the phone down right away, but instead spoke into it as if someone else he knew was still on the other end. "If I know you, Carrots, you're probably there at Precinct-1 right now."

In this, Nick was mostly correct; yes, she was, but it wasn't entirely on her own initiative.

It had happened right after she left St. Bartholomeow's; a call had come in from ZPD Forensics, asking if she might possibly be available, "for just a few minutes? There's some…questions we have."

The tone of whoever had called made it clear that if she declined there would be no hard feelings; nope, none…no hard feelings, cross my heart and swear to die. And so she could have begged off if she'd wanted—but this was Judy Hopps after all; as IF she'd turn down a request like that. She'd immediately asked Claudia to divert to Precinct-1, and the red panda had been neither surprised, nor dismayed by the sudden change of plans.

Now Judy was seated in a small, plainly furnished conference room, parked across the table from a female aardwolf and a pangolin, both of whom were done up in less-than-spotless lab-coats. A plate of bagels was sitting less than a foot away from her, but the tinge of formaldehyde in the air had put the doe-bunny's appetite on hold—and besides, those things looked about as fresh as a mummified lizard. A voice recorder also lay on the table top, but it didn't appear to have been turned on.

"Thank you for coming, Detective Hopps," the pangolin said, opening the proceedings. "We'll try not to take up too much of your time."

"Yes, we'll have you on your way ASAP," The aardwolf chimed in.

"Absolutely," his companion agreed, raising a pair of fingers.

Judy didn't know whether to laugh or roll her eyes. Ohhh, seriously? What the heck was this, the ZPD Forensics Lab or a vaudeville show?

She was much relieved when the pair got right down to business.

"The important question we have is this," the aardwolf's voice was all seriousness as she leaned forward, folding her paws on the tabletop. "In your report you stated that you shot the suspect with a red pellet first, and then with the blue one. Is that correct, Detective Hopps?"

Now the doe-bunny really wanted to roll her eyes. They'd called her all the way into the precinct for THIS? She could just as easily have answered that question over the phone.

"Yes, that's right," she said, offering up her most penetrating glare, "And yes I'm sure, but…why?"

The two forensic specialists exchanged sidelong glances; they seemed to be mentally urging each other to answer Judy's question.

Finally, the Aardwolf cleared his throat.

"We found nothing in the barrel of your suspect's weapon…"

"Well, DUH!" the doe-bunny thought but didn't say. She was in a cranky mood at the moment. Her injured finger was beginning to hurt like a toothache, and she had left her meds in the car with Claudia.

"…but we were able to recover some residue from the magazine," he said, and at once Judy's irritation was gone with the wind. Ohhh-kay, now we're getting somewhere.

"And what did you find?' she asked.

It was the pangolin who answered her. "That you were right, Detective; the blue pellet did contain Nighthowler—but it's the other that has us confused. THAT one was apparently loaded with Morningmew."

Judy gasped so hard it made her chest hurt. That…couldn't be right. You could mix up a batch of Nighthowler serum using a stovetop pressure cooker; Doug's old subway-car lab had looked like a thrift store special.

But Morningmew; for that you needed a topline bio-engineering facility with all the trimmings—and even then the formula for the Nighthower antidote was a secret known only to a pawful of scientists at LPN Pharma.

And yet…somehow a fourteen year old fox-kid had managed to get his paws on some of the stuff; no wonder these two lab-jockeys were feeling so apprehensive.

There was something else as well, something she was seeing—and yet not quite seeing.

But then she realized; those two dart-pellets had originally been meant for her.

And that brought up another question.

"Wha…? Why the heck would Conor have darted me with Nighthowler antidote…and then with Nighthowler?"

As Judy spoke, she heard the door opening behind her—and then a new voice joined the discussion.

"Because, just as Morningmew is the antidote for Nighthowler poisoning; so too does Nighthowler counteract the effects of Morningmew."

Turning to look, the doe bunny saw that Dr. Irene Hocico had just entered the room; Judy hadn't seen her since the Rafaj Brother's jewelry sting—but she hadn't forgotten the coati either.

Now, leaving the door ajar, Dr. Hocico spoke to the pair of lab technicians—in that same flat, uninterested tone she'd used on the previous occasion.

"All right, you two…back to your benches; I'll take over here. Oh, and I'll want your reports on my desk before you leave…and this time, would you PLEASE double check your findings?

"Yes ma'am," they replied in unison, nearly stumbling over each other on their way out the door.

Closing it behind them, Dr. Hocico made her way to the opposite side of the table, taking the chair directly across from Judy.

And then primping her skirts, she sat down with a sigh, making a casual observation as she scooted her chair up to the table. "Ah, these rookies…so gung-ho; always thinking they're just going to walk in and make the world a better place."

Judy sucked at a corner of her mouth, trying to look away without making it noticeable.

"Still," the coati went on, "They did think to check that dart-gun's magazine for residue—and without any prompting—so maybe there's hope for them yet. But as I was saying," she leaned forward, waiting until Judy had done the same. And then, speaking as if she was addressing a full-to-capacity lecture hall, she went on to explain a few things. "Very few animals understand the full properties of Trichloreximeronozene…Morningmew, as it's more commonly known."

Judy almost snickered; she had heard several times that the Nighthowler counter-agent was almost never referred to by its clinical name; now, she knew why.

"Most folks think of it as the wonder-drug that cures Nighthowler poisoning," the coati was saying, "And so it does, but there's more to it than that…a lot more as a matter of fact." Laying an elbow on the table, she regarded the bunny seated across from her with a penetrating eye. "Tell me Detective…have you ever wondered what happens when someone that hasn't been darted with Nighthowler gets a dose of Morningmew?"

"No," Judy admitted, drumming irritated fingers on the tabletop. When the heck was this band-tailed snob going to get to the point?

The coati accomplished that goal with her very next words. "Depending on the dose, it can cause anything from a mild case of the jitters, to a full-blown panic attack. An overdose could even trigger a heart attack—though we've yet to see that actually happen, thank The Maker."

"But, um…" the doe bunny prompted cautiously, "You…have seen what happens when an animal is given Morningmew without Nighthowler?" She could feel her nose beginning to twitch up a storm.

"I have," the Forensics Specialist answered, with a nod like a death-knell, "Happened up in Old Growth City, right after the Nighthowler antidote was discovered. Some tiger had a bad case of road rage and one of the officers called to the scene mistook it for Nighthowler poisoning; shot him with a Morningmew dart-pellet. He screamed and took off like a cat out of hell…ran right through the afternoon traffic and nearly got hit twice. We finally found him two days later, cowering behind a dumpster in the back of a grocery store, telling anyone who came near him, 'please…don't hurt me, I'll do anything.'" She paused for effect and raised an eyebrow, "And the only animals near him at the time were a couple of deer-fawns and a wood-rat."

Judy's brows shot upwards—along with her ears.

"Whoa, you mean that actually happened?" She had heard the story while recovering from her museum-chase leg wound, but dismissed it as an urban legend.

"Well yes, but you have to remember something," Dr. Hocico told her, having correctly surmised the root of the doe-bunny's skepticism, "We had Bellwether in custody, yes… but her shooter was still at large in the city somewhere."

"…And we had no way of knowing whether or not Doug had a spare supply of Nighthowler handy," Judy tried not to groan as she finished the sentence and then did anyway—but for reasons other than embarrassment. Sweet cheez n' crackers, if that was what Morningmew did to you, it had BETTER be kept under lock and key; the potential for abuse was almost staggering.

But now, at last, she was beginning to understand what the fugitive young silver fox's plan had been. 1. Dart her with Morningmew. 2. Either knock her out or tie her up 3. Give her the antidote before making his exit.

It was a plan almost breathtaking in its simplicity…

…Except that Conor hadn't been able to pull the trigger, even at point-blank range; why hadn't he pulled…? Oops, Dr. Hocico was still talking

"And yet somehow a fourteen-year-old fox kid managed to get his paws on some of it," she said, stating the obvious—and then moved on to something her visitor hadn't considered. "We can guess where he got it, of course. The question is, where did The Phantom get it?" Her face became waxen, "And more importantly, what else is he planning to do with it?"

Remembering her injured diaphragm, Judy stifled a gasp just in time, settling for a swallow instead. One thing was for certain; no one was ever again going to question the decision to make apprehending The Phantom a top priority—not after this revelation.

However, there was still one, small, loose end that needed to be tied off.

"I know this is kind of a silly question, Doctor, but I have to ask it. The reason Con…um, the Lewis boy felt no effect from that Morningmew dart. It was because of the Nighthowler dart I shot him with afterwards; i-is that correct?"

The coati raised another eyebrow, "Yes Detective, you're right…that IS a rather silly question. Honestly, why are you even asking, don't you think that's the case?" Her eyes were like a pair of rock chisels

"Of course not…I mean yes, I agree with you," the doe bunny answered, nettled, and trying not to show it. But then…wait a minute, did she believe it? WAS that second dart reason the Morningmew pellet hadn't had any effect on her adversary? She had no concrete reason to doubt it, and yet… Wait; hold it, now she remembered. That look on Conor's face; the nearly invisible ghost of a smirk he'd flashed—before she'd pulled the trigger a second time. It was almost as if…

"Excuuuse me, Detective…are you still here?"

The arch voice of Dr. Hocico brought her instantly back down to ground level; dangit that was the second time she'd spaced just now.

"Yes, yes, I was just considering the implications," she said, getting another stony look for her troubles. Casting about mentally for an exit, she thought she found one.

"Have we notified LPN Pharma about this yet?"

"Yes," Dr. Hocico nodded, "we called and sent them an e-mail; so far they haven't gotten back to us." And then, as if anticipating the doe bunny's next question, she went on to say, "And yes, I've also notified Chief Bogo…and also…" A look flashed across her face as if she'd unwittingly taken a swig of rancid water, "And also Lieutenant Tufts."

At first Judy was unsurprised by the look on the forensic specialist's face. Nobody liked the head of ZPD cybercrimes, and Dr. Hocico didn't like anyone, period. It stood to reason that any meeting between the two of them would rapidly degenerate into a clash. But then she realized something else, and a sour feeling began to swirl in her stomach as well.

Right again…that blankety-blank little bushy-tailed jerk had been proven right AGAIN. Ooooo, she could almost hear him now. "See? I TOLD you the Lewis Investigation should be at the top of our case-list."

Ohhhh swell; there'd be NO stopping him, now.

It might have pleased Judy to know that 'the little jerk' was in a highly agitated state at the moment.

Today was his Sunday with the kids, and so he'd decided to take them to the movies. Neither he nor they had especially wanted to see this particular film; about a Zoober driver that picks up a grizzled cop on a dangerous case. Not a must see for any of them, especially after the dinosaur-driven blockbuster that had premiered the weekend before. Unfortunately for Albert Tufts, Beth and Tommy had already seen that flick and so it was this or stay home and play computer games all day.

They were 20 seconds into the first trailer when his cell-phone rang. Dangit, he thought he'd silenced that thing. Pulling it out, he disconnected, making sure that it was set on vibrate before stashing it back in his pocket. Ten seconds later, it rang again—and again out loud, this time drawing reproachful looks from the other patrons nearby. He pulled it out and shut it OFF. There; anyone trying to call him now would just have to tough it out until…

It rang again before he could even get it back in his pocket. Now, he was getting more than just angry looks—and from his own son no less.

"Da-a-ad, turn that thing off, before you get us kicked out of here."

Tufts tried to do just that, but when he hit the disconnect button, nothing happened; the phone just kept on ringing—and now as he listened, the ringtone changed from a marimba to a peeling church-bell and then to a hunting horn. Clutching the phone close to his chest, in a desperate attempt to muffle the sound, he leapt up from his seat, ordering his kids to stay put, and then made a fast-break for the exit. As he hurried down the aisleway, he could hear them starting in already.

"Hey, gimme back the popcorn!"

"In a second…you always take too much."

"Daaaaaad, Tommy won't….!"

Hurrying out the door, Tufts pulled the cell-phone away from his chest and looked at it. What the heck now? The caller ID was just a single word,'Pigasus.'

Pigasus…who the heck was…?

His thoughts slammed to a jumbled halt; Pigasus wasn't a 'who,' it was a 'what', a spyware app developed in Israel for the express purpose of hacking smartphones.

And now, as he watched, the screen switched over to text and a message appeared.

There is nothing wrong with your cell-phone…

Well…actually there's a whole lot wrong with it,
But do not attempt to adjust anything.
WE are controlling transmission…

And then the phone rang once again, this time blasting out a ringtone that the squirrel had never uploaded…but one he nonetheless recognized immediately.

"We're not gonna TAKE it
No, we ain't gonna TAKE it…"

As if that wasn't enough…in response, a pair of young voices, practically shouted in his ear. "Right on, dude!" When he looked up, he saw a pair of young pikas walking past him, raising fists of solidarity.

He almost threw the phone at them…and maybe he would have if he hadn't realized then just who it was on the other end of that call; the smugness, the mockery, as if he'd never heard that before. Jamming his thumb into the 'connect' button he slapped the phone hard against his face.

"LEWIS!"

"Hey Tuff-Guy, did I catchya at a bad time?'' The voice was bright, brash, and brassy…and yet with a wheezy quality to it that bespoke of stifled pain. Detective Hopps really had given it back to that kid—and with interest.

Not that Tufts cared one way or the other; he had other things on his mind right now. "Oooo, you shifty, conniving, little…"

"Listen kid, do you have any idea how much trouble…?"

"Sorry, my trouble-box is full," the young fox interrupted smartly, "you'll have to try again later."

Tufts took a hard breath and let it out slowly; his tail was flipping like a rag on a clothesline.

"All right Lewis…what do you want?"

"Come on, Tuff-Guy, you know what I want," Conor chided him gently. He could have been a father, trying to coax a kit into taking his first baby steps.

Tufts didn't appreciate the fugitive young silver fox's tone of voice—and he especially didn't appreciate being addressed by that nickname. If squirrels could snarl, "You snot-nosed little punk; if you think…"

"I don't think, I KNOW!" Conor snarled right back, cutting him off like a meat-cleaver. "And do YOU think this is the first time you got your phone hacked? Huh? Get real dude, maybe THIS will adjust your attitude a little!"

He went away and a new voice came back in its place, one the Kaibab squirrel recognized immediately. He ought to; it was his own.

"So The Phantom's mule, Conor…Lewis is it? So he knows you and Officer Wilde by sight AND by scent?"

There was probably more—heck, there was more—but just then, the playback ceased and his adversary returned.

"I could give ya the rest of it, bu-u-ut I think you already know what it says…oops. 'scuse me, what YOU said."

Tufts response was reminiscent of pressure-cooker on the verge of blowing its valves. "You punk! You miserable punk; I swear I'm going to…"

"Hey, don't be too upset Tuff-Guy." Conor had reverted back to his smug fursona, "I mean…you've been wondering all along how I found out the cops were onto me—the day I allegedly picked up some money from a beach locker. Well…now you know." His words seemed to slur a bit and in spite of his anger, the squirrel couldn't help but wonder if his antagonist wasn't high on something. Perhaps…but the next words the young silver fox spoke were as hard and cold as black ice. "YOU gave the game away you nut-cracking jerk, you're how I found out that locker was staked-out. Hopps and Wilde didn't blow that op, you did. I got it all here on MP3 with four backups, just in case." A yip of derision came over the air. "Heck, you even identified yourself at the beginning of that call—which you made on an UN-secured cell-phone by the way. And I can prove that too." Back came the oily voice again, "Boy-howdy, I wouldn't wanna be you if this ends up posted to the net; no way will your boss not find out about it. And then, slice up the avocados, coz you're toast!"

Had this been a visual call, Conor would have observed all the color draining from the Kaibab squirrel's face, so rapidly it would have been visible right through his fur. Even for a regular police officer, a breach of security like that was a serious matter.

For the head of ZPD Cybercrimes, it was unthinkable.

"You have until the courts close tomorrow at 5 in the afternoon, Tuff-Guy. And we're talking all four of 'em over here, not just one or two. You know who they are, and you know which one especially should get a break. So get your fluffy lil' tail in gear and do the right thing. Oh, and one last item before I go…"

Tufts didn't ask what that one item was, but the young fox told him anyway.

"You understand, I wouldn't have anything to do with it…but if the right thing DOESN'T happen, then I'm betting that something you don't even wanna think about will. I can't be 100% sure, but if things don't turn out the way they should…well-l-l-l, then I wouldn't be surprised if what happened to your phone is nothing compared to what happens next, you follow what I'm bringing out? By 5 tomorrow, that's it."

The call ended without another word.

For a moment or an eternity, Tufts stood with his phone in his paw, staring almost catatonic at the screen, indifferent to the curious looks of passersby. His mind was a kaleidoscope.

That rotten kid…he hadn't said one thing, not one lousy thing that would hold up as a threat in court. And yet, with stunning clarity, the Kaibab squirrel knew exactly what the young fox wanted—and what he'd do if he didn't get what he wanted.

He had underestimated the Lewis boy…badly; not his intelligence, he had never doubted that for a…

No…not quite true. He HAD made that mistake; only once, as his adversary had just graphically pointed out—but then the Titanic had only hit one iceberg.

But even that hadn't been the Kaibab squirrel's worst miscalculation; up until this moment he would never have imagined that Conor Lewis was capable of such viciousness. There was no doubt in Albert Tufts' mind; if that fox-kid's friends weren't released by the deadline he'd set, he was going to make good on every single word of his unspoken threat. But for the youthful voice of the animal on the other end of that call, he could almost have been a delinquent bettor, conversing with a mob enforcer.

"He's had my career in a sling ever since the day he was arrested," the tassel-eared squirrel now realized, "So what the heck took him so long? Why didn't he get rid of me earlier?"

The answer came like a creeping mist.

"Because…he wanted this; he…WANTED me to lead this investigation. Because…he thought I'd be an easy mark. Yessss…the way he called me Tuff-Guy just now… All right kid, I may have underestimated you—but you made the same mistake with me. You never expected me to be waiting for you at the ZAPA auditions with half the force at my back. And then, just as I knew you would, you showed up anyway"

He felt his grip tighten up on the cell phone, while his face tightened into a look of resolve.

"But guess what Lewis? You just repeated that mistake. There've been a lot of things said about me over the years—but nobody ever called me a  coward.  You want me to do the right thing? Okay, you've GOT it!"

"Dad?" a voice spoke from over on his left, and he turned to see his son standing in the doorway of the theater with a worried look on his face. His tail was flipping almost wildly. "Dad…aren't you going to come back and watch the movie?"

"Sure son," the Kaibab squirrel said, shutting down the phone again. He went over and put his paw on his boy's shoulder, and walked with him back onto the theater, earning himself a strange look from the youngster for his efforts. There was nothing heavy about his footfall; his tail wasn't even trying to drag.

---

Meanwhile, over at Precinct-1, Max March was headed back to his cell after meeting with his father.

Typically, Max Sr. had blamed his boy's arrest on everybody but him, the ZPD, the Performing Arts Academy, Erin Hopps; he was already talking about suing the soccer camp. His most sulfurous comments, however, had been reserved for the 'no-good, shifty little silver-fox kid' who, in his mind, had started it all. Ordinarily, the athletic young buck-bunny would have been heartened by his father's support. Today, it left him with an ashen taste in his mouth, although he was at a loss to explain why. The only encouraging moment had been when Dad assured him that he and Zack were definitely getting out of here tomorrow.

He hadn't seen his cousin since yesterday; they'd been whisked away from the Gazelle Amphitheater in two different police cruisers and then booked into jail separately. For the longest time since then, the athletic young bunny had been speculating; was he going to Juvie after all? He had given that squirrel, Taft or whatever his name was, just about everything he wanted—but then that Conor kid had slipped through his fingers anyway. And so Max had been left to wonder, was their deal off the table? Lieutenant…Tufts, yeah that was his name, had seemed like just the kind of animal to back out of an agreement on a technicality. Sweet cheez n' crackers, he still seemed to believe that the holes he and his cousin had dug had been for Conor Lewis to use in making his escape. It was only after his father had arrived that he'd learn his release was still a go; he was getting out tomorrow after all.

But…Conor Lewis…

The rumors had been swirling ever since this morning's wake-up call. And was it true; had he really gone mano-a-mano with Erin Hopps's sister Judy…and then beaten her to a pulp before making his escape? Max seriously doubted it; but at least some small part of the story was probably true. Bottom line—that fox-kid wasn't in here; the ZPD hadn't caught him yet. If they had, it would have been all over the detention center by now.

A small shudder rippled through his frame. It was almost scary, the way the kids in here were talking about that silver fox; his latest escapade had elevated him nearly to the status of a Greek Hero.

For Max March though it was a different story…as the athletic young rabbit was only just now beginning to find out. As he moved along the third story tier of the youth jail, followed closely by a maned-wolf corrections officer, it seemed as if practically every other kid he encountered either turned their back or averted their gaze. Even his escort was avoiding his eyes…or was he? Were any of them? Was all this only his imagination; had his judgment been clouded that badly by his guilt? If the others in here knew how he'd fingered those kids he'd seen talking to Conor Lewis…wouldn't they be doing a lot more than just ignoring him?

But wait, here was a familiar face; Deputy Mac Cannon was coming his way from the Lieutenant's office, moving with tight fists and a purposeful stride. As he passed Max by, the young buck-bunny tried to raise a finger, only to have the bobcat walk past him without so much as a sidelong glance.

It wasn't a snub however; the Bunnyburrow deputy was simply preoccupied with something else—or, to put it more correctly with somebody else.

When Mac got to the interview room, there was Craig Guilford, waiting for him. He had traded in his street-duds for the ubiquitous day-glo orange jumpsuit, but except for his facial fur looking a bit wild and unkempt, he appeared none the worse for wear from his time in jail. It was no kind of surprise; this coyote kid was no stranger to incarceration; he knew the ropes, or at least he knew the rudiments. At the moment, he was sitting with his arms crossed and his jaw set…in a sullen humor; oh, wonderful. Over the past couple of weeks, he'd been going through so many mood swings, at least one correctional officer had suggested he might be suffering from multiple fursonality disorder…and he'd only been half-joking.

Mac didn't care about that, one way or the other. Or that is…he hadn't until the word had come down that Craig had changed his mind about testifying against his father—again! When he'd gotten the news, the bobcat-deputy had stormed out of the diner where he'd been having an early lunch, leaving his meal mostly uneaten. Hitting the street, he'd flagged down the first cab he'd seen—by practically jumping in front of it. That did it as far as Mac Cannon was concerned; no more Mr. NICE Burrow County Sheriff's Deputy! From here on out the routine was going to be bad cop/worse cop.

Now, yanking the chair out from under the table, he threw himself into it and scooted up to edge, drawing shrieks of protest from the chair legs as they scraped against the concrete floor. In response, Craig Guilford grimaced and slapped his paws over his ears. Good!

Not bothering with any form of greeting, Mac got straight down to cases, thrusting a finger across the table at the young coyote, with the claw unsheathed.

"All right bub, this is it; no more messing around."

"I…" Craig started to say.

"Shut up you little cornflake, I don't want to hear it," the bobcat hissed, showing all of his teeth, and then pointing at his watch. "I'll be back later this evening…with an affidavit for you to sign; I think you can guess what I'm talking about. And if your signature isn't on that paper within two minutes of my arrival, YOU'LL be on your way back to Bunnyburrow—in shackles and cuffs. And when you get there, be prepared to have the book thrown at you. I'm done with your coyote-games, boy."

He got up from the table and kicked the chair back under it, at the same time signaling to the pig-cop stationed outside the door—while Craig stared wide eyed and slack jawed.

"Y-You came all the way down here…just to tell me that?"

Mac wheeled and shot another finger at him.

"THAT'S how you know I'm serious, kid—Oh yeah, do it…come on, boy!"

Craig had also jumped out of his chair…but now he slowly, and wisely, sat himself down again. "Wh-When will you be back?" he asked; in the shaky voice of someone groping for anything to say.

"When I get here," the bobcat growled, just as the door opened…and stalked out of the interview room without even so much as a farewell-glance.

Craig sat for a moment staring after him. On the other side of the two-way mirror, Claire Swinton thought he'd been stunned into submission by the bobcat's tirade. While she was normally an excellent judge of character, in this case the pig-cop got it enormously wrong. The REAL reason that the young coyote was unable to move was because he was paralyzed with rage. Had she opened the door right then, he might even have gone after her.

She didn't, because other footsteps were approaching just then. Claire knew who it was…and that it was someone she absolutely did NOT want coming into contact with the coyote-kid in the interview room.

Returning from a meeting with her mother and her sister Violet, Erin Hopps was on her way back to the girl's section of the city youth jail, escorted by her sister Judy. The visit had begun with Violet and Mom chastising her, and ended with the two of them forgiving her. They too had believed that the ZPD was dead wrong in arresting those other three kids.

Claire waved as Erin and Judy approached, and then went over to talk to them. She was actually more concerned about the older bunny; Judy hadn't looked good at all last night—although she seemed a lot better today.

As the three of them chatted, they were unaware of the face pressed into the glass behind them.

Not many folks are aware of it, but it's fairly easy to see through the reflective side of a two-way mirror; all you have to do is put your eye right up against it. That was what Craig Guilford was doing right now, his impatience having gotten the better of him.

The view was dim and slightly smoky, but he was able to pick out Judy Hopps almost immediately.

Judy…Hopps, the bunny who'd put him here. And yeah, she looked like she'd been in a fight all right; check out the bandage on her left eye. Even so, she hadn't been beaten up nearly as badly as the rumor mill claimed.

Still…if Conor Lewis had done that to her, maybe he wasn't such a jerk after all; but mmm-grrrrr, he'd have liked nothing more right now than to get out there and finish the job that fox-kid started.

Someone moved out from behind Judy and he recognized another member of the Hopps clan. A month ago, he'd have wanted to tear her ears off as well, but not anymore. His original quarrel with Erin had come second-paw, by way of his girlfriend, Amanda Hill…the quisling little vixen who'd sold him out to save her own pelt. With her out of the picture, he'd had no good reason to keep the young, white-furred bunny on his payback list. Providing she stayed out of his face, he'd have no further issues with her.

Just the same, it brought him no small measure of satisfaction to see her here in detention…although for a rather unexpected reason. According to the jailhouse telegraph, Erin Hopps was the animal who'd started yesterday's riot. And, thanks to that incident, he had started to make some new friends—among the kids booked into the youth jail for participating in that melee. Up until then, he'd been more or less the Lone Coyote—a country boy from out in the sticks, who didn't know anyone in Zootopia.

Not anymore; the newcomers to the city youth jail hadn't cared where you were from, only about your attitude. And Craig Guilford had more than fulfilled their requirements; he might not have been able to spell the word 'nihilism', but he practically embodied that philosophy; nothing makes sense, burn it all. And so for the first time since his arrival here, he'd found a crew to hang with—and it was all thanks to Erin Hopps; that was the other reason why he was willing to shine her on.

Besides, if what he'd heard was true there was ANOTHER bunny in here that he needed to see. And when he did…that dirty snitch, Max March, was going to be heading home to Bunnyburrow in six separate containers.

The door to the interview room slid open, rousing him from his musings.

"All right Mr. Guilford, let's go." Claire Swinton told him.

He got up without hesitation.

Right then, the object of the young coyote's sworn retribution was looking up from the magazine he'd been reading…just in time to catch a glimpse of his cousin Zack, hurrying past the open door to his cell. Wha…what now? Hadn't the smaller bunny seen him?

Max folded the mag away and went out to look for him.

When he stepped outside of his cell, there was no sign of his cousin anywhere. What the…? Where the heck had he gone? He couldn't have just disappeared.

Well, he'd been heading in the direction of the common area as he'd gone past; maybe that was where he was. The next few minutes were maddening for the muscular young rabbit; every step of the way he had to force himself not to run. Ah dangit, how was he ever supposed to find Zack if he couldn't even get a move on? But if a correctional officer caught him running in here, he'd be put back in his cell until tomorrow morning. And so, a brisk walk was the best he could manage. Working his way along the third-level tier of the detention center, it was hard to see anything—or even hear anything. The average jailhouse is a noisy place, and the Precinct-1 youth facility was no exception. Everywhere around him he could see kids talking, arguing, or engaging in furtive discussions. And one topic seemed to rule them all—the mass of young protesters, currently gathered out in front of the precinct's main entrance.

Max, for his part, fervently wished they were talking about something else…anything not related to yesterday's riot. If the part he'd played in that drama were to become known to the other kids in here…assuming it wasn't already…

He shuddered at the thought. While this might have been the young buck-rabbit's first time in jail, you didn't have to be a seasoned con to know what happened to informers behind bars.

As if that wasn't enough to worry about, look at the way the young mammals detained for taking part in that riot were being treated by the other kids, almost like royalty. It was especially true for the four young mammals who'd been arrested for helping the Lewis kid to make his escape—in other words, the ones HE'D given up to the ZPD. Every second he was in here was like trying to sneak through a den of crocodiles without awakening them.

And…lo and behold, here came one of the Conor Lewis Four now. Granted, she was the only one he hadn't actually fingered, but still…

She was a young, very pretty, white furred doe-bunny with jet-black paws and feet, and black tipped ears, moving under the escort of another, older rabbit, who he also recognized.

Their appearance caught Max completely by surprise and before he was able to check himself, he was turning away in shame. When he was finally able to look again, they were gone, vanished as if they'd never been there. Wha…had what he'd seen been nothing more than yet another manifestation of his guilt? Noooo, it had been real enough; look, there was the hallway leading to the girl's section. That was where Erin and her sister must have gone. And, with a little luck, maybe they hadn't noticed him.

He turned to go the other way—and found himself looking straight into the eyes of his cousin, Zack.

At the moment, the smaller bunny was leaning his elbows over the center railing of the third story balcony, surrounded by a small knot of other young mammals, and regarding him over a shoulder. Beside him was another member of the Conor Lewis cadre…some kind of desert cat; he wasn't sure which species.

Zack held his gaze for perhaps three seconds before turning to resume his conversation with the feline, but that was all he'd needed to read Max the riot act. Never before had the young buck-rabbit seen his cousin looking at him like this. The face that had once been a portrait in servility and deference had instead been etched in steel and onyx. And the message his expression had conveyed could not have been clearer if it had been broadcast over the youth jail's PA system.

"I won't tell anyone what you did Cuz…but you and I aren't friends anymore. This time, you went too far—SNITCH!"

For a second, Max felt his ears laying backwards. More than anything he wanted to grab Zack by the shoulders, and scream in his face, "I did it for you, Cousin…FOR YOU!"

But then the moment passed and he felt his ears wilting sideways. And then, with the slow, stuttering movement of a wind-up toy with a weakened spring, he turned and slunk away back to his cell.

Enveloped as he was in his cloak of shame, Max failed to notice something; from the pool of tables in the common area below, a pair of dark-mustard canine eyes were watching him go—with keen interest.

Craig Guilford had just taken his seat, when he happened to glance upwards and—Bingo!

"THERE you are, snitching little jerk."

His anger had nothing to do with the animals the athletic young rabbit had fingered the day before. Like everyone else in here Craig Guilford knew diddly of the part Max March had played in yesterday's insurrection. Noooo, the angry young 'yote was referring to when Max had called the Sheriff on him for burning down that produce stand. Even now, despite all the evidence to the contrary, he still believed that was how it had gone down.

It hardly mattered, though. After his latest encounter with that stinking bobcat deputy, he would have settled for ANY hostility toy.

"Helloooo…Earth to Craig…come in please." It was one of his newfound friends, a young deer-buck named Cary Vanderhoof. Cary usually preferred to be called by his street name, a truly weird handle that the young coyote couldn't recall just now. He was there, along with several of the other participants in the insurrection, huddling together and sharing their disdain for The System that had put them here. By relating a heavily skewed version of the events at the Carrot Days festival, Craig had earned himself a place at their table.

For a moment he considered the idea of pointing Max out to them. "See that bunny kid up there? He sold me out to the Sheriff last spring." The idea lasted for all of half a minute before he'd discarded it. As welcoming as his new mates had been, they didn't yet consider him one of their own; not after knowing him for less than a day.

And besides…he wanted that bunny for himself.

"By hook or by crook, or whatever, you stinking little squealer," the young coyote swore silently to himself, "I'm GOING to get you alone before you leave here."

Chapter 29: Unintended Consequences (Cont'd...Pt. 7)

Summary:

A meeting, a guilt trip, and a confession.

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 5—Unintended Consequences
(Continued…Part 7)

"Hey, mind if I sit here?"

Before Erin Hopps had time to respond—or make a run for it—the coyote-girl had already taken the seat beside her.

That was the white-furred young bunny's first instinct; her second one was more reasoned…and not a little self-admonishing.

"Oh, sweet cheez n' crackers, what's the matter with me? I HUGGED this 'yote-girl yesterday!" She gave herself a mental slap.

Erin knew what was wrong of course, but it was something she didn't want to discuss, much less think about.

However, avoiding the subject might not be an option for her.

"Uh, s-sure, no problem," she stammered, trying and failing to meet Dana Alchesay's eyes.

A reaction like that was a hard thing to miss; nor was the young coyote about to pretend that she hadn't noticed.

"Okay," she said, leveling both her gaze and her voice, "Let's get this out of the way. Do you have a problem with my species, Hopps?"

"No, no!" Erin hurriedly raised her paws, "just with one coyote, a boy named Craig Guilford." She pointed away, towards the cellblock's entrance—and the hallway beyond, leading to the section reserved for young male offenders. "I heard he's locked up in the guys' jail."

Dana scratched at an ear with her foot.

"Mmmm, I don't know any Craig Guilford…but that last name sounds kinda familiar. Who is he?"

A moment of careful consideration on Erin's part followed. She needed to present her response without mentioning anyone's species. "Did you hear about those jerks who tried to dump a load of herbicide on the Carrot Days Festival, down in Bunnyburrow? That was the Guilford family; Craig was the lookout."

Dana's ear shot back and her lip curled upwards, exposing her teeth

"Oh, THOSE ma'ii! Yeah…I heard about them." She growled, and shook her head, muttering mostly to herself, "As if my species doesn't have a bad enough rep without some fool-dogs making it worse." She stopped, eyeing the bunny sitting next to her again, "What's his issue with you, though?"

Erin gave her the stripped down version. "My sister Judy's the officer who busted him. I…look, I know he can't get in here," she waved towards the entrance again, "but he's just the kind of jerk who'd take it out on ME if I ran into him."

"Ah, I get it," the coyote girl answered, her frosty expression thawing quickly into one of sympathy, "If you want I can have my boyfriend Jason go talk to him."

At the mention of 'the B-word', Erin's ears pricked up. For the moment, she let it pass, but she'd get back to it later—for sure.

"Noooo, I appreciate the offer, but that's okay." She had caused that Afurican Wild Dog trouble enough already…and his GF too, when you thought about it.

"Okay," Dana nodded. "But if you change your mind…you know where to find me."

"Thanks, I will," the young doe bunny replied, returning the nod. Privately though, she thought—she hoped—the coyote-girl's offer would soon become unnecessary.

It all came down to Monday when the courts opened up again. During their visit, earlier in the day Judy had seemed to think she was going to be let go with no charges filed—and both her mother and Violet had agreed wholeheartedly with that assessment.

"Ohhh, I wish I had their confidence," the young bunny sighed, realizing only too late that she had spoken the words aloud. She hurriedly amended them, "Oops, sorry Dana, I was thinking about my mom and my sisters. They're like, totally sure that I'm going to be released tomorrow." And then, realizing what she'd said, she sent forth a silent petition. "Oh please don't ask me if they said anything about you or Jason." She hadn't had time to even think about any of the other kids arrested along with her.

As it turned out, Dana didn't mention them; instead she looked away for a second, thoughtfully drumming her fingers.

And then she let out a short, edgy growl and turned back to the doe-bunny sitting next to her. "Erin…if you don't want to talk about this, I'll drop it, but…" Another growl and a wave of her paw at the surrounding cells; "there's been a story going around… about your sister and Conor. He didn't really beat her up…beat her up bad, did he?"

"NO!" the word burst out of the girl-bunny like a popped paper bag…perhaps a little too intensely, and she hastily backpedaled. "I mean…yeah, they got into a fight and all, but she wasn't hurt too badly. She'll need to keep her eye bandaged, and she can't run or do any heavy lifting for a while. But she'll be fine in a week or two, no worries."

If that was meant to pacify Dana it was only minimally successful; she sniffed and her voice began to fracture. "Ohhh God, no…Conor really did hurt a police officer—on purpose; they'll NEVER let him back into the Academy now."

Erin didn't see how he could ever have been re-admitted anyway, but wisely chose to keep that thought to herself.

"I still can't believe he DID that," the girl coyote sniffed, wiping her nose with a finger.

"Neither can I," Erin started to agree…before she remembered something and tacked on a postscript. "Except…According to my big sis, what really set him off was when she grabbed him from behind; said he just about went postal on her."

"Whoa, that's what happened?" Dana's head snapped around with a palpable look of relief. "Ohhhh, okay, that explains it," she said, prompting Erin to a swift decision; no way was she going to mention the fact that Conor had drawn first blood in that fight.

"Yes, that's right. Uhmmm, but can you tell me something; do you know why he loses it when someone grabs him like that?"

"No…and I wish I did." The coyote girl half growled, half sighed. "He kind of hinted at it once, but as far as I know, he's never told anyone the full story."

Erin's nose began to twitch. "Ohhh-kay, can you tell me what he said, or is that something…?"

"No, I can tell you," Dana interrupted, willing to talk, but at the same time, eager to get it over with. "Someone grabbed him from behind when he was little and hurt him real bad. He never came out and told anyone that's the reason he goes off like that, but, well…" She finished up the sentence with a shrug.

"Whoa, so he gets flashbacks when that happens?" Erin's nose was twitching harder than ever.

"Mmmm," the young canine sucked at a corner of her mouth, "He…never actually said so, but yeah, that's what I think happens." She shook as if attempting to dry herself, "Uhm…Erin, can we talk about something else?"

"Yeah, sure," the young doe-bunny replied, more than happy to move on to another subject—the one she'd been holding in reserve, "Sooo, Jason's your boyfriend, is that right?"

The coyote girl's answering smile told her that she'd made a wise choice of topic.

"Yeah, that's right," she said, and then winked, "and why not? We're warriors, y'know."

"Warriors?" Erin's nose was twitching all over again.

"Yup," the coyote girl declared proudly, thumbing herself in the chest, "I'm Apache, he's Zulu; darn good fit, if I do say so myself."

"Hee…Ohhhh-kay." The young bunny giggled. She had kind of liked Dana the first time they met; now, she was really beginning to like her. "But tell me, how did you and Conor ever meet?" Another safe enough question she figured, and in this she was correct.

"Oh, Saad introduced us," the coyote girl informed her.

"Saad?" One of Erin's ears lifted upwards, "Oh, was that the sand cat working the stage with you?" And also the one who'd been arrested with her and Jason—but there was no need to bring that up.

"That's him," Dana answered, nodding. "We used to jam together after class sometimes, him, me, and Jason. One day he brought Conor along, and later on HE brought in Mike Daehan."

"Mike…" the young bunny's ear went up even higher. "Oh wait, the rat in charge of the sound board yesterday."

"Right again," the young coyote cocked a finger, "GREAT keyboard player."

"Yep, that's what Conor told me," Ahhh, yes…she knew she'd heard that name somewhere before.

A cunning look came over her seat-mate, a small reminder that in the slyness department, foxes had nothing on coyotes, "Oh, really? Did he ever tell you the story about Mike's Academy audition?"

"He sure did," Erin giggled again. "Did Mike's parents really threaten to pull him out of the tryouts when the school wouldn't let him go on with a back-up band?

Dana flattened a paw and fanned it. "Mmmm, I wouldn't really call it a threat, more like venting. 'I've got half a mind to take my son and go,' that sort of thing. But you know what happened next, right? Mike went out on that stage and just owned it. And then, when he came off again, he walked right up to his folks and said…"

"'…See? I told you I could handle it myself,'" Erin finished the sentence for her. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if the young black rat had also spoken to Conor yesterday. She quickly decided against it; almost certainly he had, but there are a few things you're better off not knowing.

No problem; she had another question for the 'yote-girl anyway. "But if I remember right…you guys don't have a bass-player in your group yet. How've you been managing without one?"

"Oh, we used to trade off a lot." Dana's answer was like a cool breeze, "Sometimes Saad would play bass, sometimes Conor, sometimes me—sometimes Mike would play bass on one of his synths. Or if we were playing off campus, Conor knew this Deejay named Treo who used to fill in; hyena."

"Wait…CONOR played bass sometimes?" Now both of Erin's ears were standing at attention.

Her seatmate fanned a pawlm again. "Not very often, and he never really liked it; none of us did. We thought we'd found a bass guy once, 'roo kid named Scott Wallace. But then he went away for Christmas vacation and never came back, dropped out of school, no explanation."

"What a shame," the young bunny signed and shook her head, "You know Dana…I never did ask; what instruments do you play?"

"Oh, a few different things," the coyote girl responded waving a casual paw, "Rhythm guitar, flute—classical and Native American—I just started learning the sax. But my favorite instrument's a fiddle, both standard and Apache."

There went Erin's ears again…and this time her nose went, too.

"An Apache fiddle, what's that?"

"It's actually kind of a rhythm instrument," the young coyote explained with a smile, "made from a hollowed out agave stalk, about yea big," she held her paws a couple of feet apart, "Looks sort of like a giant plant bud with a single string attached. My grandfather taught me how to play one."

Whoa, this was fascinating. If they ever got out of here, the young bunny decided she was definitely going to have to hear what an Apache fiddle sounded like.

"WHEN we get out of here!" she corrected herself. In Dana Alchesay's presence, it was impossible to believe otherwise; there was something about this coyote girl that made your upper lip want to stiffen.

But now it was her turn to ask a question.

"So, you met Conor at the, uh…Carrot Days Fair, is that right?"

"Carrot Days Festival, but yes, that's right," Erin happily answered her. Ahhh, now here was a subject she could get into. "Did he tell you about the song we played together?"

"Tie Your Mother Down; yes he did, and mmmm, grrrr, I wish I could have been there." Dana growled in frustration at the memory, "Conor said you just killed iton that tune." She raised a paw for a high-five, which the young bunny happily returned, "And after watching your performance at the auditions gah'chi'kii. I have nooo trouble believing him."

A heat rose up in the young bunny's cheeks and into the base of her ears. That was one of the few things she hated about having white fur; when you blushed it was easy to tell. Only…why the heck was she blushing?

"Uhhh, guh-chee-key what's that?" she asked; she mispronounced it horribly, but flet she had to say something in response.

"Apache for 'bunny-girl'." Dana answered with another smile, this one slightly mischievous.

Erin felt the blush rise even higher in her face…and knew then that it was no use trying to fight it; she was going to tell her new friend everything.

"That was the first time…no, the THIRD time Conor helped me," she said, speaking in a small voice while regarding the floor.

"Whoa, what now…?" Dana's ears were standing up and pointing at each other; Conor had obviously never told her the story, or at least not all of it.

So—the young doe-bunny supposed—that left it up to her.

"Yep, hard to believe after what happened the first time we met." She went on from there to describe her first encounter with the fugitive young silver-fox. "...And then he said, 'So I guess that means a kiss is out of the question?' Oh go ahead Dana, it won't bother me."

The young coyote promptly followed her suggestion; resistance was useless anyway. Lifting her muzzle, she let loose a howl of laughter that had several of the other girls staring in confusion. "So what did you do?" she asked when she finally recovered.

Erin's eyes turned upwards and her mouth compressed into almost a pucker.

"I uh…laid my foot upside his face."

She expected more hilarity, but Dana's expression became as solemn as a shaman's. "He let you do that, you know."

"Yes, I know," the bunny-girl's expression was equally somber. "I think deep down he knew he'd gone too far."

"Yeah, that's him, all right," her seatmate agreed. "He's usually a fairly level-headed fox, but don't ever push him too far." There was nothing reproachful in her voice, but it stung like a hornet nonetheless…mostly because of what Erin knew had happened next.

She would have thought recalling the events that followed would be about as easy as pulling teeth, but instead the story came out quite easily; how she'd nearly destroyed her bass in a fit of rage and how Conor had stopped her, how he'd managed to get it fixed and then given her his slot at the talent show, insisting that she let him join her onstage. Dana seemed to know bits and pieces of the tale, but most of it was unknown to the young coyote-girl.

"Uh-huh, that's Conor too." She said, "He never could turn his back on someone who needs his help." Her expression turned wicked again. "Did you hear about how he got Saad's guitar back, after his dumb kid brother lost it in shred-off?"

"No, I didn't," Erin admitted, leaning in close with an eager look on her face. She'd actually heard bits and pieces of the story already from Judy—but how could she resist? The tone of the coyote-girl's voice was hinting at something very juicy.

In this, the young doe-bunny was not to be disappointed. When Dana finished, she was practically whooping with delight. "Ohhh, I wish I could have been THERE," she said, and then added with a half-wink. "But you did pretty good too, Dana…playing Conor's straight-mammal, or whatever."

The young coyote scratched at an ear again. "I-I-I think the word you're looking for is 'shill', Erin. But anyway it was no big deal. I've always been the practical one in our group."

"Really, what about the other guys?" the young rabbit asked her impulsively.

"Well…" Dana pondered for a moment, "Jason's always been our good timer, Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky, typical drummer," She said it with affection rather than scorn; "pretty sure that's why I fell for him. Saad's always been the serious one in our group; you know, the kid that never lightens up. Mike's always been kind of bi-polar; panicky one minute and fearless the next."

"And Conor?" Erin asked, trying not to sound impatient. That was who she really wanted to know about.

Dana sucked in a hiss of air through her fangs and looked away again, crossing her arms and tapping a finger against her shoulder.

"Conor?" she said, finally looking back in the young doe-rabbit's direction, "He's always been our mystery mammal, the one you can never quite figure out. We always suspected he was living on his own, no family to speak of, but none of us ever said anything; 'fraid that if the word got around they'd pull him out of school and stick him in an orphanage."

"Uh-huh," Erin nodded—and then posed the question she'd wanted to ask all along. "Do you have any idea…how the heck did he ever get mixed up with somebody like The Phantom—or whatever that animal's called?"

"Don't have a clue," Dana growled in frustration a second time. "But that's exactly what I'm talking about, gah'chi'kii. If you'd told me back when classes let out that Conor was carrying money for a loan-shark, I'd of told you to go get some professional help. You just can't ever get a handle on that fox." Her mouth became a thin, flat line, and she waved a paw at the surrounding cells. "I can tell you this much though; if I know him, he's NOT going to give himself up in exchange for the ZPD letting us go." Her lip twitched upwards revealing a fang, a sign of nervousness rather than anger. "But at the same time you had better believe he's not just going to sit still and do nothing; no way, not that silver fox."

Erin felt her nose twitching and her foot beginning to thump—and this time it wasn't out of curiosity.

"Wha…What do you think he'll do?"

Dana regarded her for a long moment before answering.

"That's what worries me, gah'chi'kii; I don't have the slightest idea."

Although neither Erin nor her companion could possibly have known it, the animal at the center of their conversation was, at that moment, lying in bed and feeling equally clueless in that regard. Conor had no idea as to what he should do next…about his friends, about his own current situation; about anything really. He was even beginning to have second thoughts about the actions he'd taken so far.

That call he'd made to Tuff-Guy Tufts…he had jumped the gun on that one, big-time. He should have at least waited until tomorrow, when the courts opened up, before making his move; see if Erin and his friends were going walk without any outside help. Almost certainly that wouldn't have happened—not with that squirrel in charge—but you never knew. And besides, he could have afforded to wait. Even if the ZPD was already planning to let Erin and his friends go, it couldn't happen before then anyway.

Ordinarily, Conor would have held off on Tufts until then—except the Purrcocet he'd taken had started to wear off, leaving him at the mercy of his injuries. He could have popped some more, but he didn't want to get hooked again. And so he'd opted to ride it out until bedtime. A wise decision perhaps; except animals in pain have a tendency to lash out unreasonably. And Conor Lewis was no exception; he had chosen to lash out digitally—at the animal he deemed responsible for his friends' arrest, a decision he was now beginning to lament.

And that was only the first of many regrets that he had.

First of all, he should have written off that stinking drone and just gotten the heck OUT of there soon as Erin's performance was done. But no, he'd been just soooo sure that once he made it to the Lionheart Auditorium, he'd be home free. And so, he'd decided to move the little RC helicopter to a new and safer location before heading back to his loft.

And how had THAT worked out, huh? Erin and his buds were all in jail, he'd nearly been caught himself, he had been hurt, bad enough to go to the ER—and instead of being securely back in storage, where it belonged, his drone was sitting out on a construction site—just waiting to be discovered when the crew showed up for work tomorrow. Oh, he could still move it somewhere else, except—whoopsie-doozy—the remote-control signal couldn't reach it from inside his loft; thank you Furaday Cage. And he didn't dare go outside to try and bring it home, not in his current condition. If he hit the streets now and somebody fingered him, forget it, he'd be as good as busted; no way was he in any kind of state to make an artful dodge.

The only bright spot in his situation was that, except for that blankety-blank drone, he had no need to venture outside of his lair, not for at least the next two weeks. The one wise move he'd made over the past few days had been to lay in plenty of extra provisions before trotting off to catch Erin's audition performance. It was a decision he'd made early on in his plans. From the first, he'd known that if things didn't go as intended, he might have to lay low for a while.

And lo, his best laid plans had gone awry and so here he was…but even in his worst-case scenario he'd never dreamed that he might end up physically incapable of leaving his hidey-hole. Dang but that bunny cop knew how to handle herself in a fight. His head felt like it had been pumped full of compressed air, and he was only able to walk with the aid of a home-made crutch, fashioned from a cast-off rifle stock and a length of PVC pipe. Whenever he tried to walk without it, his leg threatened to give out at every third step.

That, or course, led him straight into another round of self-recrimination. Why the fox had he up and gone after Judy like that? The clever thing to do, he had only come to realize over breakfast, would have been to pretend to give himself up. And then, when the doe-bunny's guard was down…that would have been the time to make his move. By going to the attack when she was a good six feet away, he had given her just enough time to prepare; dumb fox!

Conor dwelled on that for less than a minute before moving on. He'd made plenty of other boneheaded mistakes besides that one. For instance, WHY had he allowed himself to become separated from his backpack? Even with nobody else around, he should have kept it within easy reach; dumb, DUMB, DUMB fox…the perfect cap-off to his brilliant day!

That is until he'd gone himself three steps worse. Holy foxtrot, had he really gone after Judy first? Had he really sent her to the ER?

Had he…really drawn down on her with a dart gun loaded up with Morningmew and Nighthowler—with pellets geared for a large-mammal species?

He had…

…and it was AWFUL.

"I'm reverting," the young fox told himself, sitting up and doubling halfway over, in a mixture of pain and shame, "I'm turning back into the fox-kid who was locked up in Granite Point." For the longest time, he thought he had put that part of his life behind him. Now here it was again, sitting beside him and hoping to catch up on current events.

On an impulse, he snatched up his laptop from the bedside table and flipped it open. For a moment he thought about trying to hook up with Guild again, but then immediately tossed the idea. His sometime-online partner had missed last night's appointed rendezvous, and hadn't acknowledged a single one of his pings—and there had been a lot of them.

Was Guild…ghosting him? Last night, he would have said, "No! Way!" Today he wasn't so sure.

So, instead he scrolled through his photo-files, easily finding the one he was looking for. Ahhh, there she was—but was she looking at him reproachfully, or…?

"Ohhh Mom; what the heck would you say to me now?"

The picture did not answer him, and so he moved on to another one.

"Judy, I'm so sorry…really. I'd take it all back if I could."

This time he seemed to get a reply…only not the one he wanted.

"But you WON'T turn yourself in, will you kid?"

No, he wouldn't…but what WAS he going to do?

He clicked off the photo files and shut down the laptop—laying back on the sheets with the image of Judy Hopps still lingering in his head.

At that moment, in fact, the bunny living rent-free in his memories was on her way back to Precinct-1.

The call had come in while she'd been preparing to pick up some groceries and a few other items before heading back to her flat.

"Hopps, this is Chief Bogo; I need you to come to my office right away; very important." No explanation and he'd disconnected before she'd had time to ask.

For a moment, Judy had stared at the phone with her nose twitching. While lengthy conversations had never been the big Cape buffalo's spice of life, cutting off a conversation without any reason given wasn't like him at all.

Luckily, she had just come from visiting with her mother and sister in the guest suite Gazelle had lent them. The popstar had insisted that Judy use her limo to get to the store and then home again and so, certain that it wouldn't be problem, she had directed the driver to take her to Precinct-1 first. Whatever was going on there, it shouldn't take up too much of her time, or so the doe bunny reasoned.

Arriving at her destination, she was told by Benjamin Clawhauser to report straight to Bogo's office, and sorry…he had no idea what the Big Chief wanted her for.

Ascending the concourse to the big Cape buffalo's private sanctum, Judy paused to look out through the precinct's front window. Just as Caudia Nizhang had predicted, the number of protesters gathered outside had increased exponentially since the previous night. A shudder rippled down her back, turning her tail into a puffball. Erin or no Erin, the ZPD had better start thinking ahead on this. Either they let those kids Tufts had busted go free, or else they needed to start calling in some serious back-up. The way things were going out there, the situation could turn very ugly, very quickly.

That made her think of Conor; did he know what was going on out in front of the precinct? And if he did, what did he think? Did he even care? HE was the one who'd invited all those 'Kids in the Hoodz' to the ZAPA auditions…although he'd never intended for them to start a riot. They'd been there to provide a distraction until he made his getaway, nothing more than that; even now she still believed it.

And yet…and yet…

He had made all that effort, taken all those steps—and all those risks—just to be present for Erin's audition performance. What in Frith's name had been going on inside that fox-kid's head?

Well, whatever the answer was, it would just have to wait. Here she was, at the door to Chief Bogo's office.

She knew something very serious was happening when he told her to enter on the first knock.

When Judy opened the door, she was unsurprised to find that Lt. Tufts was already there ahead of her; what did surprise her was where he was seated. Instead of his normal spot, beside Chief Bogo's desk, he was parked in front of it, looking up at the big Cape buffalo, with no other chairs close by.

In other words, he was sitting in the hot seat.

Had it been practically anyone else in that chair, Judy might have had some sympathy for them—but for not this squirrel. At the same time, however, she resolved not to allow herself any feelings of schadenfreude; nope, not her, not this bunny-scout.

Wel-l-l-ll maybe just a little…

"Detective Hopps, have a seat," Bogo waved a hoof to indicate she could take any other chair she wanted. Ohhh-kay, he definitely wasn't mad at her—or else it would have been just plain 'Hopps.'

But still, what the heck was going on here? Had Attorney General Sayanov gotten wind of yesterday's events at the ZAPA auditions—and then forwarded a rocket to the Chief's office? Hmmm, could be... Claudia had predicted that the ibex would be none too pleased when he heard about the happenings at the Performing Arts Academy yesterday.

Just then Bogo's intercom buzzed and the tinny voice of Benjamin Clawhauser came over the speaker.

"Sir, Lieutenants Leonard and Redding are here."

"Send them up straightaway."

Judy's ears did not rise up and her nose twitched only a little. Perry 'Spike' Redding, a roan antelope was the head of the ZPD Youth Crimes Division, while Serena Leonard, a lioness, ran the department's Anti-Gang Unit. Given the way Zootopia's young miscreants had hitched their collective wagons to the dark star of Conor Lewis, it was hardly surprising that they were coming, but still…

What the heck was going on here?

Well, she'd find out soon enough because just then the door to Bogo's office opened and the two Lieutenants entered the room.

One was a predator and the other was prey, a lioness and roan antelope; a pair of more divergent large-mammal species was hardly imaginable—but you'd never have known it from their mode of dress, dark shades atop flashy baseball caps, dark clothes and an abundance of gold. Both of them had roots deep in the city's youth-gangs. Spike's father had been an OG, an Original Gangsta who'd come out of prison determined to turn his life around. As for Serena, she was Straight Outta Happytown, growing up less than a block away from the house where Nick Wilde had lived as a kit.

As they passed by where Lieutenant Tufts was sitting, Spike offered a deferential nod to the squirrel, but Serena didn't even look at him. That too, was no surprise; she had reportedly once threatened to swat him off a tabletop, and always referred to him by his street-nick, 'Tuff-Guy', something she could get away with since she technically outranked him.

She had no such problems with Chief Bogo, offering him an over-and-under hoof-bump which he returned without enthusiasm. His lack of spark did not escape the notice of either her or her fellow Lieutenant. Their faces were unsmiling as they took their seats.

And then, as was his wont, Bogo skipped the preliminaries and got straight to the heart of the matter.

"Right then Tufts, tell them what you told me." He let out a short, hot snort, and leaned across his desk, "…everything you told me."

Tufts stiffened in his chair and lifted his muzzle.

"It's because of me that the Lewis boy found out the ZPD was onto him…on the day he was supposed to pick up the money from that beach locker. Either he or his partner hacked into my cell phone. When I called to speak to Detectives….er, Officers Hopps and Wilde, he was listening and…" He stopped and his tail began to flip; when he spoke again, his eyes were puckered shut. "He heard me saying how we had that locker staked out. That's how he knew we were tracking him, and…that's why he left the money instead of taking it." He stopped again, peering silently up at Bogo, who regarded him stone-faced for a second, and then leaned across his desk a second time.

"I said…everything, Lieutenant." His voice was almost a purr.

The squirrel gritted his teeth and shut his eyes again.

"I made that call on my fursonal phone…which wasn't secured; that's how he was able to hack into it so easily."

The reaction to this was varied; Judy and Spike both gasped, but Serena Leonard just kind of rolled her eyes, as if to say 'So what else is new?' Chief Bogo, who'd already heard the news, just sat there with his arms folded.

The first one to break the silence was Spike Redding.

"How'd you find out about this?" He was speaking to The Chief.

In response, Bogo held out a hoof in Albert Tuft's direction.

"From him; he just walked right in and told me."

"You did WHAT?" Okay, NOW Serena looked surprised—and she wasn't the only one. Judy's ears were sticking up and her nose was twitching wildly. Spike Redding looked like he was about to fall straight out of his chair, but once again was the first of the three to recover.

"Okay fine, but how did you find out?" This time, he directed the question to Lieutenant Tufts.

"I found out when he hacked my phone again, earlier today," the Kaibab squirrel responded, unflinchingly meeting the antelope's gaze. "He called me up and played back a recording he made of…er, that other conversation I was talking about just now."

"Tell them about the Lewis boy's demands." It was Bogo again, and the order probably wasn't necessary, at least not for Judy's sake. What else would that silver fox kid have wanted except…?

"That either we release his friends by 5 O'clock tomorrow afternoon…or else, he was going to post that recording of me, Hopps, and Wilde on the internet."

Tufts said this, putting special emphasis on the past tense—as if to remind everyone of what they already knew; Conor Lewis's blackmail scheme was now essentially dead in the water.

Perhaps…but it didn't mean HE was finished. If Judy knew that young silver fox, his threat against Lieutenant Tufts had been only the first of several cards he had to play. She raised her paw, speaking to Chief Bogo.

"Sir, may I ask a question?"

"You may," he said, sounding a little bit annoyed that she would feel the need to get his permission first.

And no, she didn't; what she needed was for Tufts to understand that the Chief was in her corner. It was the only way she was going to get a straight answer out of him.

"Lieutenant Tufts," she said; her tone both clipped and formal. "I'm getting a very strong vibe that promising to blow the whistle on you wasn't the end of Conor Lewis's threats. I-Is that correct?"

"Yes it is…and no, it wasn't," the Kaibab squirrel answered at once, surprising her with his forthrightness. "He never said so directly—heck he never said anything directly—but he hinted very strongly that if we don't play ball with him, errrr, how did he put it again?" His whiskers flipped up and down. "Oh yes, he said, that what happened to my cell phone will be nothing compared to what's coming."

"And…do you believe him?" It was Spike Redding.

"Honestly, I don't know," Tufts admitted with an apprehensive shrug. "He sounded like he was high on something…and you know how that is. He might have been serious, or he might have only been running his mouth."

"High…on something…?" Judy's brows flattened and her ears went back, "Are you sure about that? That fox-boy never showed the slightest sign of drug use when I saw him at the Carrot Days Festival…or really, at any time afterwards."

"Yes, but that was before he went to the ER," Chief Bogo reminded them both, "According to the attending physician, he was given Purrcocet for the pain."

"Purrcocet…otherwise known as Oxycodone; yeah, that'd do it," Serena Leonard was leaning forward with paws clasped and her elbows on her knees. "How many doses does he have, Chief?"

"Six doses, 10 Milligrams each" Bogo responded, "Which means he should have run out by now."

"Unless he's rationing them," Judy pointed out succinctly.

"Or unless he has access to more," Bogo countered, grim as a reaper, "and that might not be as unlikely as some of you may think." He straightened up, addressing the group as a whole. "For those of you who don't know, that dart-pistol we recovered from the amphitheater was loaded with a mixture of Nighthowler pellets—and Morningmew pellets."

Perhaps he only meant it as a bolster to his argument, an exercise in logic. Someone capable of obtaining a substance as strictly controlled as the Nighthowler antidote should have no trouble getting their paws on a supply of painkiller.

That may have been Bogo's intention—or perhaps he meant it as a wake-up call. In any case the effect was roughly the same as if he'd dropped a severed head on the floor. Spike and Serena both gasped out loud, while Lieutenant Tufts grimaced and pulled up into a furry ball. Judy's stomach felt as if someone was using it to tie a bowline; the news was no less devastating to her for being something that she already knew.

…Because a new element had been added to the mix; the unspoken part of the threat Conor had made to Lieutenant Tufts. If that fox kid really had access to Morningmew, then however ambiguous his promise of retribution might have been, it was anything but a hollow one.

Only…would he really go that far? Judy didn't believe it, not for a second—but then HE wasn't the one pulling the strings. The Phantom…it always came back to The Phantom. Who the heck WAS that animal? Her former partner, Detective Wilde, had peeled back some of the layers, but the elusive loanshark's full identity still remained a mystery.

Chief Bogo allowed them to dwell on his revelation for a moment and then cleared his throat, a sound not unlike a wood chipper getting revved up for business.

Then he focused his gaze on the Kaibab squirrel seated in front of him.

Notes:

Chapter 5 will conclude this coming Thursday.

Chapter 30: Unintended Consequences (Concluded...Pt. 8)

Summary:

Truth and consequences

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 5—Unintended Consequences
(Concluded…Part 8)

"Lieutenant Tufts," Bogo pronounced it 'Leff-tenant,' "There is very little I can say to you that you don't already know." He pulled out his reading glasses, and put them on, but made no move to reach for a corresponding document. Judy knew what that meant and could only be grateful it was the squirrel in the hot seat and not her. "However, as police procedure compels me, I fear that I must say something." He snorted and leveled a finger across the desk, "Your phone call to Officers Hopps and Wilde, on the day in question, was an inexcusable breach of security. I won't say why as the results speak for themselves." He withdrew the finger, replacing it with a glowering face. "But what I find particularly infuriating is that it was also entirely frivolous. You made that call, not so as to relay any important information, nor to issue any sorts of instructions. No, you made it merely to vent your anger over the fact that, up until then, you were unaware that the OIC's were familiar with the suspect, Conor Lewis." He sat back and grunted. "You didn't need to know that information, Lieutenant, and in any case, Hopps and Wilde had been unawares themselves until only a short time before. Furthermore, even if you HAD been justified in making that phone call, in the middle of a tracking operation was not the time and place for it. And even if it had been, there is no excuse for you having made that call on an unsecured phone." He shook his head, more in frustration than anger. "Good God, Tufts; what the Devil were you thinking? You, of all mammals, should have remembered we were targeting the courier to a master cyber-criminal. In any event, we all know the result; the only reason we were able to take young Mister Lewis into custody was because he bit one of our officers in a fit of desperation. Worst of all, had it not been for your breach of protocol, he might well have led us to The Phantom, as planned."

At the mention of his nemesis' name, Tufts threw up his paws and grimaced as if he'd just been hit with a steam-hose.

Bogo let him stew for a moment, and then pulled off his glasses and dropped them onto his desk-blotter. Judy knew what that meant too, and felt a burning ball rise into her throat, never mind that it wasn't HER head on the block. "Here it comes…"

Not…quite…yet.

"I've already spoken by phone to Attorney General Sayanov." Bogo continued, his gaze never wavering from the squirrel seated in front of him. "I will spare you the full text of his remarks, as there are bunnies present." Judy's ears went back, but somehow she managed to hold her tongue. "Suffice it to say, he and I are in complete agreement…and I expect the police board will also concur with my decision."

He paused to give Tufts an opportunity to answer the charges. The squirrel responded by standing up on his chair and pulling out his badge. "I…understand sir," he said, forcing himself to meet the Chief's eyes, "And I take full responsibility for my actions." He allowed himself a dramatic pause. "MY actions Chief; no one else in Cybercrimes Division was involved; this is all on me, all of it."

Judy stared at him…blinking and feeling her nose beginning to twitch. What the…? Was this the same officious little jerk she'd faced down in Dr. Vignius's office only the night before? The last thing she would have expected from Lieutenant Albert Tufts was a terse admission of responsibility. She could almost begin to feel some sympathy for him…almost.

Then Bogo cleared his throat again.

"Duly noted, Lieutenant," he nodded gravely at the squirrel and then, at last, delivered his verdict.

"Ordinarily, such a serious violation of police procedures would be grounds for immediate dismissal. However," he put on his glasses again, "There are certain mitigating factors to be considered. First and foremost," he peered at Tufts over the rim of his spectacles, "You came to us with this information of your own volition, without any prompting from the outside—and you acted upon it as soon as you became aware. Secondly, the fact remains that you correctly predicted the Lewis boy's appearance at the Performing Arts Academy auditions…and you also made sure to have a SWAT team on stand-by. In light of these facts, I have made the decision to suspend you from active duty—with pay—pending a disciplinary hearing."

The glasses came off and his expression changed from stern to sardonic, "You're not in safe harbor yet, Leff-tenant. You may yet still lose your badge…or you may still keep it. In any event…I'll have it now, please." he reached across the desk again, this time holding out an open hoof. In response, Tufts leaped up and dropped the badge into the Chief's grasp, a move that reminded Judy of someone dunking a basketball.

"Thank you sir," the squirrel said. And did he actually sound grateful? Before Judy was able to decide, one way or the other, he had hopped down onto the floor again. "Can someone get the door for me?"

Yes…of course, the doe bunny realized; now that he was officially under suspension, Tufts could no longer take part in any official police business. She almost got up to open the door for him but stopped when Serena Leonard rose up from her chair as well. This time the look she gave the squirrel was anything but scornful.

The door was halfway open when Bogo's voice boomed out, "WHY, Lieutenant?"

Judy stared in confusion, "Why WHAT, Chief?" she wanted to know—and so did everyone else in the office, judging by the looks on their faces.

Everyone that is, but Albert Tufts–who seemed to know exactly what the big Cape buffalo was getting at. "The Lewis kid told me to do the right thing, sir…and so I DID the right thing. And besides," his whiskers stiffened and his tail became a bottle-brush, "I'd rather be fired than let that sneaking little fox-punk pull my strings!"

He skittered out the door and Serena closed it behind him.

For some time afterwards, a moody silence reigned in Bogo's office. When it finally broke, no one mentioned the Kaibab squirrel; they had other business in front of them.

"Right," the big Chief cleared his throat a third time, and then looked in the direction of the lioness and roan antelope. "As of right now, I'm transferring responsibility for the Conor Lewis investigation to ZPD Youth Crimes." The tone of his voice suggested he wished that he'd done it weeks ago. "Cybercrimes will still be responsible for apprehending The Phantom, but nabbing his—apprentice, assistant, whatever you want to call him—that will be your division's responsibility, Lieutenant Redding."

"Yes, sir," the roan antelope's nod was firm and yet also hesitant. While he didn't seem to want the case, he could hardly deny the reasoning behind Bogo's decision.

Neither could Judy; they'd been treating Conor as a cybercriminal when they really should have been treating him like what he was—a kid! Ironically the only one who'd done that up until now had been Albert Tufts, but even so, his insights had taken him only so far. He had known that Conor would be at the ZAPA auditions but had reckoned without the young mammals in the audience—especially the ones who had come there at the fugitive young silver fox's beck and call.

Hopefully Lieutenant Redding wouldn't make the same mistake. His reputation, what the doe-bunny knew of it, certainly seemed to suggest that he wouldn't. He supposedly had a rapport with the younger members of the Zootopia community that no one else could touch.

And then Serena Leonard's paw went up. "'Scuse me, Chief? I 'gree with your decision and all; Youth Crimes should have had the ball on this from day one, but…" she rolled her shoulders in a leonine shrug, "what-all am I doing here? The Lewis kid ain't part of a gang; he's a lone operator."

"IS he?" Bogo's ear was flicking and his mouth had become a crooked line. "Don't forget, the young mammals who started the ZAPA riot were there at HIS invitation."

That brought Judy sailing into the fray. "Well yes Chief, but he never told them to riot; he didn't even know it was happening…not at the time anyway. "She tapped her chest with a finger. "And I should know; we were trying to take each other out at the time."

"Maybe not," Spike Redding countered, already getting into his role of OIC, "but it also never occurred to him that they might start rioting on their own," He sniffed and pawed the floor with his hoof, "Neither did that idiot, Tufts."

He had more to say but was interrupted when Bogo bought his hoof down on the desktop.

"That's enough, Lieutenant! Tufts is my problem; your problem is the Lewis boy—and nothing else, do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly sir," the antelope responded; properly abashed.

Bogo regarded him for a second and then snorted, turning his attention back to Serena Leonard. "But to answer your question, the Lewis boy may not be part of any gang, but possibly half of those rioters were…at least the ones we arrested. And have you heard the talk that's been going round the Precinct One juvenile detention facility?" He pointed in the direction of his office door, "Or that crowd of protestors out front? Our young Mr. Lewis may not be part of a gang yet, but whether he wishes it or not, he's slouching towards becoming some sort of supreme gang leader."

"All right sir, I get it," the lioness nodded, lifting a paw as if in mock-surrender, "but what, exactly, do ya'll want from my division?"

"What I want," Chief Bogo rumbled quietly, "is for your officers to start working on their informants, not only for any information regarding Conor Lewis, but also for anything in regards to any further 'demonstrations' those young miscreants out in front of the precinct might have planned. I don't think I need to tell you how easily such things can get out of control."

"Yes sir," Serena responded, nodding…and then her tail began to swish back and forth, a sign of unease in a big cat. "But Chief…someone gotta say it. That whole thing out front is coz of those kids we got locked up for allegedly helping that silver-fox boy to get away from us. That's the official reason, but we all know why they're really in custody."

She said this while looking at Spike Redding, who, judging by his expression, had been foursquare against Lieutenant Tufts plan to use Conor's friends to leverage him; give yourself up or they go to Juvie. Instead, as Judy was only just now coming to understand, it was Conor who'd blackmailed the squirrel. All right, maybe he hadn't managed to get his friends out of jail—but he HAD managed to get back at Lieutenant Tufts for daring to arrest them. Dang, but that fox-kid was a tricky one.

"So," the lioness went on, pointing a finger in the direction of the city jail, "What are we going to do? Are we going to charge that gang of four, let them go…or what?"

"Well, that's the problem isn't it?" Once again, Bogo's ironwood hoof came down on his desk this time with a dry, slapping noise. "I should recommend their release, first thing tomorrow morning—and I know the Attorney General would agree with me—except if we let them go now, young Mr. Lewis is going to assume we gave IN to his demands, isn't he? And so will everyone else, once the word gets round."

Judy groaned, wishing the fugitive young silver fox was here right now—so she could body slam him again. One of those kids in question was her sister Erin…who might already be slated for release, except for that DUMB little silver-fox's attempt to help her. Hmmmm, maybe he wasn't so clever after all.

But hey…wait a minute…

At once, her paw shot up. "Excuse me Chief, but aren't we forgetting something?"

"And what would that be?" he asked her, folding his hooves on his desktop…while the other two animals in the room, both of whom seriously outranked her, turned to give the rookie detective their undivided attention.

Judy tightened her jaw and took in a long breath. In her head, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Nick Wilde was delivering a carnival pitch.

"And now…live, without a net, the Great Hoppsini will perform her death-defying high-wire act!"

She knew right away what she had to say first—what she'd better say first. "All right sir, let me get this out of the way. Yes, I admit it, I have a fursonal interest here; one of those kids you're talking about is my sister, Erin…and yes, I promised my family I'd do everything in my power to secure her release." She took in another breath and steeled herself.

"That being said; let me ask you all something. Would any of you have expected Lieutenant Tufts to come clean on his own, after getting that phone call from the Lewis boy? I sure as heck wouldn't…and it's a sure bet that fox-kid won't be expecting it either."

Again crossing her fingers, this time for real, Judy paused to gauge the others' reaction. Their faces, skeptical mere seconds ago, were now regarding her with interest.

She hurriedly pressed on.

"So, what I propose is this. First thing tomorrow morning, we announce that Lieutenant Tufts has been removed from the Conor Lewis investigation and temporarily suspended from duty. That'll short-circuit the Lewis boy's blackmail scheme right then and there; even if he makes good on his promise, so what? If Lieutenant Tufts is already under suspension, there's nothing left to threaten him with."

It was a good proposal, she thought; unfortunately not good enough to keep Spike Redding from raising his hoof…and with it, an objection.

"Well yeah, but there's just one problem Detective; how are we supposed to do that without revealing that the Lewis kid hacked Lieutenant Tufts' phone?" He glanced over in Bogo's direction. "Correct me if I'm wrong Chief, but that's something we absolutely don't want the public to know about—at least not yet."

"No, we most certainly don't." The big Cape buffalo responded, offering a tight, firm nod. But then Serena Leonard broke into the conversation.

"Aw heck boss-bull, there's only 'bout million other reasons for kickin' that squirrel loose from this case. I been sayin' all along he shouldn't have been put in charge to begin with."

"Water under the bridge, Leonard," Bogo snorted and then re-directed his gaze towards the antelope in the chair next to hers. "Just the same, she's right, Redding. I've already had a petition from the Performing Arts Academy, demanding his removal from the Lewis Investigation." He glanced briefly at Judy, "Delivered fursonally by none other than Zootopia City-Councilmammal Claudia Nizhang."

Hmmm, the doe bunny mused, so THAT'S what Claudia had been up to while she'd been visiting with Erin. My, my…such a busy little red-panda…

"And that's not even mentioning all the phone calls from angry parents," the Chief was saying. He gave Judy another, longer look. "Very well then, Detective, what else do you propose?"

Judy chewed on her lip for a second and then she was off and running—hoping like heck that she wouldn't trip over her words.

"Well, assuming the Attorney General agrees with the idea, we give it a couple of hours and then announce that the kids arrested for aiding and abetting the Lewis Boy—yes, including my sister, Erin—are being released with no charges filed at the present time…and we make sure to emphasize that last part.

"Oooo," Serena Leonard was almost purring. "Turnin' the tables on that fox-kid; I do like your style, bunny-girl."

"But…" it was Spike Redding, "I'm guessing we're not actually going to file those charges later on."

"As long as those four stay out of any further trouble, I see no need for it," Bogo told him—and it was all Judy could do to keep from whooping and throwing a fist in the air. Oh, sure…there was still a lot to be worked out, but woo-hoo…he had bought her suggestion; Erin was going to be set free! Ohhhh, she couldn't wait to tell her mother and Violet.

"All right," Spike nodded, "But what about those other kids, the ones arrested for taking part in the riot. I don't think we want to let them walk." He said this while giving Judy a measured look.

"Neither do I," she answered immediately. That seemed to satisfy the antelope and he sat back in his chair again. However, there was one more subject the doe-bunny needed to address. "What about those two young rabbits we arrested for digging those holes; Max and uhhhh, Zack March?"

Bogo waved a dismissive hoof. "Tufts agreed to let them go yesterday, as they agreed to cooperate with us…and for once I supported his decision."

"He did?" Judy blinked. This was news to her…and not only to her.

"Really?" Serena's tail was flicking. "I never heard nothin' about it"

"That's because he kept it dark from everyone but me," Bogo answered with a grunt and an ironic smile. "He seemed to have the idea that those two young rabbits might have been Mister Lewis's secret accomplices… and that by letting them sweat for a while, he could get them to admit it, should that have been the case."

"Mrrrgh." Serena growled again, crossing her arms. "Ain't that typical? I wouldn't pull a trick like that on one a' the Outsiders' BoyZ, much less some poor kid from out 'n the country. An' I bet dat squirrel didn't get nothin' more out of either one of those bunnies."

"I thought I said enough, Lieutenant," Bogo rumbled in her direction, and the lioness swiftly raised her paws.

"I'm done, I'm done."

"Very well then," the big Cape buffalo informed her curtly, and then he said, "I'm going to adjourn this meeting. We shall reconvene tomorrow, first thing after roll call."

"Right before the courts open," Judy thought, but did not say. What she did say was, "Begging your pardon Chief, but does that include me?"

For a second, Bogo looked taken aback, and then leaned towards her with an elbow on the desktop

"Why wouldn't it include you, Detective Hopps?" he queried, raising an eyebrow.

She was ready for that one.

"Well sir," she pointed out, gazing up at him with big, earnest eyes, "you haven't actually given me an assignment as of yet." In fact, he hadn't even told her what she was doing here, (although by now, she had a pretty good idea.)

Such a comeback might have thrown a lesser mammal…but not this big Cape buffalo.

"Do I not know that Hopps?" he snorted and then blew a note through his nostrils. "And why wouldn't I want to include you? You know young Mr. Lewis better than anyone else on the force."

"Not quite," Judy answered silently, once again keeping her thoughts to herself. There was one other animal in the ZPD who was at least as familiar with the fugitive young silver fox as she was—perhaps even more so, since Nick was a fellow member of Conor's species.

However, since he was in Zoo York right now, it was largely a moot point.

"Yes sir, I'll be here." she said.

"Right then," Bogo answered, assuming the clipped, formal tone he always adopted when preparing to wrap up a meeting. "As for you, Lieutenant Redding, Lieutenant Leonard, when next we meet, I expect you to have some ideas as to how to best apprehend young Mr. Lewis," he angled his head towards the door again, "and also…how to keep the lid on that kettle starting to percolate on the front steps outside of Precinct 1."

The two division heads answered him immediately, each in their own way.

"Yes sir."

"I gotcha Chief."

Bogo stood up and stretched his shoulders; another gesture that, by now, the doe-bunny knew quite well.

"Alright, then…dismissed."

Judy had no sooner exited the office than her cell-phone was out and she was scrolling through her 'favorites' directory, looking for her mom's number. But then she hesitated and two steps later, the phone was back in its holster with no call made or even attempted.

No…she decided, there was only one way to deliver the news that Erin was being released—in furson.

The limo-ride back to the Palm Hotel seemed to take forever and a day. If Judy hadn't known better, she would have sworn the driver was taking her there on a roundabout route, like a cabbie hustling an out-of-town rube. He wasn't, of course…but that was how it felt.

At the door to Gazelle's private suite, she was greeted by the popstar's fursonal assistant, Mirasol Jácara.

"Hola Judy…you were gone a long time; where were you?"

Her expression was not a happy one, and at once the doe bunny's elation burst like a pricked soap-bubble. Ohhh…Gazelle must have wanted the limo for her own use, but then whoops, Judy took it and she should have been back by now. Dangit, she should have at least called to inform the popstar of the change of plans; why the heck hadn't she done that?

"Because…" she told herself, "A, Precinct-1 was only a little bit out of my way and B, I only expected to be there for a few minutes; Sunday afternoon and all." All true, but still no excuse and she knew it. "I-I'm sorry, I got sidetracked and it took a lot longer than I thought." She would give a fuller explanation if Mirasol asked, but really hoped that she wouldn't. She wanted to save it for her mom and Violet. "Did Ms. Gazelle need her limo for something?" she asked, hoping the answer would be in the negative.

"Ahhh no," the olingo said, "we were just wondering where you were." and for the first time Judy noticed that she didn't look angry, but rather depressed, and also a little…anxious?

Well, whatever it was, it could wait. "Are my Mom and my sister Violet still here?"

Mirasol's expression became even more uncomfortable.

"Si, they are," she answered, nodding backwards over her shoulder. "They're in the living room with Gazelle, watching ZMT-TV on the big screen.

"Z…MT?" Judy queried hesitantly, feeling her nose twitch. What the heck would Gazelle want with those gossip-mongers? And what the heck were her mother and Violet doing, watching that program? Especially mom; she loathed celebrity trash-talk TV.

And what the heck was going on with Mirasol Jácara? Sweet cheez n' crackers, Judy had seen funeral directors that looked more upbeat than her.

Never mind, she told herself, shunting it all aside; she had news to deliver—great news!

She found Violet and her mother sharing a lounge-sofa with Gazelle, a contrivance way too large for a bunny, but that only meant there was plenty of room for all concerned…and anyway, who cared? A commercial for an insurance company was showing on screen at the moment. Perfect; no one would mind the interruption.

Hurrying into the room, Judy waved as she approached, "Mom, Violet…"

That was as far as she got before her mother and sister raised fingers to their lips and shushed her. "In a minute Judy," Violet's voice was almost a hiss. "The ads are almost done." At the same time Bonnie was patting the spot on the sofa beside her.

Sighing inwardly Judy hopped up next to her mother, wondering what the heck…? Oh riiight, Mom and Violet had no idea that she'd been to Precinct-1, much less that she might have anything new to tell them about Erin.

But still…what was up with Gazelle? She wasn't even so much as acknowledging the new presence in the room; staring intently at the TV screen as though her life depended on it.

"What the heck is so important?" Judy whispered to her mother, waving a paw at the display.

"I don't know dear," Bonnie admitted, also sotto-voce, and then nodded across the couch at their host, lowering her voice even further, "but Ms. Gazelle insisted that we watch it with her."

"She said it's something we need to see now, instead of later," her sister Violet chimed in, further inflaming the grey-furred bunny's curiosity. Ohhh-kayyy, the news about Erin could wait a little while longer—she supposed.

She turned to look at the screen, just in time for the ad to end and the ZMT logo to appear on the screen.

Appear…? Explode would have been a better term…it burst forth in a flash of neon-red and then the view shifted instantly to a playback of Gazelle performing Nothing Else Matters….not at the Academy auditions, but at an earlier concert in a club somewhere.

Only a few seconds into the song, the view cut to a medium-shot of a muscular puma in what looked like an unfurnished TV studio. He was dressed in a white polo shirt and leaning over a partition with a red-plastic 'pong' cup in his paw. He might almost have been Joe Anybody, hanging out at his favorite watering-hole with his buds. Even the background seemed to suggest it. Look, there; a wildebeest was walking across the screen behind him.

When he spoke his voice was both firm and authoritative, as if his opinions brooked no argument.

"We've seen Gazelle perform that Metallicat tune several times at her live shows, most recently just yesterday." It was here that the appropriate footage appeared in the lower right corner of the screen, a slightly fuzzy view of the popstar's unplugged rendition at the ZAPA auditions, the footage obviously shot with a camera-phone.

Judy managed to keep her ears from rising but was unable to stop her nose from twitching. What now? Was ZMT attempting to tie her to the riot…just because she'd been onstage, right before it happened?

Gazelle should have been so lucky…

"And now, we're beginning to understand exactly why she keeps that song in her repertoire," the cougar said, and immediately the screen cut to a grainy view of a darkened street outside the Palm Hotel…not the front entrance but a different location. That was the place though; clearly visible just behind the limo was a sign with two arrows reading, 'Palm Hotel - Kitchen Deliveries…All Other Deliveries.'

As Judy watched, a pantherine figure stepped into the frame, instantly recognizable in spite of the grainy quality of the video. It was Renato Manchas.

Okay…Judy shrugged inwardly, a little unusual, but no big deal. Except…wait, that couldn't be Mr. Big's limo; not in Sahara Square, not in the Red Pig's territory! And also…why wasn't Mr. Manchas in uniform? He was literally dressed to the nines, silk dinner jacket and silk slacks, topped off with an emerald stickpin. And if that wasn't Mr. Big's limousine, then whose was it?

The answer came when the jaguar opened the rear door, and Gazelle got out, dressed in a burgundy-red evening gown.

All right…yeah; maybe her regular driver had been out sick and she had borrowed Mr. Manchas for the…Holy Carrot Stix!

On the TV screen the limo had pulled away from the curb, leaving Gazelle and the jaguar alone together. No sooner had it gone, than the big cat took her in his arms and kissed her; a kiss the popstar returned with more than a little passion.

At once the view cut back to the mountain lion.

"As ZMT only recently learned," he said, attempting to sound somber, but with a smirk peeking through from underneath, "That was not an isolated instance."

To prove it, a montage of images flashed on the screen, Gazelle and Mr. Manchas, entering a movie theater together, the popstar and the big cat, lounging poolside with her hoof in his paw. The two of them schmoozing in an outdoor café, somewhere in the Rainforest District; it just went on and on. The last picture to be shown was by far not the least of them… a late night shot of Gazelle helping Manchas into her tour-trailer—by way of an open window.

When the view cut back to the cougar, his expression had become almost sorrowful, except for the fact that it looked—and he sounded—about as genuine as a three-dollar bill.

"Sad to say, this something Gazelle is absolutely not going to want to go public…especially right now. Just recently, a major controversy erupted in her home city of Zootopia, regarding predator-prey relationships. "

Another video snippet appeared on the screen, seeming to jump out of the background and yell 'boo!' And this one made Judy want to leap up and bolt from the room; a crowd of animals chanting "Pred and Prey, Keep AWAY!" She recognized them at once as the mob from outside the Flora and Fauna fire. She should have; she and Nick had been their target—although mercifully, neither one of them was visible in the footage.

The view cut back to the mountain lion; who was now affecting an air of scholarly wisdom. "The big question now is, will this have an effect on Gazelle's career?" In response the camera panned right to a slightly geeky female gopher, sitting at a computer desk.

"I don't see how it can't, Rick." she said, "If the animals of Zootopia became that upset over a couple of regular pred and prey mammals getting into a relationship, how do you think they're going to react when a celebrity like Gazelle hooks up with a predator species?"

"I-I-I'm not so sure I agree with that, Sherri," another small voice responded off- screen, and the camera cut quickly to a bat hanging from a perch. "That's kind of old news by now. And let's face it; celebrities can get away with a lot more shenanigans than the average mammal."

Again the camera cut away, this time to a camel, lounging on a circular sofa. "Well if you ask me, it really kind of depends on whatever happens next." His voice was deep, faintly reminiscent of Chief Bogo, but without the accent. "Rock Hardesty was the animal who started that Pred-Prey-Keep-Away business. What's he going to do; will he jump on this, or leave it alone? If he goes for it, then yeah, it'll hurt Gazelle professionally; it won't be the end of her career, but yeah, she'll be in trouble."

"Well," another voice ventured, and the camera made a short move to the left, alighting on a grinning zebra, dressed up as some sort of NASCAR wannabe, "All I can say is, this gives a whole new meaning to 'Try Everything', doesn't it?"

He was answered with a burst of laughter from his fellow hosts.

"Looks like the Angel with Horns' halo is slipping a little," someone else remarked, and the laughter became even more raucous…to the accompaniment of an angry whimper from Gazelle.

Gazelle! Judy had forgotten all about her. When she looked, she saw the pop-star's face buried in her hooves…and the dark rivulets streaming down her cheeks.

She immediately sprang into action, bounding onto the carpet she leaped up, snatched the remote from the weeping antelope's hoof and hit the 'power' button. In response, the image on the screen shrank abruptly to a pinpoint and then nothing. That was it, Judy decided, Gazelle had seen enough; they had all seen enough. On her right, she could hear her mother and Violet speaking.

"Can you believe those heartless jerks, talking about the story as if someone else broke it, when it was THEM all along?"

"I know Mom…I know."

Judy let out a silent breath of relief. At least Gazelle was still in their good graces; and she knew that she was still behind the pop-star—all the way.

Even so, it was a little bit odd. After all the cold shoulders she had received over her relationship with Nick Wilde, here were her mother and sister, throwing their full support behind Gazelle…even though the popstar had committed roughly the same transgression as Judy herself.

That fact should have been upsetting but it wasn't, although she didn't have the faintest idea why.

But ahhh…what was it she'd come here to tell her mother and Violet again? Oh yes…that. Well, 'that' was just going to have to wait awhile now. Gazelle was hurting right and needed all the comforting she could get. It was the least the bunnies could do after all the help she'd given them.

"Ohhh," Judy groaned, silently to herself, "Just when you begin to think the day is out of surprises; I swear…tomorrow can't get here soon enough!"

Chapter 31: The Children's Crusade (Part 1)

Summary:

...And then all Hell broke loose.

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 6—The Children's Crusade
(Part 1)

"The world, that understandable and lawful world, was slipping away."

William Golding - Lord of the Flies

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Sunday -18:27 hours, Zootopia, Little Rodentia.

With a squeak of frustration Tommy Whitely brought his paws down on the table, causing his laptop to jump a good half inch. He had just been blown off the road in Slaughter-Race—again! That, he could live with; it was what happened next that made him want to hurl his computer out the window; the phenomenon known as gamer sympathy:

Speedbum115: You lose, looser

Mastablasta23X; Burrrrrrned

Shedevildestoryer3@4: Tuff Luck, Sucka!

There were enough of them to fill two pages...and that was nothing compared to what he was hearing in his headset at the moment.

What made it doubly frustrating for Tommy was that he shouldn't have been tossed from that round. He had the driving skills; he could smoke just about anyone you'd care to name in Sugar Glide.

What he didn't have was the computer power, something that comes with the territory when you're a rodent, in his case a deer mouse. It's a simple fact of life, the smaller the mammal, the smaller the computer, the less memory and processing power you have available. And with its tres-cool graphics, Slaughter Race required a lot more gigs than Sugar Glide, at least if you wanted to compete with the big boys.

There was, in fact, a way for Tommy to obtain what he needed to win, or at least advance—but it was risky, way risky. If his dad found out, he'd be grounded for the rest of the summer; not the best thing to happen when you just got your driver's license. Even worse, he'd lose his internet access until the end of forever.

But then...was that any worse than some of the chances he'd already taken? Case in point; the version of Slaughter Race he'd been playing was of the 'unlocked' variety. He had acquired it from his best bud, Ted, who'd acquired it from his sister's boyfriend, who had acquired it from...Tommy had no idea, and honestly didn't care. As long as his folks thought it was a righteous buy, purchased on Amazoon he didn't need to know any more.

Dangit, he could easily make it to the next level—and beyond; he was sure that he could.

If he only had the gigs...

Gritting his teeth as if preparing to receive a booster shot, the young deer mouse moved the cursor and clicked, moved it again and double clicked, and then stopped—breathing lightly and staring hard at the pop-up window that had just appeared on his screen.

ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DISABLE YOUR ANTI-MALWARE PROGRAMS?

[_]YES [_] NO

<<<<<THIS IS NOT RECOMMENDED>>>>

Tommy gulped down a mouthful of air, moved the cursor to 'Yes' and clicked...all the while keeping his eyes tightly shut.

He would make sure to turn the anti-malware apps back on when he was done—and he would accept no invitation, download no apps, and click on no attachments until he was done...so help him, Gamer GodZ.

Once more opening his eyes, he re-opened the Slaughter Race app, flexing his fingers and squeaking under his breath. "All right jerks...say hello to the new me."

First thing was first however; he needed to select a vehicle and get it pimped for competition. The first choice was easy, a 1970 Dawdge Challenger like the one from the movie Death Proof—and that other film whose name he was never able to recall. Along with his ride came the usual accessories, armored windows, nitrous injection, and a barely-concealed mini gun...the weapon of choice for most Slaughter Racers.

And ohhhh, what have we here? The option to load it with depleted Uranium slugs. Ooooo, he hadn't seen that add-on before...but hey, those bullets could get through just about anything and the selection only cost like 5 extra credits. He could easily swing that, and so he clicked on the icon at once.

Ahhh, the poor, eager, young deer mouse; he had no idea what he'd just let loose on his computer. Nor was he going to; his laptop wasn't the target, and for the moment the rogue application had only one purpose; find and infect more computers.

By the time Tommy finished his game, succeeding in reaching the next two levels as planned, the malware that he had unwittingly uploaded had spread to the computers of at least seven other players—all of whom had also disabled their anti-virus software. At least five more had acquired it directly from the same source as him. After logging off from Slaughter Race, one of them, a guinea pig from Bulltimore named Sarah Wheatland shared a video she had created on Dik-Dok. Several minutes later she received a frantic DM from her online bud, Magebuni520, a jackrabbit living in Pawstin Texas. When she'd clicked on the video, instead of the playback starting, a popup window from Maulwarebytes had appeared. 'File Not Opened Due to Trojan.' Upon hearing the news Sarah immediately deleted the vid—both from Dik-Dok and her computer, but by that time at least two dozen others had viewed it—and of those, less than half had seen it blocked by their anti-virus software. The rest remained blissfully unaware that their computers had been infected.

And of those, at least five had already spread the bug to at least several other users.

Meanwhile back in Little Rodentia, Tommy was being told to shut down the computer and come to dinner. He had remembered to re-activate the anti-malware apps, but by then it hardly mattered. Later that evening his father, an accountant, went upstairs to use his computer—which used the same DSL line as his son's—sending out an email with an attached file to several clients. Everyone who clicked on it immediately set the exploit free on their hard-drives...and in this instance, none of their anti-virus programs spotted it. Malware programs share at least one trait with vampires; if they enter your domain by way of an invitation, they become nearly impossible to expel.

For the next two hours, the trend continued, with the bug hopping from one computer to another, sometimes several at once. Every now and then, it would be caught and quarantined by an anti-virus app; most of the time it was not. By the end of the first hour, the malware had gone international, by the end of the second, it was a global phenomenon.

Then...at precisely 23:30 hours Zootopia Standard Time, in response to its encoded instructions, the bug stopped spreading and seemed to go dormant. It hadn't; it was zeroing in on a new target, and preparing to deploy an app that so far it had been keeping in reserve, an exploit known as Eternal Zoo.

By that time, most computers in Zootopia had been put to bed for the night, except for those in the Nocturnal District and those belonging to gamer geeks. Of these, no one noticed the fact that their hard-drives were running a tiny bit faster than normal and that their cooling fans were having to work just a little bit harder than before; with the malware spread across so many computers, there was no need to overtax any single one of them.

And the bug had not yet become fully awake.

At exactly 23:45, ZST the computers infected with it—those that had been shut down earlier—began to boot up. Almost one noticed; their monitors all remained dark as did their LED indicator lights. The only clue that any of them were active was the humming of fans and hard drives. And that lasted only long enough for the infected computers to launch their digital missiles at a new target, a process that took less than 1.5 seconds, after which they immediately shut themselves down again. When next their owners booted them up, the first action they'd take would be to scrub the malware from their drives; it had served its purpose, now buh-BYE.

Flashing across the Wi-Fi Ethernet and racing along the DSL lines, the malicious bots began converging on a single target. When the first ones hit the firewall, they were unable to penetrate—but these were only the vanguard of an onrushing horde.

It was no contest; even with state-of-the-art anti-malware—which this system most definitely didn't have—trying to deflect a clustered cyberattack is like trying to ward off a swarm of angry hornets with a single can of bug-spray. There's no way you can stop them all. In mere microseconds, the firewall was breached...and in another location somewhere, nimble fingers began to type further instructions.

Sunday – 23:50 hours, ZPD Precinct-1, Zootopia.

Seated behind his reception desk, Officer Robert 'Bob' Sparks was in a chipper frame of mind—for him anyway. The corners of his mouth, which normally remained in an extended downwards arc, were almost flat. If you looked closely, you might even have noticed them angling slightly upwards.

It all stemmed from the fact that, after much nagging by his fellow officers, the Asiatic wild ass had caved and had cataract surgery—and it had turned out to be one of the best decisions he'd ever made. Oh, his vision wasn't up to 20/20; he still needed reading glasses now and then. But it was a heckuva lot better than before; he could even see his workstation screen without them.

Had he chosen to study that screen a bit more carefully, Bob might have noticed that things were running a wee bit more slowly than usual. Had he bothered to run a systems check, he would have observed that the ZPD mainframe's power consumption had spiked by a good 30%. Nor did he notice that his workstation's webcam had just become operational...as had every webcam and body-cam in the precinct.

But that was understandable; none of the indicator lights were glowing. And besides, it was almost midnight, getting close to the end of the night-shift; only a little bit more than an hour to go before clock-out time, when the graveyard gang would take over. And so it was that Bob was more concerned with his watch than with his computer-screen—as were many of his fellow officers; tired and edgy and ready to call it a wrap. It had been a long watch, with that crowd of protesters out front. No officer could get in or out of the precinct without being subjected to a non-stop heckle. And it was no use trying to make an end run through the loading dock or the backside parking lot entrance. The protestors had, hours ago, discovered those exits and had both of them under siege as well.

Bob gritted his teeth and stifled a bray. He had hoped that with the onset of darkness the brat-pack out front would get bored and call it a night. And so the majority of them had—only to be swiftly replaced by a new batch of young miscreants. Of the newcomers, most were members of this or that nocturnal species—meaning they were in it for the long haul—and all of them were sporting chips on their shoulders the size of railroad ties. Every once in a while they would serenade the precinct with an impromptu musical performance; 'I Fought The Law', 'We're Not Gonna Take It', or a new addition to the mix, 'My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark.'

"What the heck is THAT all about?" the donkey had wondered the first time he'd heard it. He would have been considerably less puzzled had he known that one of the kids arrested at the ZAPA tryouts, Erin Hopps, had incorporated it into her audition performance.

"Hi, good evening."

Bob wasn't startled that he hadn't heard anyone approaching. The kids outside had started in with another one of their Acapella renditions, a tune called...'Breakin' The Law', or that was what it sounded like. Peering narrowly over the edge of his desk, he saw a bobcat in a peace officer's uniform, not the serge-blue of the ZPD, but the earth tone green of—he looked more closely—the Burrow County Sheriff's Office.

"Yes, can I help you?"

"Hey there," the cat replied, looking almost as lugubrious as Bob himself, "I'm Deputy Mac Cannon, BCSD." He stretched up to lay a paper on the desktop, "here to interview a prisoner in the youth jail; Craig Guilford's his name."

Bob's ears jumped upwards, "What, now?" But when he snatched up the piece of paper...he was unable to read it without his glasses, dangit. All right, where were they? Oh, okay...but now he could see that the document bore the authorization signature of no less a fursonage than Chief Bogo. Okay, the best thing to do here would be to send this kitty down the hall and let someone else deal with him.

"Just a second," he said, and pressed a button on his intercom, the one connecting him to the Precinct One Youth Jail Lieutenant's office.

"Sparks?" a surprised voice queried over the speaker, "What's up; what's going on?"

"I have a visitor here," the wild ass replied at once. "A Deputy...Cannon of the Burrow County Sheriff's Office; he's got authorization to see..."

"Awww, NUTS!" the Lieutenant on the other end responded with a groan. He'd either forgotten Mac Cannon was coming, or else he'd been hoping that the bobcat wouldn't show up until after his shift was over. Bob Sparks didn't care, one way or the other, as long as the Burrow County Deputy was out of his face, and no longer his concern. "Okay, send him up," the voice on the intercom said, something for which the donkey was profoundly grateful.

Mac further gratified him by declining to accept an escort. "Don't bother, I know the way."

He was under no illusions that the ZPD would be pleased to entertain him at this ungodly hour—but then, neither would Craig Guilford. The young coyote would be groggy, he'd be tired...in other words, he'd be vulnerable, a little more willing to sign the document the bobcat had brought with him than he otherwise might have been. Of course, it might not work; coyotes, while not a straight-up nocturnal species, were frequently active at night. Still, it was worth the effort—and anyway, he'd had it up to here with that punk and his little games. With a bit of luck, Mac would be on his way back to Bunnyburrow tomorrow, with the Guilford kid in tow.

"And you better keep your mouth shut, boy." the bobcat growled at the absent young coyote.

When he got to the Precinct-1 Youth Jail he found the cells dark and the walkways only dimly lit; it was well past the hour of lights out. The only sounds to be heard were the nearly silent footfalls of the correctional officers, patrolling the block. At the bobcat's approach, one of them, a cow moose named Beth Nysander stopped her pacing and planted herself in front of him in a 'who-goes-there' stance. But then recognizing the deputy, she immediately stepped aside, albeit not without giving him a curious look.

He found the rest of the officers gathered in the Lieutenant's office, clustered around a workstation with grins on their faces...except for one of them, a jaguar, who looked as if he'd much rather be out walking the cellblock right about now.

Opening the door, Mac saw a gnu-goat point at the screen and nearly break into a giggling fit. "Woo-hoo, look at that; bet you wish that was you, Jorge." He was speaking to the jaguar, who replied by giving him the 'talk to the paw' gesture.

"Yeah, yeah...whatever floats your boat, Sammy. I'm perfectly happy with what I got, muchas gracias."

"Excuse me?" Mac rapped on the door frame as he entered the office, and at once every eye in the room was regarding him quizzically.

Every eye, that is, except for the pair belonging to the Lieutenant in charge of the night-watch, a panda-bear named Hsing Hsing Loy. While he didn't recognize the bobcat, he had known that a Burrow County Sheriff's deputy was on the way up—and this feline was clearly a member of that fraternity.

"Evening...ah, Deputy Cannon, is it?"

"Yes, that's right."

"'Kay," the panda shifted his bulk for a second, "Kinda late for an interview, isn't it." He pointed to the clock on the wall behind him.

The time was exactly one minute to midnight.

In the server room, located in a basement section of the precinct's main building, a display-screen had just come alive. There wasn't much to look at; only plain white text over a dark-blue background.

ZPD - lectrcl-sys

>lghtng

ZPD – emergency sys

>fr-alm
>fr-sprsn
>mrgnc drs
>accdrs

As each line appeared, it flashed, as though someone were clicking on it.

ZPD comm-sys

>pa-sys

ZPD dtntn cntr sys

Mn

Jv

Comm-sys

>pa

lectrcl-sys

>cldrs
>accdrs
>offdrs

It was now approximately 58 seconds to midnight.

Mac Cannon, of course, knew none of this; only that he wanted to get this done and get back to his hotel. 

"That's the general idea," he said, "I want to try and catch that Guilford kid while his guard is down."

At the mention of the young coyote's name, Lieutenant Hsing's muzzle broke out in a crinkled smile, and Jorge Reyes face lit up like a neon billboard. "Ohhhh, please tell me you're planning to take that little schizo off our paws." The giant panda was almost begging.

"That's the plan," Mac answered, patting his pocket, "If I can get him to sign off on agreeing to testify against his dad, he'll be out of here by evening chow tomorrow."

"Oh, wonderful," Hsing was practically beaming—before reality seemed to come down on his head, "Mmmm, what about his dad, though?" He was perfectly aware that Craig Guilford was being held here in Zootopia to keep him at a minimum safe distance from his father.

Mac assumed the expression of a bobcat preparing to pounce on something hapless. "They moved him to Viomax three days ago. He tried to go after one of our deputies with a shiv and that was it as far as Sheriff Sauer was concerned."

At this news every face in the office hardened, and someone snarled, "Darn right!"

Then Lieutenant Hsing turned to speak to Officer Reyes.

"Jorge, you want to go get that kid?"

"Uhhh, can you hold off for about five minutes?" Mac was raising a paw. "This time, when you bring him down to the interview room, I want that punk-coyote to find ME waiting for him."

"Hey, no problem," the jaguar smiled, now in a very congenial mood thanks to the news the deputy had just delivered.

"Thanks," Mac said, offering a thumbs-up and then exiting the office. He was about a third of the way down the cellblock tier when the clock struck midnight.

Monday 24:00 Hours, ZPD Precinct-1 Lobby, Zootopia

Bob Sparks was just about to glance at his watch again when all the lights in the precinct went out.

For several seconds afterwards, his world was nothing but stygian darkness, punctuated by the whoops and catcalls of the crowd of young mammals out front. They knew what had happened; a blackout like this one was pretty hard to miss.

Their hoots of derision were quickly muted when the emergency lights came on, the crisscross spot-beams giving the Precinct-1 foyer the eerie appearance of a mystic cavern.

And then more lights came on, tiny LEDs embedded in red plastic brackets, set at regular intervals along the walls. At the same time the lobby was filled with high staccato chirring, like the noise of an immense cricket.

Near the center of the enclosure, Sergeant Nina Sherman, a hippo, had been on her way back from dropping off a duffle bag full of burglary tools in the property room. Now, barely audible, she thought she heard someone calling to her.

"Hey...HEY!"

Turning around she saw Officer Tad Howell—who hadn't been speaking to her, but as long as he had the hippo's attention...

"What the heck is THAT?" the red wolf all but shouted, pointing a finger at the blinking lights on the wall. Nina eyed him peculiarly for a moment, before remembering he was more or less a rookie.

"That's the fire alarm," she answered back, shouting through cupped hooves.

"What, there's a fire?" Howell's voice had risen almost to a...well, almost to a howl.

Nina started to answer but then hesitated. She'd been about to say it was a false alarm; if it had been for real, there would have been at least one radio call about it. Instead, every two-way within earshot was silent. Only...was that the case? Well, there was one quick way to find out—and he was standing right in front of her.

"You tell me; you got the nose," she told the wolf.

Howell raised his muzzle and sniffed, and then lowered it with a shrug, "Nothing."

Okayyy, so it was a false alarm...but dangit, that noise was like a drill in her skull.

"Come on," she said, waving a meaty arm, and led Howell in the direction of the reception desk, where several other officers were already clustered. At least one of them must have had the same idea as her, judging by what Sparks was telling the group.

"I'm sorry, no...If I shut that alarm off and there IS a fire..."

"There's no fire!" Nina quickly broke in, pushing her way through the others, "Howell, do that thing again."

The red wolf obligingly scented the air a second time, "Still nothing."

"Right," the hippo nodded and turned back to Sparks, "And where there's no smoke, there's no fire. So shut that stupid thing off before we all go deaf."

The donkey's ear began to semaphore. "I...don't know if I have authority to..."

"I'll take full responsibility; Turn! It! OFF!" Nina was almost bellowing.

Sparks turned to his keyboard and began to type, muttering under his breath, "All right, now how do I...Oh my Gaw-HAW!"

The sentence ended in a bray of alarm; the donkey jumping back from his workstation as though he'd received an electrical shock.

He tried again...

...And again

...And then a fourth time

And then he was gaping wide-eyed at the computer screen.

Nina Sherman was having none of THAT.

"Wha....What's going on?" She demanded, hooves on hips, "I said turn that thing OFF!"

"I...CAN'T!" Bob cried, swiveling his display screen to face her...And then she was the one staring wide-eyed—at a pair of words flashing in big, bold, blood-red text.

ACCESS DENIED - ACCESS DENIED - ACCESS DENIED

"I'm locked out!" the wild ass brayed, saying nothing that the hippo-sergeant didn't already know.

Nina may have known it, but that didn't mean she was going to accept it.

"What do you mean, you're locked...HUA-AWWW-AWWWW!"

All over the Precinct-1 Lobby mammals were yelping, howling, roaring, bellowing, and otherwise expressing their dismay...at the same time, throwing their arms around their heads, in a vain attempt to shield themselves from the cascading water.

The fire-sprinkler system had just activated, dousing the animals on the floor below in an artificial cloudburst.

Nina Sherman, being a semi-aquatic species, wasn't as bothered by the downpour as most of others; what bothered her was the chorus of raucous laughter, coming from beyond the precinct's front door. When she looked, she saw a field of mocking fingers, waving above the heads of the officers standing guard duty out front.

But wait...what was that pounding noise?

Adjusting her gaze a click to the right, Nina saw officers Barrow and Krumpansky hammering on the precinct's front door. She realized at once what had happened; Bob Sparks wasn't the only animal here, who had just been locked out.

A sour, burning sensation began to fill her stomach...just as the donkey's display screen hissed, flashed, and went dark in a puff of smoke.

Over in the youth jail, things were even more chaotic, the officers on patrol dashing pell-mell for the cover of the Lieutenant's office, regaled every step of the way by the hoots and jeers of the young offenders, all safe and dry in their cells. The chirping of the alarms and the officers' cries of dismay had brought them completely awake.

In the girl's section things were quieter; there were no officers to troll here. Nonetheless, the kids here were also wide-awake—including a young, white-furred bunny named Erin Janelle Hopps. Hopping up and trying to catch a glimpse of what was going on outside her cell-door window she could see nothing besides falling water and flashing lights. She couldn't miss hearing the alarm though...and thank God for the muffling thickness of that door—or else it would have felt as though she was having her eardrums extracted with a pair of needle-nose pliers.

Mac Cannon didn't make it to the Lieutenant's office—but then he hadn't needed to. As luck would have it, he'd been passing by an empty cell when the sprinklers started in, and had ducked hurriedly inside and out of the cascade.

For perhaps five more minutes, the deluge and the chirruping continued.

And then it stopped—suddenly, abruptly and completely. In one second there was noise and a downpour, in the next, only silence and only a few lingering droplets.

Inside the Lieutenant's office nobody moved, afraid that the whole thing might be only a gigantic hustle—that the instant they ventured outside the door, the sprinklers would go off again, "Whoooops...suckers!"

"Wow, good thing this didn't happen during evening chow," a rhino named Stephen Hooks offered, drawing exactly zero responses from the others.

Eventually someone had to 'test the waters,' so to speak, and since Jorge Reyes had been about to go get the Guilford kid anyway...

"And besides, you're a rainforest species aren't you?" another officer pointed out.

Yes, he was...but rain in his home turf fell mainly as a warm shower. The downpour outside, on the other paw, had been only a few degrees shy of an ice-bucket challenge.

However Jorge wasn't about to argue; it was getting cramped in here anyway, what with so many bodies in such a relatively small space; the Lieutenant's office wasn't exactly built to handle a crowd. He reached for the door handle and pulled.

Nothing happened.

He pulled again; it still refused to budge. He made a third attempt; again no result.

"What's the matter; door stuck?"

Jorge gave it a fourth try, and then stepped back, turning a bewildered face on the other correctional officers.

"It's...not stuck; I-I think it's locked."

"All right, hang on," Lieutenant Hsing grumbled, plopping himself in his desk chair and reaching for his workstation keyboard. He never got around to typing any instructions. The instant the screen lit up, his arms were hanging limply at his side and he was staring in slack-jawed befuddlement.

On the display in front of him, big, bold, bright-red words were flashing. Not 'Access Denied', but a somewhat longer message.

Cryin' Won't Help Ya
Preyin' Won't Do You No Good

"Wha...What the heck is THAT?" someone shouted from over the panda's shoulder, snapping him out of his reverie.

"I-It's from a song I think..." Beth Nysander ventured. "But I can't remember..."

"Madre de Dios, LOOK!"

Everyone looked...and immediately wanted to scream along with Jorge. Outside the office window, the cell doors were sliding open.

...ALL of them, every single one.

And, at the same time, a song began to play over the PA system, blasting out of the speakers at super boom-box pitch

The recording was old and scratchy, obviously taken from a vinyl LP, a classic rock tune that probably most of the kids in here had probably never even heard before.

But if they didn't know the song, they could hardly miss the meaning of the lyrics.

"Tonight, there's gonna be a jailbreak
Somewhere in this town

See, me 'n the boys, we don't like it
So we're gettin' up and goin' down..."

It took all of half a minute for the music to have the desired effect.

Like racers, bolting from the starting gate, a wave of kids came rushing out of their cells, raising the roof with a chorus of impromptu war cries. It wasn't all of them by any stretch of the imagination...but it was also anything but a pawful.

Then Jorge saw a roll of toilet paper go flying across the cell block, unfurling itself in a long, flat arc. That was all the prompting the others needed, and within moments a torrent of objects was raining down from the terraces and onto the floor below, blankets, mattresses, all sorts of fursonal effects...and ream upon ream of toilet paper. It looked almost like a bad parody of ticker-tape parade—especially with all the miniscule objects being thrown down from the rodent-species cells on the jail's top tier.

But then he saw another roll of toilet paper go flying; only this one was trailing a ribbon of fire as it unspooled. He wondered for a second where the heck those kids had gotten the matches and/or a lighter—and then realized it was a silly question. As any correctional officer will tell you, some contraband always manages to get by them.

Once again the other kids took it as a prompt. Soon more rolls of burning TP were trailing black smoke and fire across the cell block.

A mass of white squished against the window of the Lieutenant's office...and another and another, and then what looked like a zillion more. It was almost like riding through a carwash.

However this wasn't soap-suds, it was wads of soaked toilet paper... no wait, there were wadded up magazine pages too...all of it accompanied by a flood-tide of insults and abuse from outside.

"Eat this, jerks!"

"How ya like it, coppers?"

"ACAJ! ACAJ! ACAJ! ACAJ!"

The first one to realize what was going on was Beth Nysander. "Oh my Gaw... they're trying to blind us!"

They weren't just trying, they were succeeding; in less than three minutes every window of the Lieutenant's office had been transformed into a Jackson Bullock painting.

And that, strangely enough, was what finally inspired Lieutenant Hsing to settle down and take charge.

He slid open his desk drawer, rummaging around while muttering under his breath. "Dangit, I was sure I had some...all right..."

Pulling out a roll of duct tape, he tore off a strip and slapped it over the lens of the work station webcam before tossing it back to Beth Nysander.

"Get the overhead." He told her.

The cow moose had to stand on tiptoes to reach the CCTV camera lens, but she managed it just the same. While this was going on, Lieutenant Hsing unplugged his workstation's microphone jack.

Then he swiveled in his chair and stood up.

"All right, start passing that tape around; if you're wearing a body-cam, get the lens covered."

"Uhhh, mine's turned off," someone started to say.

"Get it done!' the panda snapped, in a voice that brooked no argument, and then pointed at the open desk drawer. "Okay, all portables off, and all cell-phones in here.

This time there was no objection; the news about Lt. Tufts's phone being hacked had long since made the rounds in Precinct-1. When the officers' phones had all been collected and put in the drawer, Lieutenant Hsing reached up and turned on the small, desktop radio he almost never listened to, fiddling with the station select until it was tuned to a religious broadcast station. Dropping the radio into the open desk drawer, he cranked the volume, just before sliding it shut again.

"There," he growled, nodding at the mortared-over windows of his office. "Maybe we're flying blind, but now so are you." He fished in another drawer, pulled out a set of keys, and then lumbered quickly to a door at the back of his office.

Inside were racks of body armor, helmets, and riot shields—along with gas-masks and a variety of non-lethal weapons.

"Everyone...get suited up!"

Once again there were no objections from his officers.

Monday—00:49 Hours, Undisclosed Location, Zootopia.

The steam-whistle shriek of the emergency alarm yanked Conor Lewis from his bed like a giant, invisible paw. He took two steps and immediately stumbled, not sure if he was awake, or even where he was. He had taken two painkillers before hitting the sack, and the air around him seemed to have turned to cotton. And that wasn't even mentioning his injuries; his bum leg might not be hurting too much right now, but it seemed to have declared independence from his brain.

No one can stay woozy for long with that kind of noise in the air. And so, after another couple of minutes, the fugitive young fox's mind at last began to sharpen. Right away, he became aware of the fact that it wasn't the perimeter alarm he was hearing; his refuge was still secure. No, the noise was coming from somewhere inside of the Furrison Hotel, the secondary Furaday cage that housed his main computer console, affectionately known as The Beast. Tonight was the first he'd heard this particular alarm since moving in here; and what the heck, now...?

Had a part of him not wanted to know the reason for the emergency—and if it hadn't been for the Purrcocet he'd taken—Conor might have at least had an inkling as to what was going on. Before retiring for the night, he had instructed the Beast to keep an eye on the ZPD mainframe, and ping him in the event of an emergency—like, say, a SWAT team being dispatched to his location. Only this wasn't a ping, it was a stinking doomsday siren. What the heck could have triggered it, and more importantly, how the heck did he shut it down? Oh wait, right...he had set The Beast on voice control before turning in.

"Shut down alarm," he shouted—or tried to; it came out as a gargling sound. He cleared his throat and tried again. "SHUT DOWN ALARM!"

Okay, this time his voice worked, but the command didn't; the alarm continued to shrill. Catch 22, it was shrieking so loudly that it was drowning out his attempt to get it to stop. He was going to have to do this the hard way

Clutching his head as if trying to hold it in place, Conor staggered in the direction of the Furrison. All but flinging open the door, he snatched the headset from its rack and shouted into the microphone, "Shut! Down! Alarm!"

That did it; the noise ceased immediately. But why the heck had it gone off in the first place? Only one way to find out...

Slowly, painfully, the fugitive young silver fox hauled himself into the console's zero-gravity chair and began to tilt it backwards. At once he felt his pain beginning to ease...but after a couple of more seconds, he wouldn't have noticed anyway. Now, he knew why the alarm had gone off—and it was a thousand times more terrible than his worst-case nightmare.

"Oh, my God...oh no, No, NO!" Conor's fox scream was even louder than the noise The Beast had been making. "Oh Jeez...Oh God, my buds are in there; ERIN'S in there. Ohhhhh please, guys...stay in your cells, don't go out on the walkways, PLEASE!" He looked around the Furaday cage, helplessly wringing his paws. "What do I do? What do I do? Think, fox, THINK!"

He didn't have the slightest idea; even with a clear head, this would have been way above his skillset. He began to type rapidly, even though he knew it was no use. Trying to hold back a cyberattack at this stage of the game is like trying to plug a dike with your finger when the walls have already started to collapse.

And now...oh, no...the malware had spotted his attempted intervention, and it was coming after him.

He screamed his fail-safe word,"Goomagamma!" and the connection was instantly broken. Breathless moments followed as the young fox did a systems sweep. No, the bug hadn't managed to get inside his database. Probably, it hadn't been able to trace him—but only probably.

Ohhh, foxtrot, what was he supposed to do? He could get back inside the ZPD database another way...but then what? He couldn't do this, not on his own. He needed help—and the only animal he could turn to had already turned their back on him.

He moved the cursor and clicked; move it again and double-clicked and then began typing in plain text, too agitated to use shortpaw

Gryblaxdlr7#: "Guild if you're there, please respond. The ZPD's under cyberattack and I don't know what to do. K never taught me this part."

Nothing...the space beneath his message remained a blank void.

Gryblaxdlr7#: "Guild, HELP ME!"

A second passed, and then another, and another.

And then...

SilnZisGuildN&786#$: "STUPID fox-kid! U btr nt B lyn 2 me."

Conor wanted to respond, but checked himself. The ball was in Guild's court now and there was nothing to do but wait for the return-serve.

Finally, after what seemed like ages...

SilnZisGuildN&786#$: "K, U inside ZPD-DB nw?"

Gryblaxdlr7#: "No, hd 2 bl But cn gt inside agn."

True enough...although the fugitive young fox wasn't about to mention why he'd decided to vacate the premises that first time.

SilnZisGuildN&786#$: "K, lstn. Hrs wht U need 2 do..."

Conor studied the instructions for a few seconds and then reeled back so hard, the zero-grav chair nearly performed a somersault.

Gryblaxdlr7#: "U wnt me 2 WHAT?"

Monday—01:02 Hours, ZPD Precinct 1 Youth Detention Facility, Zootopia.

None of Conor's friends could hear his thoughts...but they were heeding his advice nonetheless, staying inside their cells instead of joining the party, out on the balconies and the floor below. Erin Hopps had even crawled under her bunk-bed, just to play it doubly safe

Max March was not a friend of his...although that had nothing to do with why he'd chosen to leave his cell. Simply put, he had allowed his curiosity to get the better of him. He wouldn't join the riot, but he just had to see what the heck was going out there. Besides, maybe he'd get a chance to catch up with Zack and finally explain things. It wasn't the wisest move, but it wasn't entirely stupid, either. At least out here, or so the muscular young rabbit-buck reasoned, he'd have some freedom of movement. If, on the other paw, he got jumped inside of his cell, he'd be trapped with nowhere to run.

Country bunny or not, Max at least had enough savvy to try and blend in a little. Walking along the balcony of the youth-jail's third tier, he made sure to return every high five he was offered. He even managed to force a whoop when a serval cat and a young wild boar pitched a burning mattress over the balcony railing. (It snuffed out immediately upon contact with the soaked floor below.)

After several more minutes however, he was beginning to feel frustrated; there wasn't any sign of Zack anywhere. It was no surprise, really; knowing him, he was probably hunkering down in his cell. Fine, great...but which cell was HIS? Max could have asked earlier—if he and his cousin had been on speaking terms, but since they weren't....

Or...were they? Zack had always been quick to forgive in the past...so maybe the smaller bunny was also out looking for him.

With that in mind, Max halted and turned a fast 180, looking back in the direction of his cell. What he saw made his heart jump into his windpipe. Another kid was just then exiting the cubicle; not Zack or the sand-cat he'd been hanging with earlier, but another, equally familiar mammal.

Craig Guilford!

Max's first thought was that he'd been soooo right not to stay put. His second thought was not a thought, but a visceral reaction; he ducked down fast and began to move. He was fairly certain Craig hadn't seen him but if he had, this was the next worst thing to being caught inside his cell. In an open field, an athletic young rabbit like him would have a decent shot at escaping a lone coyote...but here on the walkway, there was no room to dodge, especially with all these other kids crowding the scenery.

Dangit, he had to get out of sight, but where? Visually this place was even more wide open than that stupid amphitheater. It had probably been built that way–to make sure the kids being held here couldn't pull any fast ones without being spotted. But wait, look there...the hallway leading to the girl's section; there's your bolt hole Max, get going! He dropped to all fours and put it in overdrive. But in his obsession with making it to safety, he failed to notice something—and forgot something else.

With all his attention focused on the hallway ahead, Max shot right by one of the cells, without even catching a glimpse of the occupants as he passed. Nor did he hear one of them say to the other, "Hey, isn't that your cousin?"

The thing that he forgot was...coyotes, like all canines, don't need to see their prey in order to track it.

As he swung around the corner, Max was praying hard that the entrance to the girl's jail wouldn't be locked. The bad news was that there were not one, but two gateways between him and his goal, separated from each other by a good six feet, like the doors of an airlock.

The good news was that both of them were not only open, they were wide open.

It was only after he had cleared the second one that he straightened up and began to relax.

...for about three seconds, until he realized that everyone was staring at him—and not with friendly expressions. It was as if he had violated the confines of a sacred temple, which only females of the species were permitted to enter.

But it was a little too late to turn back now. And so, whistling an airless tune, Max strolled along the walkway with his paws jammed into his pockets, looking in every direction except the mammals glaring at him. Ohhhh brother, if anyone had ever told him that he'd someday feel skittish at being stared at by a bevy of girls...! It was almost funny—almost.

But then he heard a familiar voice coming from somewhere behind him.

"Max...? Max, what the heck are you doing here?"

The young buck rabbit almost bolted down the walkway—before his brain caught up with the identity of the speaker; it was Erin Hopps.

He turned quickly in her direction.

"Hiding," he answered, speaking in furtive murmur, "Craig Guilford's looking for me,"

That was all that explanation the young doe bunny needed to hear. She gestured swiftly towards her cell. "In here, quick!" and ducked hurriedly back inside without waiting for a response.

Max instantly obeyed and found her waiting with a thumping foot.

"Okay, hurry up and get your shirt off."

The young buck-rabbit's eyes got big as jar lids. "Wha...? Why...?"

Erin's ears went back against her scalp and her paw shot out as if spring-loaded. "You dumb bunny; coyotes hunt by scent, remember? Now shut up and give me that shirt!"

He nearly tore the thing in half, getting it off.

The young doe-bunny was thinking fast as she pulled it on over her head. For the most part her thoughts revolved around the idea, "What the fresh heck am I doing?"

She shook it off and spoke to Max again. "'Kay...get some water from the toilet and start splashing it on the floor."

This time he didn't need an explanation and hurried to obey.

"All right, good," she told him, paws on hips, "That should take care of your scent. 'Kay, now get under the bed and stay there 'til I get back." Once again, she turned away without waiting for a response.

Max's nose began to twitch. "Wha...? Erin, wh-where are you going?"

"To go find Dana," she answered, simply.

"Who?" he asked, even more confused.

She sighed and waved a paw.

"Never mind, just stay there," And then she was out the door like a shot.

Erin was three steps down the walkway when it occurred to her that she'd been acting entirely out of character just now. While she might have possessed at least a few good qualities, that list most definitely didn't include the words, 'strong' and 'decisive;' Look what Conor had needed to do in order to get her out on that amphitheater stage.

Conor...now there was the definition of.... "No, don't think about HIM."

Obeying her inner voice's command, the young, white-furred bunny immediately began to wish that she'd ignored it—because the next thing to cross her mind was the realization that by helping Max she was putting herself in jeopardy with Craig Guilford. And for WHAT, for a stuck-up jock that she totally couldn't stand? For the rabbit who'd snitched out Dana, Jason, and Saad...and by extension, her?

Oh yes, Erin knew what Max had done; she'd been aware from the get go that someone had informed on those three. In so many words, that squirrel-jerk, Lieutenant What's-His-Name, had all but admitted it. Furthermore, the bunny taking refuge in her cell right now had been busted for digging a tunnel under the stage. There was only one reason why he would have done that. And in that context, there could only be one reason why he was being released into the custody of his parents tomorrow—before the courts opened.

She had picked up that little tidbit from her mother, during their visit earlier in the day. "They wouldn't let him out without letting you out too, dear." Mom had told her. And while the young doe bunny had seriously doubted the logic of that assumption, it had nonetheless dropped a very large piece of a puzzle into place. And after having been face to face with Mr. Full-of-Himself just now she was all but certain that her theory was correct; Max might have never snitched on Craig Guilford, but a snitch he was, just the same.

For a second she slowed the pace...and then her face stiffened and she picked it up again. As if she would leave anyone to the tender mercies of that psycho-coyote.

Perhaps it was wrong to involve Dana; Craig Guilford might have been her species, but he definitely wasn't her problem.

Well, maybe so...but judging by what Erin had heard so far, her newfound friend would likely consider it a badge of honor to be asked to take on the jerk who had so sullied the names of all coyotes everywhere. On the other paw though, Dana might not be quite so eager to come to the defense of the rabbit who'd gotten her arrested—which was why the young, white-furred bunny intended to keep that little factoid to herself.

"March!" A ragged canine voice snarled out from somewhere behind her.

Erin spun on her heel, hoping to God that when he saw it was her and not Max, it would momentarily confuse the vengeful young coyote.

It did...but she was barely able to keep herself from turning and fleeing for her life. This wasn't the Craig Guilford she remembered from back in Bunnyburrow, it was like some sort of crazed-zombie variant of the young coyote; wild, spiky, unkempt fur, and even wilder eyes. She would not have been surprised to hear him howl, "Heeeeeeere's JOHNNY!"

Whoa, no wonder Max March was so scared of him. But now, hey...he had walked right by her cell without noticing...

Her thoughts were cut off as Max burst out onto the walkway in a fit of panic, bolting hell-bent-for-leather in the direction of the exit.

She let out a silent scream, "No, dumb bunny, NO!"

He might almost have made it—if he hadn't then nearly knocked down a muskrat-girl in his haste to get away.

"What the heck's your PROBLEM, bunny-boy?" she screamed, and Craig knew instantly who she'd been speaking to; wheeling around in a furious about-face, he shot off in pursuit of the terrified young rabbit.

"NO!" Erin cried again, this time out loud...and then, without thinking, she went flying after them.

Chapter 32: The Children's Crusade (Cont'd...Part 2)

Summary:

When world's collide...

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 6—The Children's Crusade
(Continued…Part 2)

There is a thing about violence; once unleashed, it usually tends to escalate.
Joseph Wambaugh – Lines and Shadows.

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Monday—01:07 Hours, ZPD Youth Detention Center, Zootopia.

The first one to notice was a fifteen-something kid from the Marshlands District, a capybara named Chato Ratagrande. Chato hadn't participated in the 'ZAPA Riot', as it was coming to be called; he only wished he had. He would have been there for sure if he hadn't been stuck in jail; busted for shoplifting, his third strike—which meant sorry kid, no probation or community service for you; say hello to Juvie.

With hardly anything left to lose, he'd been one of the first kids out of his cell when the doors opened, and had happily joined in the rain of trash that followed.

Now, he was downstairs, prowling around the floor of the common area. Most of the other detainees were staying away from this part of the jail, a rubbish-strewn swamp, courtesy of the fire sprinklers. Chato didn't care. Capybaras were a semi-aquatic species; water didn't bother him. As for all the garbage, even now this place made his neighborhood in the Marshlands look like Ritz City. For him at least, it was no big deal.

In fact, he found it the whole thing downright boring. He was just preparing to make for the stairs, when the music stopped and the lights came on. For a moment, everyone froze, afraid the ZPD had once more regained control of the situation. But then a new tune began to play over the PA, one with which the young detainees were a bit more familiar than its predecessor.

"♪ Oh, you wired me awake
And hit me with a paw of broken claws
Yeah, you tied my lead and pulled my chain
To watch my blood begin to boil

But I'm gonna break, I'm gonna break my
I'm gonna break my rusty cage and run." ♫

Chato would later say it had been his late, beloved, big-brother Paco guiding him at that moment. Whatever the case, just then he happened to turn and look towards the rear of the commons—and he thought he noticed something.

It was difficult to be certain—capybaras aren't noted for having the keenest eyesight—but it appeared as if the indicator light above the service door, which normally glowed red, was instead bright green.

Hurrying over as best he could—he had to pick his way past the heaps of debris, Chato saw, as he came closer, that the light was indeed green.

Fine…but did that mean…?

Stretching up to reach the door handle, he shut his eyes for a second, took a breath, and pulled downwards.

The next thing he did was turn and call through cupped paws. "Hey guys, looka this, it's open…we can get outta here!"

Only two other kids heard him over the music…but that was enough. One of them, a swamp rat, turned a fast 180 and went scurrying up the stairs for the top floor, spreading the news as he went. The other, a Javanese Rhino, was one of the few detainees with a big enough voice to be heard over the PA…if only just barely

Monday—01:34 Hours, 897 Yakusugi Dr., Old Growth City, Zootopia

"Dad, my phone's ringing!"

"So, let it ring and go to voice-mail, Bette," the Kaibab squirrel half mumbled, half groaned, rolling over in his bed and pulling himself into an even tighter ring of fur. That should have been the end of it, but instead…

"Daaaad, it won't stop!"

Even that might not have been enough to rouse Albert Tufts from his admittedly fitful sleep—except that right then, his son came scurrying through the door.

"Dad, my phone won't quit ringing!"

"All right, all right, I'm up, I'm up," Tufts grumbled and swung his feet over the side of the bed. Ahhh, what time was it anyway? "Okay Tommy, go ahead and answer it."

"I tried," the younger Kaibab squirrel answered, punctuating his words with a whine, "but it won't connect."

"Mine won't either," his daughter chimed in.

Tufts rubbed the back of his neck and held out a paw. "Ohhh-kay, give them here."

Chrrrr, after the day he'd just had, he did NOT need this—and tomorrow was going to be even worse. Tomorrow he was going to have to tell his ex about his suspension from the ZPD. And knowing Marjorie, she'd pretend to be disappointed while being secretly overjoyed. Ever since their split, she had never missed a chance to twist the knife a little.

These thoughts were instantly dispelled when the Alpaxa module beside his bed woke up and joined the chorus.

"Answer your phone, Tuff-Guy… Answer your phone, Tuff-Guy… Answer your phone, Tuff-Guy."

At once, the Kaibab squirrel was fully and completely awake. There were only two animals he knew of who addressed him by that name…and only one of them would pull a stunt like this.

"You dirty…SNEAKING little…!"

"Okay kids, leave the phones on the table there and go back to bed. I'll handle this." His voice was as crisp as dried leaves.

"But dad, what about…?"

"I…said…GO!" the squirrel repeated, stabbing with a finger in the direction of the door. And this time they obeyed him without question.

Tufts waited until he heard their doors close before snatching up the cell-phone closest to his paw. And now he could see that it was him all right, there'd be no mistaking that caller ID—Pigasus.

To the squirrel's complete lack of surprise, when he pressed the connect button it worked just fine.

Of course it did; all that little fox-thug needed to do was use the onboard-camera to see who'd picked up and…presto, nothing to it!

Tufts slapped the phone hard against his face. "You rotten little punk! I don't care what your problem is with ME, but you leave my kids…!"

That was as far as he got before a taut, silvery screech burst out of the speaker, causing him to yank the phone away from his ear—but only for a second. He immediately put it back.

"Too late, Lewis…I already told Chief Bogo…"

Another screech, but shorter this time, and then he heard the voice of his bête noir.

"Shut up and listen, Tuff Guy; Precinct-1 just got hit by a cyberattack."

Had it been anyone else speaking, those words would have stopped the Kaibab squirrel cold—but not if they were coming from this kid. He curled a fist and rolled his eyes. "Do you seriously expect me to believe…?"

"Why would I lie, babe?" the young fox shot back fast, "Take you two minutes to check."

And that was what finally made Albert Tufts shut up and be quiet…because it would take him less than one minute to verify the story—and no way was this fox-kid unaware of that fact.

"All right, I'm listening."

"Okay, now pay attention," the voice on his phone was now clearly recognizable as that of Conor Lewis. "First, they locked down the database and then they turned on the fire alarms and sprinklers."

Tufts felt his tail beginning to flip. "That was only a distraction. What was the real target…do you know?"

"Youth Detention," the young fox answered at once, "They got the officers trapped in the Lieutenant's office, and then opened all the cell doors…and the loading dock door and all the doors between there and the detention center. So far, the kids haven't found…Ohhhh, fox no…bag that Tuff Guy, yeah they have; the word's just beginning to spread."

"Ohhhh God!" Tufts gasped, no longer caring who was on the other end of the call. "They'll stampede when…"

He heard a sound like a groan, or maybe a snarl, coming out of the cell phone speaker.

"Well, hang onto your walnuts, babe; it gets worse. That's the ONLY way in or out of that Precinct right now. They got every other door locked and sealed. The cops on riot duty can't get back inside the building, and no one on the inside can get out there to help them."

Tufts almost screamed; that was worse. When that mob of kids realized that the line of cops facing them was the ONLY opposition they were going to get….

These thoughts were cut off before they could go any further.

"You know what you need to do, Tuff-Guy. Don't bother notifying the other precincts; my partner's got that covered. Just get the code and get it uploaded, pronto."

"H-How do you know I even have it?" the Kaibab squirrel stammered. Good God, this kid…knew about the kill-code? No wonder he'd managed to avoid being captured for so long.

"I don't" Conor answered flatly, "but you're the only one on the outside who would. Now get going; whoever's doing this is prolly gonna finish up with a ransomware attack."

And with that, the call ended.

Tufts didn't bother to dwell on the fox-kid's farewell message—because he knew it was true. The final phase of that cyberattack would almost certainly be to encrypt the ZPD database with an unbreakable code. Only, unlike with a normal ransomware attack, there would be no demands for money in exchange for removing the encryption. The hackers would simply leave the police computer as it was, worthless and unusable—forever.

Thank God he did have the kill-code…only, how was he supposed to upload it from here? The first order of business in any cyberattack is to isolate the target, close it off to any and all access from the outside. Oh, he could hack his way inside, but that would take time…and time was a luxury he absolutely didn't have. No, there was only one way; the kill code would have to be uploaded directly into the servers, from inside the precinct. That would be simple enough, just load it onto a thumb drive, plug it into any Precinct-One workstation, give the file a double click, drag it to the 'servers' icon and hit 'enter'.

Fine, no sweat…except there was only one way in or out of Precinct-1 right now. And that one way led right through a horde of angry young detainees—or that was what the Lewis kid had told him anyway.

What the Lewis kid...had told…him.

Wait a second, was it true? Was any of it true? That little sneak had already hustled him once…and he was a fox, remember? Maybe, when he'd called, he'd already known that his little blackmail scheme had been short-circuited. Was this plan B for getting his friends out of jail?

No, the squirrel decided…no it wasn't. As the Lewis kid himself had already pointed out, his story would be easy-peasy to verify. And even if it wasn't, Tufts knew—somehow, deep in his gut, he knew that the fugitive young silver fox had been telling the truth.

"So get your bushy little tail downstairs and get to work!" his inner voice chided.

For a species capable of descending a tree face-down, staircases are a superlative, reserved for any guests not similarly abled—and the Tufts household was no exception; Albert made his way downstairs by way of a 'climbing column' erected next to the staircase, leaping off and onto the floor when he was only halfway down to ground level.

And then he scrambled into his private office.

While booting up his laptop it occurred to the Kaibab squirrel that he probably should have scrubbed the kill-code from his computer immediately following his suspension

"…Which only goes to show that not all memory lapses are bad ones," he reminded himself with a wry smile.

It took him practically no time to confirm the young silver fox's story. When he attempted to access the ZPD mainframe, he received an instant 'Error' message; he was, however, able to get through by phone to one of the few friends he had in the Department, Pete Zink, an armadillo who worked out of the Nocturnal District.

"We got tipped off just a few minutes ago, we're sending everything we've got," his friend assured him, apparently unaware of his suspension—or the reason for his call. Nonetheless, it was news that Tufts was more than happy to hear.

"Okay, thanks…I've got to go," the Kaibab squirrel told him, and then rang off without an explanation…not that one was needed, given the circumstances.

It took him less than a minute to find the code…but more than few to find a memory stick. Dangit, he thought he'd bought more than…oh wait, here we are.

Transferring the code onto the thumb-drive took less time than either one of those tasks. It was hard to believe that less than one Meg of data was all that would be needed to get the job done, but never mind; it was time to get moving again. He still had no idea as to how he was supposed to make his way intothe precinct after he got there; he supposed he would just have to wing it.

And on that note, he logged off, shut down, and was out the door in a flash. He could only hope the kids would go back to sleep and stay that way until…ahhhh nuts; he was going to have to call Mrs. Bayberry later and ask her, again, if she'd mind looking after Beth and Tommy until his Ex came to collect them. Ohhh, Marjorie was going to love that, but it couldn't be helped. He most probably wouldn't make it home again until this time tomorrow—if then.

Had he not been in such a hurry to get to Precinct-1, Tufts might have noticed something before he cleared out. When he'd clicked the 'shutdown' icon on his laptop, the computer had not shut off, only gone into 'sleep' mode…but with all the display lights out, which was WHY he hadn't caught the discrepancy.

A heartbeat after he was out the door, the computer whistled itself awake again…but only for a minute before it once again shut down—this time for real.

Monday—01:48 Hours, Undisclosed Location, Zootopia

"Okay, I've got it," Conor informed Guild over his headset, "Did you notify the other precincts?"

"Didn't need to," His partner answered, in an electronically mangled voice that sounded not unlike a talking blow-dryer. "The cops on the graveyard shift started showing up for work right after you called me. I don't know how they figured out what was going on, but by the time I made contact, they were already spreading the word."

"Oh, good," the young fox sighed through puffed cheeks and then put his relief away. That was only one small thing in their favor. "But listen, the minute I log back into the ZPD database that malware program's prolly gonna be all over me." It was actually a lot more than 'probably', but he wasn't about to reveal that information just yet.

"That's where I come in," Guild replied, in what might or might not have been a cool voice; it was impossible to tell with all this distortion. "I'll go in first and run some interference, and then you go in and upload the kill-code...and for God's sake, hurry."

"I will," the young fox promised, not at all sure if could manage it or not.

"Okay…get ready," Guild told him, "and Conor?"

"Yeah?"

"When this business is over, you and I are done!"

Monday—01:49 Hours, ZPD Precinct-1, Savanna Central, Zootopia.

As he fled along the third tier walkway, Max March had one thing going for him; the crush of kids impeding his progress was an even bigger hindrance for Craig Guilford. Because of his smaller size, the young buck rabbit was able to weave his way through the spaces in the crowd, too tight for a coyote to handle.

That became especially true when somewhere behind him, Craig made the silly mistake of trying to elbow his way past the wrong animal.

"Hey 'yote-fool, whatchoo think you DOIN', huh?"

Max had no idea who the speaker was, or even what species they were; he'd been keeping low so as to avoid being spotted. All he knew was that whoever it was, they were bigger than Craig…and that the voice he'd just heard had been much too close for comfort.

He turned and tried to move faster, still keeping his head down. That wouldn't stop the coyote from being able to track him by way of his nose; Max was fully aware of that fact. However he also knew that in a densely packed crowd like this one, picking out the scent of one single animal was a tough call, even for a canine species. Anyway, he felt safer like this…to be sure, by only the smallest of margins, but he'd take what he could get right now.

He might have felt even more secure if he'd been aware that the confrontation between his pursuer and the striped hyena had been heard by somebody else that he knew.

By rights, it shouldn't have happened; had Craig and that yeen kid not been cranking the volume on their exchange, Mac Cannon would never have known that the rogue coyote was this close to his hidey-hole.

"Move it Sparky, that bunny who snitched me out is getting…!"

"I don't care, dog…y'all stay out my face, hear?"

"No, you…get out of MY way!"

Ohhhh yes—Mac would have known that kid's voice anywhere.

Ever since the cell doors had opened, he'd been doing his best to keep out of sight—staying hidden beneath the bunkbed, in the cubicle where he'd taken refuge from the fire sprinklers.

It was a wise move, not an act of cowardice. The bobcat understood all too well that he was only one officer against a veritable legion of young miscreants. Heck, he wasn't even armed, no mace, no shield, no baton…no nothing. To step outside right now would be tantamount to suicide…much as he wished he could get out there and do something.

In any event, he had no intention of staying put when the ZPD struck back…which they would; of that he had no doubt. And when it happened, he intended to be right there, in the thick of things.

That plan went straight into the wastebasket the moment he caught wind of the argument taking place out on the walkway. Cautiously…as carefully as possible, the bobcat deputy poked his head around the corner, just in time to see the hyena kid stepping aside with his arms thrown up in disgust.

The next thing he saw was Craig….

"Holy cattails, he's headed THIS way."

Unable to resist, Mac pulled down into a crouch, readying himself. But then another pair of detainees went rushing past his cell, headed the other way. He didn't recognize the other feline—but that bunny, the one with silver-black fur…

"Huh? That looked like…Zack March."

Yes it was….and no one else had noticed him. Erin Hopps couldn't see him from where she was, and as for Craig Guilford—in his mania for laying some payback on Max March; he had completely missed the scent of his quarry's smaller cousin.

And it wasn't only Zack whose scent he'd hadn't caught; he had also failed to notice the scent of another young bunny, a young, white-furred doe-rabbit, following at a discreet distance.

Like Max, Erin had been able to thread her way through the crowd of young detainees with much greater ease than the coyote she'd been trailing. But it wasn't until he got face-to-face with the hyena that she was able to get close enough to see him. Only then did it occur to her that she was having a serious 'dumb bunny' moment. What the heck was she supposed to do now, get in Craig's face and ORDER him to back off?

No…but at the same time, she couldn't just lay back and donothing at all. That was why, when the young hyena moved aside and Craig moved past him, she continued to trail the vengeful young coyote.

Monday—01:52 Hours, Delta Rd., Sahara Square, Zootopia

They came screaming down the highway with lights blazing and sirens wailing; a convoy of seven vehicles, five cruisers, a SWAT van and a Tactical Command truck.

Some animals might have considered it overkill, sending this many cops to take on what was essentially nothing more than a gang of rowdy kids—especially considering that all the nearby districts were sending backup to Precinct-1. That, however, was Captain Maazalai's plan. By presenting the protesters with an overwhelming show of force, the Gobi bear hoped to make them stand down without any further need for a confrontation.

"Our first priority is to rescue the officers trapped inside of Precinct-One, not to make any busts," he had told his mammals before setting off, "If some of those kids get away because of that policy, so be it; I take full responsibility. Remember…they're not our main enemy; that title belongs to whoever's behind the cyber-attack. All right," he'd concluded, capping his pep-talk with a roar. "You all know what to do, so let's ROLLLLL!"

Now, someone rapped him on the shoulder, and when he looked, he saw Sergeant Omar al-Dhiyyib, an Arabian Wolf, pointing to the cell phone clipped to the Gobi bear's belt.

"Call, Captain," he shouted over the siren, "It looks like Chief Bogo."

Had it been anyone else on his cell-phone, Maazalai would have ignored them, but not this animal. With a nod of thanks to his sergeant, he snatched it up and connected.

He had never seen the big Cape buffalo looking so haggard—and why not, considering everything that had happened in the past 48 hours.

"Maazalai…please tell me you're on the road right now."

"On our way with everything we've got," the bear moved quickly to reassure his Chief, who looked only slightly encouraged.

And even that lasted for all of two seconds before his face turned stone-cold serious. "Good, good…but now listen, Captain. We're not the only ones calling in back-up. Outback Island managed to get a dragon-fly copter airborne and they're reporting large numbers of vehicles converging on Savanna Central—from all directions, and they're not ours."

Maazali took in a short, hard breath and then let it out slowly.

"Thank you, sir. I-If you'll excuse me, I need to alert my mammals."

"Yes, of course." Bogo answered and then rang off.

"Bismillah, how did those kids get the call out so quickly?" Sergeant al-Dhiyyib had heard what Bogo said, and now his tail was sticking out straight and frizzing.

"Via text…maybe through the internet, I don't know," Maazali informed him, trying to sound unconcerned. "And I don't have time to care, so start passing the word; when we get to Precinct-1, we're going to be facing a bit more resistance than we expected."

"Yes, s..." the wolf started to respond, before a voice from up front interjected.

"Captain; coming up on the Lion's Tail bridge."

…The boundary between Sahara Square and Savanna Central.

Maazali waited until his sergeant had spread the news, before embarking on a final briefing of his own.

"All right everyone, so it's not going to be as easy as…WHAT THE?"

It happened the moment they left the bridge and crossed over into Savanna Central. Without warning, the command truck began to lose speed and the roar of the engine muted to a dull purr.

"What now?" the Gobi bear snarled, pushing his way to the front of the truck, "Don't tell me we're out of FUEL!"

"N-No captain," the driver, a dromedary camel stammered, "It's just…I don't know." He toggled the key…once, twice, a third time. In all three instances, the engine cranked—a dry groaning noise—and refused to catch.

"GRRrrrMrrr, not NOW!" Maazali snarled, pounding a fist against the wall, and then snatched the radio from his belt, "Unit 5, Unit 5," he said, speaking to the SWAT van, "Unit 5, we're stalled. Get up here; we'll transfer command to you."

"That's a Roger, Captain," a voice answered snappily, but then a heartbeat later, it came back again. "Uhhh sir…l-looks we're stalled out too."

"Unit 3 unit 3….us too, I'm afraid, sir," another voice chimed in.

The Gobi bear threw back his head and roared. "What the ensen'suul'ga is going on here?"

Monday—02:03 Hours, Undisclosed Location, Zootopia

"What the foxtrot just happened to those guys?" Conor Lewis was asking, echoing Captain Maazalai's sentiment. He had been following the various relief convoys on the Jam-Cams…although he had, as yet, been unable to access the cameras inside of Precinct-1.

It was even worse than the bear had realized; not only was his column stuck, the others weren't going anywhere either, not the one from the Rainforest District, not the one from the Nocturnal District, not the one from Outback island…not any of them. It was almost as if some evil mage had cast a spell; the moment they entered Savanna Central, it was power off and dead in the water.

And while this was going on, what looked like dozens of UN-official vehicles were closing in on the district by way of the various side-streets. Ohhh God…they needed to get that code uploaded and right NOW.

A voice spoke flatly in his headset, "Lope-Jack."

"Lope…what?" Conor pressed the headset cans to his ears; had he heard that right?

"Lope-Jack," Guild repeated, half skittish and half impressed, "Anti-carjacking device, standard feature on all ZPD vehicles. Whoever hacked their database must have initiated some kind of universal activation protocol. Any cop-car entering Savanna Central gets turned off like a switch." A hiss of undulating white noise followed, the sound of someone letting out an anxious breath of air. "These creeps are smarter than I thought, kid; they knew they couldn't keep the other precincts from finding out what was happening and sending help—so they settled for the next best thing."

"You think there's more than one hacker working here?" the young fox asked; he had caught the use of 'they.'

"For something this big; I'm sure of it." His unseen compatriot seemed to be trying to maintain control. "Okay, I'm preparing to go in. Got the kill-code ready?"

Conor glanced at the far-right display screen. He would have preferred to use his VR headset, but in the aftermath of his fight with Judy, it had started giving him headaches whenever he wore it.

"Locked and loaded," he answered, trying to stay calm. The code might be good to go, but he wasn't sure if HE was.

"Okay," Guild told him, "When you go in, get it uploaded and get it done fast. I'm not going to be able to hold them off for long. Like I said, these guys are smarter than I thought. Once the servers are offline, we'll be okay…but until then we'll be practically wide open. Do you understand?"

"I…got it." Conor answered hesitantly. Yes, he understood…and he also understood that he had everything to lose by doing this.

But for his friends—and for Erin—what other choice did he have?

Monday—02:05 Hours, ZPD Precinct-1 Youth Detention Center, Savanna Central Zootopia

She had no idea of what the fugitive young silver fox was up to—or what Craig Guilford was up to; she had lost him in the crowd again.

Max March had the same issue; keeping close to the ground like this, he was unable to see the young coyote…or hear him. The surrounding noise had abated somewhat, but by not much. The shouting and screaming had stopped, but that was about it. With their initial anger spent, the young detainees were pretty much just milling around on the balconies. A few had even gone back to their cells; the news that the service door was open was still only beginning to spread. While a few kids had started making their way in that direction, they were taking their time and moving cautiously, as if they didn't quite believe what they'd heard.

Had Max known any of this, he'd have been moving a lot faster. He didn't and so he continued to pick his way carefully through the crowd. He was all too aware of how Craig had latched onto him the first time—when he'd almost knocked over that muskrat-girl and she'd screamed at him, "What's your PROBLEM, bunny?"

He was not about to repeat that mistake.

From somewhere below a voice called upwards, faint but audible, "Hey guyyyys…the service door's open, we can get OUT of here!"

At first there was no reaction…but then someone else echoed the call, "Everyone, listen up; the back door's open!"

And then another voice called out…and another and another, "Back door's open!" "Service door's open!" "WE CAN GET OUT!"

On the fifth repetition, the gold rush started and everyone was scrambling for the stairs, even some of the kids who'd been staying in their cells. Many of these youngsters were members of this or that social species. Later, when it was over, they would admit that they'd had no idea of what was going on, they just hadn't wanted to be left behind; a textbook example of herd behavior.

As the crowd melted away around him Max March's heart was pounding like a sewing machine. There went his cover; Craig would spot him now for sure.

And ohhh, Frith…there he was!

And…there he went, rushing full-tilt past the frightened young buck-rabbit without even so much as a sideways glance. Max caught only the merest glimpse of him, but that was enough; there was no mistaking that candy-orange jumpsuit.

For a second or two, he was puzzled…until he remembered why Craig was in here; on a charge of accessory to terrorism. That open door was probably the ONLY chance at freedom that he was ever going to get—and so he'd taken it. The bunny he'd thought had snitched on him could wait until later.

Fine, fine…but now Max wondered what HE should do? Head on back to his cell…DUH! Why make for the exit when he was getting out tomorrow anyway? And besides, he might run into Craig if he went outside.

But then his ears shot up as he became aware of a presence, mere inches in front of him. Ohhhh, no…it hadn't been Craig he had seen running past. He was finished, he was done; somehow the rogue coyote had been able to make an end run…

"Max…" the voice was a low hiss—and it didn't belong to Craig Guilford. Heaving a five-ton sigh of relief, the young buck-rabbit stood up quickly. Yep, it was him—together with the sand-cat he'd befriended earlier. All around them other kids were making for the stairs, paying none of them even the slightest attention.

"Zack, I…"

"Can it Cuz; you gotta get out of here, Craig Guilford's looking for you…"

Max didn't know whether to hug his cousin…or slap him. Well, DUH!

But that wasn't all Zack had to say.

"Listen Cuz, I just heard; the door to the loading dock's open. We can get out—MAX, BEHIND YOU!"

Too late; something seized his ears in a vice-grip and yanked him roughly off his feet. A split instant later, his legs were kicking in the air and he was being swung around to face burning eyes, laid-back ears and a full row of sharp, canine teeth. A hot, meaty breath was blowing in his muzzle.

"This is it, bun- snitch. Now, you're going to…OWWWOOOO!"

Something leapt onto the back of Craig's neck, gripping his head like an alien face-hugger. He felt cat-claws tearing at muzzle; heard an angry feline yowl in his eardrums.

"Let him go, chelb!"

The young coyote couldn't see his attacker…but he could smell him. It was the cat the snitch's cousin had brought along. He was a little guy, even smaller than Max, but what he lacked in size, he more than made up for in ferocity. Craig felt as if his cheeks were about to be torn right off his face…and now needle-sharp fangs were sinking into his scalp.

As if that wasn't enough, another cat was coming for him, much bigger than Saad al-Zaqir.

Mac Cannon had seen what was happening—and when he did, the HECK with staying put. He bolted from the cell where he'd been hiding, lunging full tilt for the rogue coyote. So surprised were the other kids mingling about the walkway that most of them got out of the bobcat's way…most, but not all; he had to shove a few of them aside, and they did not go easily. It made for several precious second's delay

"Let him GO!" Saad screamed again, and this time Craig complied…sort of. He didn't drop his prey but flung him against the wall. Max hit with a thud and crumbled in a fetal heap, his cousin Zack rushing instantly to his aid.

"Cuz, you okay?"

"I think…Ohhhh."

No…he wasn't

Behind them, Craig Guilford was staggering this way and that, frantically trying to pull the sand-cat from his head. He saw his world go dark and felt a burn around his eyes; Saad was digging his claws in around the sockets.

That was too much for Erin Hopps and she screamed. "Saad, let him GO!"

She had come upon the scene just in time to see Max March being thrown against the wall—which meant that Craig was now free to turn his full fury on the sand-cat clinging to his scalp. Dangit, why was that crazy feline doing this? Craig had let go of Max, and look…here comes Mac Cannon.

Perhaps in his frenzy, the sand-cat wasn't aware that Craig had already set Max March free; or maybe he was just enraged at the manner in which the angry young coyote had released his prey.

No one would ever know because at that instant Craig Guilford stepped into a smear of something greasy on the floor. All at once, his feet shot out from under him and then he was falling backwards; a vaudeville comedian in a banana-peel skit.

But there was nothing funny about what happened next. Craig fell so hard and fast that Saad was unable to let go in time. His head hit the walkway with a sickening crack…and now, at last, he let go of this adversary.

In an eyeblink, the coyote was on his feet again. Cushioned by the clinging sand-cat, he had come through the fall completely unhurt.

Except for those claw marks on his face…

With a snarl of unbridled rage he grabbed the stricken feline by the scruff of the neck and lifted him up like a war-trophy.

Six feet away, Mac Cannon saw what he was doing…and knew what was about to happen next. He gathered his legs and leaped for all he was worth—just as Craig hurled the unconscious sand-cat over the third floor railing and down to the floor below.

Mac almost got there in time, but 'almost' only counts in pitching pennies. Their fingertips brushed lightly against each other—and then Saad was gone. Mercifully, no one heard the impact.

…Mostly because of Erin Hopps' terrified scream. "NOOOOOO!"

Mac Cannon, meanwhile, had put a little too much effort into his Hail-Mary leap, nearly going over the railing himself. And this time, 'nearly' did count for something—because it took the bobcat several seconds to pull himself back onto the walkway. And that gave Craig Guilford just enough time to come up with an idea. He too began to scream…but in his case, it was a cry of horror mixed with anger.

"You killed him! You killed him!" he cried, jabbing an accusing finger at the Burrow County deputy, "Dirty, rotten cop, you killed that kid!"

That…put a stop to the rush for the exit. All around the bobcat and coyote, kids were halting in their tracks and staring with shocked expressions. They seemed to be wondering if they'd heard right—and where the heck had this deputy come from?

Wa-i-i-it a minute…a deputy?

The MAMMAL?

"Why, you…!" Mac yowled in fury, baring his claws and fangs. But before he could even begin to make a move, a quintet of other kids got quickly between him and the young coyote…and then began to close in on him. All five were bigger than the bobcat; a lot bigger…and at least three of their number were apex predators, a tiger and two polar bears. Mac turned to run the other way but found his path blocked yet again, this time by an elephant and a water buffalo.

"You…JERK!" the elephant blared, and then blew an angry note through his trunk

"No!" Erin screamed again, "Leave him alone he didn't do anything! God, please, NO!" She tried to rush forward, but someone stepped from the crowd, blocking her path.

It was Craig Guilford…and there was no mistaking the blinding-white hatred in his eyes. If he couldn't get his paws on Max March…she would serve nicely as a substitute.

Her feet wanted nothing more than to turn and run; her head knew better, that was exactly what the rogue coyote wanted her to do.

Okay, but what should she do? Ohhhh, if only…

"Dana, please…help me…"

In front of her, Craig had dropped to all fours, hackles raised, hind-legs bunched, the full fury of his teeth exposed. She could almost feel the heat of his breath.

And in that instant, the young doe bunny knew her next move, the answer coming not from the absent girl-coyote, but from within.

Craig was stalking her now, moving stealthily in her direction—while she fought off the urge to drop into a crouch herself.

"Don't do it, Erin," her inner voice commanded, "Don't do it; you'll give the game away. Just pretend to back away…as if you're going to make a run for it. That's it; keep it up. Keep…"

With a guttural snarl, the berserk young coyote plunged straight at her.

"Wait…wait…NOW!"

Craig's jaws snapped shut on empty air as Erin leaped up in a high arc…giving it everything she had. She landed hard on the small of the crazed coyote's back, driving him into the floor and then sprang up again—coming to rest on the shoulder of a young polar bear in a biker bandanna…who did not appreciate the intrusion.

"Off, rabbit!" he snarled, swiping with bared claws. Erin leapt just in time to avoid the blow, but this time she had jumped without thinking and landed smack on top of the walkway railing. That was a neat trick if you meant to do it, but she HADN'T meant it…and now she felt herself tilting backwards over the floor. She began to windmill her arms, trying frantically to regain her balance, but it was no use; she was going over, she was going to…

Something seized her by the wrists and pulled her off the railing. She dropped heavily onto the floor of the walkway, face down.

When she looked up again, she saw Max Marc, together with his cousin Zack, he was leaning on the smaller bunny for support.

"Erin, are you okay?" he asked her.

"I-I'm all right," she answered shakily.

"What about Saad, is he okay, did you see what happened to him?" It was Zack March, wringing his paws as he spoke.

"I…don't know." Erin hated to lie, but this was not the time or place to tell him what she'd seen. She couldn't even bring herself to think about it right now. "But Craig…" that part she couldn't help but mention.

"We know…Max nodded nervously, and then seemed to come to a decision. "Erin, go, get out of here; they got the loading dock open, you can get out that way." He grimaced and looked away for a second, "it's me that whack-job coyote thinks snitched on him, not you."

The tone of his voice brought the young, white-furred bunny to a decision of her own.

"Max, no… we can all…"

"No, we can't," he cut her off and pointed to his ankle…now swollen to the size of a water-balloon. "I think it's broke, Erin. Even with both of you to help me, I'd never make it down those stairs. Just get your tail out of here; I'll be okay…just GO!"

She nearly raised another protest, but then a slurred growl came from somewhere behind and to the left. Craig Guilford was coming to—and he did NOT sound like a happy camper.

"Take care of him, Zack," she said.

"I will," she heard the smaller bunny promise, and then she turned and bounded away.

…right into a traffic-jam; the stairs leading to the floor below weren't nearly as spacious as the walkways—and there were kids crowding onto it from all four levels, not just the third one.

For the next few minutes, time seemed to be taking a breather as she moved in lock step towards the stairway and then downwards. It was like the opening scene from that old, silent, sci-fi flick, Zootropolis; the workers marching to and from the power plant in measured baby steps.

Erin kept her patience until she reached the second story landing, where even more animals were joining the procession—all of them mid-sized species. Now things were really moving at a crawl.

Ohhh-Kay, she decided, the floor below was close enough. She heaved herself atop the bannister and jumped.

It was a decision she instantly came to regret. No, it wasn't too much of a drop—but the floor beneath her was soaked and the water was filthy.

…As the young, white furred bunny quickly found out when she landed; now, below the waist, she was an off-white bunny…and a speckled one up above.

Luckily for her, getting dirty is par for the course when you come from a farm family. Shaking off her disgust, she hurried in the direction of the door to the loading dock.

Ohhhh carrot-sticks, it looked like an even bigger squeeze in there than on the stairs…and now there were large-species animals in the mix. That would make for some gaps and openings she could slip through—but it would also make for a risky proposition. One false step, one wrong move and she'd be stomped into rabbit pizza. She would have turned back already, except…somewhere behind her Craig Guilford was lurking, a coyote with a thirst for vengeance.

And getting hold of Max March wouldn't be nearly enough to slake that thirst. He was going to want more…much more. Erin knew that for an absolute; she had seen the blood-lust in his eyes.

"A-And he's already killed once, remember?" The young doe-bunny's inner voice shakily reminded her.

THAT was the clinching argument. Gritting her teeth, she began threading her way through the crowd, towards the hallway leading to the loading dock.

Notes:

Author's Note:

Today's episode will be the first of three installments that I will be publishing over the course of the week.  I'm not sure exactly when the next two will be posted, but I'm up to the third draft on both of them.

 

Chapter 33: The Children's Crusade (Cont'd...Part 3)

Summary:

Chaos rules in Savanna Central

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 6—The Children's Crusade
(Continued…Part 3)

"It is a fact that it takes experience before one can realize what is a catastrophe and what is not. Children have little faculty of distinguishing between disaster and the ordinary course of their lives."
Richard Hughes - A High Wind in Jamaica

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Monday, 02:07 Hours, Precinct -1, Savanna Central, Zootopia

The hackers were a bunch of sharpies, even more so than Guild had first surmised.

They could have raised the loading dock door rather than simply unlocking it…but that would have given fair warning to the riot police deployed on the other side—and hackers are anything but fair-minded individuals.

And so they left the freight door closed but unlocked, trusting that the detainee-kids would figure out how to raise it on their own.

In this they would not have been disappointed. One of the first young escapees to reach the loading bay was a hartebeest whose father worked in a warehouse—and he quickly informed the others.

"That thing's gonna open REAL slow when you hit the button," he said—meaning the cops would be there long before it opened up all the way.

Then someone else noticed a pair of tiny windows set near the center of the door…and a flying squirrel and a sugar-glider, both animals with excellent night vision, were sent up to check out the lay of the land. What they had to report was both heartening and disheartening.

"There's a big line of cops out there…but they're facing away from us." The squirrel said, "can't be sure, but I think there's a whole bunch of those protesters out on the street in front of 'em."

It was no great surprise; there'd been a rumor making the rounds since yesterday; the kids picketing Precinct-1 basically had the place surrounded.

Nobody would remember who first suggested it, but everyone agreed. The only way they were getting out of here was by making use of the element of surprise—and if the freight door opened super-slowly, there went that idea. Luckily there was another way out; the drivers' entrance. Only a few detainees at a time could get out that way, but that door could be thrown open VERY quickly.

At once, a call for volunteers went up.

What happened next was later described by one of the cops holding the line in front of the loading dock—Officer McHorn, who normally worked the day shift.

"I was looking for a place to toss my coffee-cup when I heard this big, loud bang behind me. A bunch of us turned to look, and what we saw was that the driver's entrance was open and this gang of detainee kids was coming right at us. There weren't that many but they was all big species; a lion, a hippo, a couple of elephants and another rhino, like me. That many kids, even big ones, wouldn't normally have been anything we couldn't handle, but they'd got the drop on us; hit our line before we could even get halfway turned around…and there was more kids, running out the door behind them."

"And the freight door was coming up too. At first it was only rodents and smaller whatnot that got through, but the higher it got, the bigger the kids jumping out, off the freight-dock got. And they weren't any younger animals, neither; didn't see a single one that wasn't old enough to drive at least."

"Even so, we were holding our own pretty good—until the kids on the street side started coming over the wall at us…if you want to call that a wall, only came up to my belt buckle.

The first ones over were all jumping species, kangaroos, wallabies, rabbits, caracals, a springbok and a couple of armadillos."

"Heck yeah, armadillos can jump; clear a six-foot fence from a standing start. I've seen 'em do it."

"Anyways, now some of the larger-animal kids was coming over the wall. I saw these two young elephants try to both climb over at once, and it was way too much weight. The wall collapsed right out from under 'em, and they landed on top of a police cruiser; crushed the roof and popped three tires—and the rest of the kids just loved it. The only ones that wasn't cheering were laughing their tails off."

"Before we knew what was happening we were caught in a vice and couldn't get out; there were just so many of those crazies—and more were showing up every minute. Cars'd pull up in the street behind us; a bunch of kids would pile out and the next thing we knew they was coming right at us. I remember seeing a giraffe-girl get out of her car and not even bother to put it in park. It went rolling away without her and she never even looked at it…not even when it took down a mailbox. We found out later it was her step-dad's car that she stole."

"Yeah…and then her and some other giraffes started letting some of the arboreal kids use their necks as skybridges. Arboreal kids; tree-dwellers, you know…squirrels, chipmunks, marmosets and the like. What they did was lean out over our lines and then the arboreal kids would jump off their heads and onto the precinct roof. That's how the skylight got busted and all that graffiti got up there."

"Meanwhile, down where we were, things were getting desperate; we had used up all of our rubber bullets and was nearly out of tear gas."

"The weird thing is…what saved us, I think, was when our line finally broke and a bunch of the detainee kids went running past us and into the street. Soon as that happened, the protester-kids on the other side of us kind of….Mmmm, lost interest in kicking our tails; more concerned with helping the kids just busted out of jail to make their getaways."

"It was crazy, what I saw. The animals coming through our line was all bigger species. The rest was getting past us in whatever way they could. For instance, there was these three young kangaroos, kept jumping over the top of us, grabbing kids and then jumping right back over the wall again."

"Noooo, they didn't use their pouches; they were guys. And then there was this foxbat-girl I saw; watched her swoop down, snatch a pika-kid detainee and then fly back over us and set him down on the street-side; must have done that at least six more times before she called it a night. Over on our left though, that was where things was really nuts; these kids were actually throwing some of the smaller detainees to their buds on the other side of us. No, I swear, right over the tops of our heads."

"Yeah, we tried to stop 'em but…"

"Wait, hold it… I need to be honest here; we didn't really try that hard. None of us were happy, seeing all those detainees getting away, but better that than our guys getting beat to a pulp—like what the cops out front of the precinct was looking at."

It was not an exaggeration; on the other side of Precinct-1 there was no permanent barrier separating the officers from the rioters and, even worse, no escapees to distract them. By now their line was backed up almost to the front door—while the officers on the other side could do nothing but look on in clenched-teeth frustration. Ohhhh why did this place have bullet-proof windows anyway?

And WHERE the heck was their backup?

Monday—02:10 Hours, Undisclosed Location, Zootopia

"Okay, I'm in." On the left-side screen of Conor's workstation, a sextet of 'jam-cam' images was visible, each one showing a different view of Precinct-1's exterior. The action on these screens was more or less the same as when the fugitive young silver fox had taken his seat inside the Furaday cage—except much more intense. The center one, by contrast, had shifted to an old and familiar location…for him at least; the ZPD database.

He would have preferred to use his VR headset for the task that lay ahead, but that idea was a total non-starter. Ever since his fight with Judy it had been giving him headaches whenever he tried to wear it.

Now he glanced at the right-side screen, and…what the FOXTROT?

It looked almost like a mosaic; a zillion tiny thumbnails. Conor clicked on one of them and watched it expand to show a view of an empty office. He knew where it was though—and he also knew what had happened.

It was the hackers; they must have turned on every webcam in the precinct…and all the body-cams too. Throw in the CCTV cameras, and it was hardly a wonder that his screen looked almost pixelated.

He moved the cursor and clicked over to voice-command.

"Overhead view, ZPD Youth Detention,"

At once the screen shifted to a trio of bird's-eye feeds from inside the facility; the commons area from three different angles. Whoa, it almost reminded him of a mosh-pit, there were just so many…

"Kid, what are you DOING? Get that stupid code uploaded before both our comps get fried!"

"Oops…sorry, Guild."

Conor thought it, but he didn't say it. His partner would only be angry with him for wasting even more time. What he did say was, "Access servers," and then watched as the appropriate window appeared.

"Ohhh-kay here comes the tough part," the young fox told himself, flexing his knuckles.

Hacking into a system that's already been accessed is a more difficult proposition than most folks realize. It's common practice among cyber criminals to, 'pull up the ladder behind you' after penetrating a system. To be sure, this tactic is aimed mostly at security and law enforcement—but it also serves to keep out any rival hackers.

…Unless said rivals have a ready-made back door—which Conor did, and which he presumed Guild also had.

The part that wasn't such a cakewalk was when he tried to find a port to upload the kill-code. Every time he attempted to access one of them, he got back a message:

Error 1179 - Access Not Available

Foxin'-A, this crew really had it together. But he wasn't beaten yet, not by a long shot. There was another upload port available…one the hackers wouldn't know about.

Conor knew…because he had put it there. And now he spoke the magic word aloud.

"Open File: Supercalifragilisticexpealidocious."

At once a new icon appeared on his screen, the outline of a nanny-goat with an umbrella. Working quickly, he dragged the kill-code over and let go, watching it seem to vanish inside the server button. There; now all he had to do was hit 'enter' and…

"Kid, heads up, they're onto you," the distorted voice of Guild rang in his headset once again. And almost immediately, a warning light began flashing on his screen.

Wait, hold the phone, it was showing on the right-side screen. Conor glanced for a second—or perhaps a second was all he intended. When he saw what was happening however, he ended up staring. What now? Two of the kids he saw were encased in pulsing red brackets. Wha…why? But then he saw the name over the first one—Erin Hopps—and he understood what was happening.

Whenever he chatted on a webcam—the way he was right now—Conor always made sure to deploy Flippar, an augmented reality app that could be used to create fake backgrounds; Guild might know WHO he was, but he didn't need to know where he was.

And that was why Erin was inside those brackets; Flippar also had a facial recognition function. He must have activated it by mistake when…

"Conor…what the heck? WAKE UP!"

The young fox heard, but paid scant attention; he had just taken note of the other animal in brackets…and he didn't need Flippar to know who THAT was.

And he didn't need to be told the meaning of the expression on Craig Guilford's face either. He'd seen something like it before, many times, in Granite Point. It was the look Crazy Wez got whenever he was preparing to take out a snitch—something that never happened quickly and painlessly.

And he was homing in on Erin like a….

"Conor, for God's sake…UPLOAD THAT CODE!"

Snapping halfway out of his trance, the young fox reached for his mouse and moved the cursor….but then he hesitated. When the servers cut out, so would the cameras inside the precinct. Worse still, the cops would be able to shut the dock door. What if that happened before Erin was able to make it through to the other side? She'd be trapped inside the youth jail, with…

All at once, his screens went black—and then came back on again. At the same time he heard Guild speaking, this time in a very crisp and even voice.

"You have six seconds, kid," was all he said…and that was all it took.

"Forgive me Erin," he pleaded silently, and then moved the cursor to the server icon and clicked 'Enter'.

The next thing he did was snarl in frustration. Aggghhh, grrr, he should have known. There it was; the ubiquitous annoying window with the ubiquitous annoying question.

ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO UPLOAD THIS FILE?
WARNING - (BLAH, BLAH, BLAH…)

[_]YES [_] NO

"YES!" Conor fox screamed at no one, rolling the cursor to the affirmative answer,

…And then watching it fly right off the screen.

Almost immediately another cursor appeared to take its place…in the shape of a finger…no, a wagging finger. And now it began to move swiftly towards the 'No' button. He had waited too long on the hackers and now he was p*wned.

Like HECK he was; he still had The Beast, and this time his fox-scream was for the computer's benefit. "Deploy Chaff App!"

At once the screen became a fuzzy snowstorm, with the finger stuttering in place. Okay, he had stifled the takeover, but could he still…?

"Never mind, DO it!"

He screamed a third time. "Click: Yes! Click: Enter!"

At once his center and right side screens went dark, so suddenly that the power appeared to have been cut. For perhaps half a second they remained like that, and then the center screen went back to his desktop, while the right-side display remained blank.

For an eternity of seconds Conor stared at the displays. Was what had just happened been his doing…or had the hackers ultimately succeeded in giving him the bum's rush?

Only one way to find out… "Guild, you there?"

The answer came in an exhausted rush of white noise.

"Yeah, kid….we did it. The servers are offline." More noise followed and then, "Crike, what the heck took you so long?"

"Sorry," the young fox answered, looking shamefacedly away from his webcam. It was totally inadequate, but all he had. "So…I guess this is good-bye?"

"Hmmmm, I'll think about it," Guild replied in a testy, sardonic voice, "But I swear, if you EVER pull a stunt like that again, I'll stick a fork in you myself."

He did not elaborate and Conor didn't need him to; they both knew exactly which stunt he was talking about…and what he'd meant by 'sticking a fork' in his young partner.

Now he heard a mile-deep yawn go rolling through his headset, triggering a wave of fatigue that just washed over and buried him; he had forgotten how late it was.

"All right, I'm out of here," Guild informed him curtly, and then his icon disappeared from the center screen leaving the fugitive young silver fox alone with his thoughts—and his fears.

Would Erin be able to get away all right—and even if she did, what about Craig? What if he made it outside, too? Dangit, there was no way to know.

Or—maybe there was; on the left side screen, the exterior view of Savanna Central Plaza was still visible. Right, right, right…the 'Jam Cams.' They were handled by City Hall, not the ZPD—which meant they were still up and running and so… He might be out of the loop on the inside of Precinct-1, but not on the outside.

He spoke quickly into his headset. "Mother…Engage Flippar and interface with the Zootopia Traffic Cam feed. Make the search area a five block radius of ZPD Precinct-1." From there, he went on to perform a little fine tuning, instructing the program to search specifically for Erin Hopps and/or Craig Guildford, and to ping him if either one appeared. As an afterthought, he instructed The Beast to sound the emergency alarm if it spotted them both at once. "Make the minimum separation distance, 50…no 100 yards." A coyote could cover that distance in mere seconds.

Finishing up the task, Conor tilted the zero-grav chair back to vertical. And then, shedding his headset, he swung around and got out of it.

…And almost immediately collapsed onto his knees. Agggghhh, grrrr…blankety-blank leg!

Hauling himself back into the chair, he called up Zoogle, asking for instructions on how to construct a makeshift knee brace.

Hmmm, he thought as he scrolled down the list of components. He had that, he had plenty of THAT; he thought he had some of those. Well, if he didn't, he could probably find a good substitute. Okay, that should do it.

Conor exited the chair again, much more gingerly this time, and then opened the door to the Furaday cage. Directly in front of him, he could see his back-pack, hanging up on a peg, and also his bikes…they were pretty much useless now, except for the one he had never before ridden on the street; his Furzarelli DK electric mini-moto bike. It was currently hooked up to the charger, but he had better make sure, just in case.

But not right now; he had other tasks to perform…and so he began carefully pushing his way towards the door of store-room 3.

Monday—02:41 Hours, ZPD Precinct-1, Youth Detention Center Savanna Central. Zootopia

At that moment, Erin Hopps was also pushing towards a doorway. She had made it into the service corridor, and was being carried along with the crowd in the direction of the loading dock. She was unable to see the doors to Shipping and Receiving. The heads of the animals up front were blocking her view. But she could feel the breeze, wafting through the opening every time somebody passed through it. She must be close, at least.

She could also hear the sounds of the melee taking place outside the precinct. That was something of which the young, white-furred bunny wanted NO part…but it was a little too late to turn back now.

And besides…Craig Guilford was somewhere, back behind her.

So far, it had all gone smoothly enough; only once had she come close to being stepped on…and the culprit had been a Mazama, not even close to the biggest species of deer. But then, when she was about two thirds of the way to her goal, the lights went out and then came back on again. For perhaps half a second, everyone stopped, and then moved on. Oddly enough there was no panic, and no stampede. These kids had little desire to rush blindly through a freight door and into the great, wide open…not when there might be a whole, stinking army of cops, waiting for them on the other side; for some reason the, news of what was taking place outside the loading bay had failed to make its way back up the line.

For now, the would-be escapees were keeping it together. But upstairs in the Lieutenant's office—and elsewhere—things were happening.

When the lights went out and came back on again, at first nothing seemed to have changed. But then Beth Nysander shot a finger at the workstation display screen.

"Everyone, look!"

Everyone did…and at first seemed to have no idea why she was so jazzed. So…the screen had gone dark, so what?

But then the cow moose said, "If the computer goes offline, doesn't everything automatically…?"

"….switch over to manual—dang, you're right." Lieutenant Hsing finished the sentence for her. And then raising an arm, he swung it in a circle, pointing like a weathervane towards the entrance to his office. "Toby, check that door…but don't open it."

"Yes sir," the wild boar nodded, and then reached to toggle the handle. A smile creased his muzzle and he almost threw it wide before he remembered. "It's…open, Lieutenant," he breathed, turning to the panda bear with a puzzled expression. "But…no sir?"

"Not until we have some idea of what the heck is going on out there," Hsing informed him coolly, yanking open the desk drawer where he'd stashed all the cell-phones. "I don't want us just rushing out blindly. Jorge….come here and grab your phone. I can't use mine, it's probably compromised."

"Ah si, Jefe," the jaguar replied, stepping forward with a twitching tail, "But won't mine be…eh, infected too?"

"Maybe," Hsing grudgingly conceded. "But we've no choice, and besides…if there's any phone in here that hasn't been hacked it's yours." A grim smile stitched its way across the panda-bear's muzzle. "You weren't scheduled to be on duty tonight; remember?"

"Don't remind me." the big cat growled, and reached into the drawer.

Obviously calling the reception desk was out of the question—or calling any police-issue phone for that matter. Fortunately Jorge had the fursonal number of a buddy from his Police Academy days, an Indian Lion named Maynard Sayyat who had just recently been transferred to Precinct 7, Outback Island.

His call hit paydirt almost immediately.

"We are trying to get help to you," his friend informed him, "but our column stalled out as soon as we crossed over the Marahute Causeway"—the bridge linking Outback Island to the mainland.

"Okay," Jorge started to answer, but then stopped when his boss began motioning for him to pass the phone over.

"Officer Sayyat, this is Lieutenant Hsing. All our servers just went offline; try starting your engines again."

"Ummm, all right," the lion replied—dubiously; what the heck difference would that make? But when his voice went away, Hsing immediately heard the sound of engines revving in the background—together with a chorus of roars, howls, and cheers. When Officer Sayyat came back a moment later, he sounded almost electrified. "I don't believe it, but it worked! Hang on Lieutenant; we'll be rolling your way in less than a minute."

"Good….excellent!" the panda bear replied, cupping a paw over his other ear; the connection was getting a little spotty, "Do you have any idea what else is going on in Precinct-1? We're blind in here right now." He said this while crossing his fingers and hoping the lion wouldn't ask for any further explanation.

He didn't; instead he disappeared again, replaced by a new speaker, an animal with a slangy Down Under accent.

"L'tenant Hsing, this is Cap'n Bruce. Can't tell y' what's goin' on inside the precinct mate, but we've got a dragonfly chopper circlin' overhead." A short burst of static followed, and then, "Straight up Lieutenant, it don't look good for our blokes. The ones out front are holding their own, but the coppers inside can't get out to help 'em, and the ones who showed up f' the graveyard shift can't get through either. All their riot gear's stashed INSIDE the Precinct and there's just so many of those crazy little yobs; it's like bloody Thermopylae down there."

"Understood," Hsing was almost shouting, "Listen, can you get word to the rest of Precinct-1 that the servers are offline? My office door went to manual when they cut out, and I'm betting the front door did the same."

"Ahhh, no promises, but we'll try, mate," Captain Bruce assured him, and then almost as an afterthought, he said, "Oh, and you're the officer in charge o' the youth jail, right? Ehhh, then y'might want to know sommat, mate. There's a pack of those young detainees makin' a run for it out the back and being helped to get away by some of the rioters; looks like they're goin' out through the loading dock."

"Oh no, they're not!" The panda's brow set hard and his voice became an angry snarl. "Jorge!" he barked, stabbing a finger at the row of control switches next to his office door. "Get that freight door closed—NOW!"

"Yes sir!" the jaguar replied, moving swiftly to obey.

It began just after Erin passed through the double-door to Shipping and Receiving. The area here was more open than the hallway, and she was finally able to get a move on, if only by a tiny bit.

But then she heard what sounded like a latch being thrown, and the noise of rolling metal. She had no idea what any of it meant, but found out quickly when a lupine voice in front of her howled. "Oh yip, the door's closing!"

And now the stampede began.

Something struck the young doe bunny from behind, knocking her onto her paws and knees. Thinking fast, she rolled sideways—just in time to see a massive hoof come crashing down on the spot where she'd been.

"Get up, get UP!" Her inner voice was screaming like an industrial strength smoke alarm. She jumped to her feet; felt something hit her from behind and send her stumbling again, but this time she was able to keep her balance.

She had to move, she had to get out of here. Wait, in front of her, a space…in between a pair of larger species, she couldn't tell what kind, and—"Shut up and get going!" Erin jumped hard and dove through the gap, only to find another wall of legs before her…wait, no, another space. Get through it, quick. There, good girl. Come on, come on, you're almost there….

But that was when the mass of bodies came to grinding halt, to the sound of a hundred fists hammering on sheet metal. She was too late, the door had closed!

No…no wait, it hadn't, not all the way…only enough so that the larger species couldn't get out. For the smaller animals like her there was still a chance—IF she could get through the horde of kids massed in front of her, but how? It was like a stinking Great Wall of Mammals.

"All right, if you can't go through, go OVER, dumb bunny!"

Erin crouched down hard, leaping up and over with all her strength, landing with both feet on the shoulder of a young male tiger—and this time, she didn't wait for a reaction before bailing.

She came down next on the head of a zebra, and again she didn't hang around, leaping off immediately. Now she could finally see the freight door and sprang towards it at once. Only the top half was visible but it was still rolling downwards; it hadn't closed completely.

Landing lightly on dock-doors the insulated surface, Erin allowed herself to slide down to the dock-plate. Instantly, a striped hoof slammed into it beside her, and she heard an angry neigh, coming from above. "Jump on MY head willya, rabbit?" She moved fast as the hoof came down again, this time missing her by only a centimeter. She had to…

"No, you don't! Forget about him, the door's almost closed, HURRY!"

Erin flattened herself against the dock-plate, scrambling for all she was worth. She could see the bright lights in front of her; feel the warm air on her face. But the gap was closing fast now, only a few inches left…come on bunny, do it!

She squirmed through, felt the door brushing her rump, still coming down. The hoof smashed down into the dock plate a third time, causing her teeth to gnash together…but missing her by a wide margin. Now the door was grazing her thighs, her legs, her ankles, the tips of her toes—and then she was finally outside.

…And falling downwards! Oh, no…how far was it to the…? Wait, she wasn't falling, she was hanging in midair. The door had caught the cuff of her jeans when it shut. Great…just great; a hair's breadth from freedom and now here she was, hung up like…

"No worries there bunny, we got yer." She heard a chirpy voice call up from below, and then a quartet of paws was grabbing her by the wrists and pulling.

Almost at once, she realized…Ohhhh, NO!

"Eeep, stop. My pants are coming…!"

But they had already pulled her free, flipping the young doe-bunny upright and setting her down on her feet. She immediately crossed her paws to cover herself, only to discover that her jeans weren't gone after all, at least not all the way. She reached down to hike them up, listening with a cocked ear. The sounds of the door mechanism had ceased, but above and behind her, she could hear the pounding and cries of the detainees who hadn't been as lucky as herself.

"Thanks," she said, at last looking up and acknowledging her benefactors…who turned out to be Tasmanian Tiger and a…Oh, sweet cheese 'n crackers! It was…

No, scratch that, it wasn't Craig. As a matter of fact, it wasn't even a coyote but a side-striped jackal—and a girl jackal at that. Ha, ha brain…verrrry funny; go play your tricks on somebody else, why don't you?

But then the Thylacine's eyes narrowed. "Here, now…aren't you the bunny…?"

He stopped and snapped his fingers, turning to his companion. "Cor, Simone…it IS her. The rabbit-girl I was tellin' y'bout; that one that crushed it on 'er ZAPA audition."

"Oh, pleased to meet you," the girl jackal-said, offering a paw. "I'm Simone Tshubo, and this is Billy Mackenna."

"Nice t' meet yer." The Tasmanian tiger smiled, tipping an invisible hat.

"Uhm, same here," the doe bunny answered skittishly, and then angled her head in the direction of the street, "But, uh, couldn't we…?"

"Right, right, right," Billy jumped in quickly, making some kind of odd motion with his paws. "Don't worry…we'll get y' out of here. Grab on 'er legs Simone."

Erin's ears shot skywards; had she really just heard…?

"Wait, what…? Whoaaaaa!" Seized by the ankles and wrists, and hefted like a flour-sack, she saw the world flash by in a sideways swipe as they dashed in the direction of the battle line.

Somewhere close to it, she heard Billy call out, "Steady on, mates; one comin' over!"

"Ready and waiting," an unseen voice answered, and then they began to swing her back and forth; Erin tried to protest but to no avail.

"Guys, listen, this isn't a good…"

"One…."

"C'mon, really, I…"

"Two…"

"No, seriously…"

"THREE!"

"No, don't….EEEEEEEP!"

Flung up and over and writhing in the air, Erin saw one of the officers below—he looked like a leopard—jump up and try to grab her as she went sailing over his head. He wasn't even close and now she was coming down fast, heading for a group of kids gathered beneath her. She tried to turn upright to come down on her feet, but it wasn't really necessary. They knew what they were doing and had a blanket stretched out to catch her. She bounced lightly as she hit, bounced again and then they were setting her back on her feet once more. Brushing herself off, she saw several different species present, but noted that most of the group were fellow Leporids; hares, jackrabbits, and bunnies like herself.

Needless to say, it didn't take long for one of them to recognize her.

"Heyyy, you're Erin Hopps, right?" a volcano-rabbit sk8r-girl asked her.

"Uhhh, yeah that's me," she answered, feeling the heat rise up in her ears again. In another time and place, she would have been flattered by all the attention, but not here.

"Whoa, Awe-SOME!" a skinny hare in grunge gear declared, offering a high-five. He had more to say but was cut off by a tall, sinewy jackrabbit in a rolled bandanna and torn jeans.

"Can it, dude, we don't have time for this stuff!" he said, and the other kid shut up immediately. Clearly this was the animal in charge; a fact confirmed when he turned a no-nonsense expression on Erin. "The door; we thought we heard it closing, is that right?"

"Yes it's closed," the doe bunny told him, "But there's still plenty more kids trying to make it over the wall." She said this and wanted to slap herself, "Holy carrot sticks, what am I DOING?"

'Kay thanks," the jackrabbit nodded and then turned and called through a cupped paw, "Yo, got a bunny needs a ride, here!"

"Send her over this way, dude," a low, somewhat slurred voice called back, "we got room for one more smallie." Erin thanked the jackrabbit with a quick thumbs-up and then bounded off in the direction of the waiting vehicle.

Ordinarily, she would have turned back the instant she saw it, a Voleswagen microbus that looked like a reject from a slacker movie; dents, rust, three cracked windows, a missing rear bumper—and an engine that wouldn't stop backfiring.

However in the young doe-bunny's present situation, it was 'any port in a storm'…and you had better believe there was a storm raging in Savanna Central right now.

Gritting her teeth, she hopped on board, instantly feeling the need to jump right back off again. Ewww…what was that SMELL?

Once again, she was recognized almost immediately.

"Whoa, you're like that bunny girl who killed it on Jump In The Fire."

It was the driver speaking…and when Erin looked, she was flabbergasted to discover that he wasn't a kid but a middle-aged yak with a face framed in flower-speckled dreadlocks and a cloud of flies buzzing around his head—and what the heck; was he naked?

Someone nudged her in the shoulder, a young raccoon in a punk get-up. "Hey-y-y, you're THAT bunny? Wow, awesome…do you know Conor Lewis?"

Oh-kayyyy, now Erin didn't know whether to bail or yeet somebody. If there was ONE animal she didn't want to think about right now…much less talk about…

She did neither of those things, turning instead to speak to the driver.

"Can we just get out of here…please?"

"Oh for sure, lil' bunny dudette," The yak responded cheerfully, and then spoke to himself in a near mumble. "Now-w-w what was that thing about the clutch again? Oh yeah, right…" As he put the micro-bus in gear, a noise like the world's biggest ratchet cried out from the tranny…and promptly elicited a cat-call from a margay kid on the sidelines.

"Hey Ace, grind me a pound!"

And then, with a blast from the tailpipe like a double-barreled shotgun, the vehicle lurched forward and they were rolling.

As the minibus began to jounce along the street—the shocks were no better than the engine—something occurred to Erin. For the first time, she realized she had no idea of where the heck she was going or what she was supposed to do when she got there. She hadn't wanted to break out of jail. Given the choice, she'd rather be back in her cell, hiding under the bed until things settled down.

She was not, however, beating herself up over that decision; for once, her inner voice was keeping its nagging mouth shut. There'd been no question of staying put—not with Craig Guilford chasing after her.

Craig…what the heck was he up to now? Oh God, she could only hope that Zack March had managed to get his cousin to safety before that crazed coyote caught up with them.

Yeah…and there was something else you didn't see every day. Max March, Mr. Swell-Head, saving her from falling and then offering to sacrifice himself in order to let her get away? Sweet cheez n' crackers; who was that guy…and what had he done with the REAL Max?

That was when it hit her, a thunderbolt out of nowhere, and she folded in her seat as the realization hit her—clutching herself and shivering, as if the microbus had just taken a sudden detour through Tundratown.

Craig had…killed that poor sand-cat…and she had seen him do it. He was a murderer—and she had witnessed it all. Whatever interest he'd had in the bunny he thought had snitched on him, it had ended right then and there. Max March couldn't put him away for life…but SHE could.

"Easy Erin, get a grip." she told herself. "You barely made it out of that jail and he was behind you; there's no way…"

A police cruiser shot suddenly out of a side-street in front of them, lights flashing and tires squealing as it slewed to a halt, blocking the road. The micro-bus also stopped—at least the brakes were good—pinned in the bleach-white glare of the cop-car's bullseye spotlight.

A brief whoop of a siren followed, and then a harsh, electrified voice spoke up, "Everyone in the van…paws up, and stay where you are…."

Nobody stayed where they were; the doors of the Vee-Dub flew open all at once, and then everyone was making a run for it. Erin would have liked to stay where she was, but once again found herself swept along with the tide.

Behind her the electrified voice kicked up a notch.

"All of you…stop! Halt…or you will be tranqed!"

Once again, nobody paid attention. A half second later, a green splotch burst against the neck of the meerkat running beside Erin. He managed two more steps before he pitched face-first into the pavement, out cold.

Erin dropped to all fours and put it in overdrive, just in time to see the pika up ahead of her clutch hard at a shoulder and go down in a sideways roll. Ohhh Crike, they could hit a target THAT small?

She dodged left; something whizzed past her cheek, so close she could feel the heat of the passing dart. She turned to look, and saw a bright red mini-sun blocking out everything behind it; a laser sight…locking onto her. No way was the next shot going to...

With a gut-wrenching crunch, something massive slammed into the cruiser from the other side, lifting it up and then dropping it down again—throwing the officers fanned out in front of it into a confused scramble. Erin heard more doors flying open, followed by roars, bellows, and assorted battle cries.

And that was all she wanted to hear. Spying an alleyway just up ahead, she ducked hurriedly around the corner…and found herself alone and swaddled in the shadows.

What the…she was all by herself? Had she been…the only kid in that micro-bus who'd managed to get away, had none of the others escaped? Nooo, they'd been scattering in all directions; at least one of them must have made it—she hoped.

Erin turned and began to retreat down the alleyway, slowly at first, but then faster and faster until she was moving at a dead run.

She still had no idea of where she was going.

She knew only that she had to get away from HERE.

Monday—03:02 Hours, ZPD Precinct-1, Savanna Central Plaza. Savanna Central, Zootopia

What was happening behind the fleeing young doe-bunny was about to take place all over Savanna Central's main plaza. With their vehicles finally up and running the relief columns from the other ZPD precincts were on the move at last—and they were closing in on Savanna Central with a vengeance. They had plenty of extra gear with them, too. Now the Precinct-1 graveyard shift would be able to suit up and properly arm themselves.

But the rioters were also getting reinforcements, and they were well aware of what was coming. They'd had lookouts posted on the approaches to Savanna Central Plaza even before the cyberattack had begun. All around Precinct-1, they were setting up makeshift barricades and readying piles of brick and stone, along with an assortment of artisanal weapons.

They had also carried out a not-insignificant amount of vandalism, smashing windows and spray painting everything with graffiti. City Hall had come in for some especially rough treatment. The normally white facade was now all but invisible, hidden beneath layers of criminal artwork. Some enterprising young souls had even dropped packets of red dye into the 'waterfall fountain' cascading down the front of the building, transforming it into a river of blood. Of the other buildings surrounding the plaza, only the Natural History Museum had been left relatively untouched. Who cared about a bunch of moldy old artifacts, anyway? For the rest however, nothing had been spared. Benches had been torn up, awnings pulled down, and the coffee-stand out in front of Savanna Central Station was nothing but a gutted remnant of its former self. Even Gazelle's billboard had been targeted, reduced to a stuttering checkerboard.

As so often happens in situations like this, the riot had taken on a life of its own. The kids on the barricades had all but forgotten about the 'ZAPA Four' as they had come to be known—and the few that did remember no longer cared. They knew only that they were angry and wanted to break something, to vent their frustration with The System, once and for all.

And now, as the first police vehicles came rushing into the Plaza, they fell back to the barricades…and waited.

Monday—03:06 Hours, ZPD Precinct-1, Youth Detention Center Savanna Central. Zootopia

With a furious roar, the squad of correctional officers burst out of the Lieutenant's office and went charging onto the terraces of the youth jail.

What followed was a rout; most of the detainees who hadn't managed to get away were either crammed into the corridor leading to the loading bay, or else they had elected not to join the uprising; huddling quietly in their cells until order was restored. Of the few remaining on the walkways, almost none had any fight left…and those that did were quickly subdued.

Jorge Reyes had just finished putting the zip-ties around the wrist of a young okapi, when he became aware of movement behind him, whirling quickly around with his shield and baton at the ready.

He immediately lowered them; it was only a bunny, a smallish, grey-on-black rabbit, standing with his paws raised.

"Sir, no…please!" he said, pointing to the cell on his left, "Mac Cannon's in there, he's hurt bad. Please, he needs help."

For a second Jorge only stared with his tail twitching. Mac Cannon…who the heck was…?

But then, he remembered. "Si, si…el diputado del Condada de Burrow!"

Without another thought, he hurried to the cell and through the door.

The first thing he saw was another young rabbit, this one with light brown fur, propped up against the wall. He was bigger and more muscular than the other bunny—and also in obvious pain.

Seeing the jaguar enter the cell, he immediately threw up his paws. "We didn't do it!"

"Didn't…do what?" Jorge wondered for a second, but then followed the young rabbit's gaze, and….

"Madre de Dios!" Dropping his baton, the jaguar hastily crossed himself.

The thing laid out on the bunk-bed in front of him was barely recognizable as another feline…and also barely breathing.

Down below in the commons area, the kids who had failed to make it out through the loading bay were being forced-marched back inside of the jail, paws and hooves laced atop their heads. It was while this was going on that Officer Beth Nysander came upon the broken form of another feline, a cat much smaller and younger than Mac Cannon.

And this one wasn't breathing…and he wasn't ever going to, ever again.

Chapter 34: The Children's Crusade (Cont'd...Part 4)

Summary:

When it all comes crashing together.

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 6—The Children's Crusade
(Continued…Part 4)

"It is as though the land of Canaan into which we were led was too divine, and until we have done it every violence, until we have despoiled and murdered and dirtied every blessing, until we have erased every reminder of our original rape, until we have washed our hands of the bloods of every other, we shall be unappeased."
Glendon Swarthout - Bless the Beasts and Children

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Assault on Precinct-1: The Cyberattack, the riot, the murder, and Erin's odyssey

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Monday—02:17 Hours, ZPD Precinct-1, Savanna Central Plaza. Savanna Central, Zootopia

Outside the precinct, the battle lines had been drawn up in layers.

In the center of the ring were the officers of Precinct-1, at last reinforced by more mammals from inside the building; they had been given permission to stand down and let their relief take over—and to a mammal, they had refused the offer. They had even given the rioters a taste of their own medicine, regaling them with a lusty take on the Tom Catty tune, 'I Won't Back Down.'

Facing them—and also facing outwards—was the army of young discontents. Drawn up in a ragtag semicircle, they looked disorganized but at the same time formidable…which they were. Perhaps fifty yards in front of them was the main police line—made up of reinforcements from the other precincts together with the Precinct-1 officers on the graveyard shift. All of them were armed, armored, and highly motivated; in no mood to play games. Twice already they had ordered the rioters to disperse. The first time they had gotten no response; the second time they were answered by yet another impromptu performance of, "I Fought the Law."

Last but not least was the outermost rim, the kids who had arrived in the wake of the police reinforcements, and who were even now continuing to trickle into Savanna Central. The ZPD had wisely set up roadblocks on all the major arteries leading into the district—but they couldn't cover everything and the rioters knew it. Unlike their comrades out on the Plaza, these kids had not formed into battle lines. Rather instead, they were staying hidden in the streets and alleyways out beyond the second police line—waiting for their moment. Nobody could see them, but everyone knew they were there.

For many long, tense moments, nobody on either side moved. It was the classic Mexican standoff. While the ZPD had the rioters outgunned, the rioters had them outnumbered—and nobody on either side knew by exactly how much.

And so, for the moment, the crowd of angry young mammals was willing to limit their activity to showering their opponents with catcalls and hoots of derision—together with the occasional musical number. All the while, the officers opposing them from the outside remained silent; refusing to give them the satisfaction.

When at last the cacophony seemed to be subsiding, an amplified voice from the outer line of police spoke up.

"Attention…attention everyone, this is Chief Bogo of the ZPD…" He had to pause here, waiting until the chorus of mockery from the other side dampened down, "You are in violation of section 221-C of the Zootopia Municipal Code, unlawful assembly plus numerous acts of vandalism. You are therefore ordered to disperse at once…." Again he had to stop and weather a cascade of ridicule. He let it pass, but when he spoke again, it was in his stiffest 'no-nonsense' voice. "You have five minutes to comply, starting from…now! If you choose to do so, you will be allowed safe passage through the ZPD lines. Should you not choose to comply within that time period, make no mistake…we WILL move in to retake our precinct, and you will be subject to arrest. This is your final warning."

For perhaps thirty seconds there was no reply. And then another musical number rose up from the rioters' lines.

"Weapons not food, not homes, not shoes
Not need, just feed the war cannibal animal"

There was no mistaking the tune for anything other than what it was, a taunt, aimed directly at the Chief of the ZPD.

The title of the song was Bulls on Parade.

What happened next was even easier to interpret. A young pronghorn buck stepped forth from the crowd of malcontents with a white flag held high above his head. None of the officers facing him lowered their weapons as he came forward, prompting another round of jeering from his comrades.

"Hey cowards, where's your guts?"

"Whoa, look at the big, tough macho-cops!"

"Oooo, a scaaaaaary kid with a WHITE flag!"

"Ain't that tuff enuuuuff?"

Still the young pronghorn came on, and still the officers kept him in their sights. He was perhaps fifteen feet away, when a young Brazilian free-tailed bat crawled up on top of his head and raised a wing, flicking a lighter. When the flame touched the truce flag it caught almost instantaneously…and now the officers could see that it was attached not to a pole but to a bottle.

A voice—several voices—shouted, "Incoming!" as the antelope heaved the Moletov Cocktail and turned to run for the sanctuary of his own lines. The missile bounced off a riot shield and then exploded when it hit the ground, luckily injuring no one. Several officers tried to get a bead on the fleeing pair of young fire-bugs, but it was a useless gesture. After cheetahs, pronghorn antelope are the most fleet-footed mammals on earth—and free-tailed bats are the fastest flyers. Even in daylight, they would have made for difficult targets. In a night obscured by smoke and fire, they were all but impossible to hit. When they crossed back into their own territory, they were greeted by cheers, whoops, and slaps on the back.

Bogo let them enjoy their moment of victory, and then lifted the mike once more.

"Right then; you've had your chance. All units…move in!"

At once, the line of police parted and a vehicle passed through, a big-wheeled armored car, sporting a water-cannon, mounted above the cab. In the space of an eyeblink the blaze created by the makeshift fire-bomb was blasted to extinction. And then the phalanx of riot-police began their advance, shields and batons at the ready. Behind them came more police, outfitted with an assortment of gas and rubber projectile weapons.

In front of them, the rioters hunkered down, and began making their preps.

Monday—02:20 Hours, Undisclosed Location, Zootopia

Once again, a shrieking alarm roused Conor from his slumber; only this time he hadn't been fully asleep, merely dozing in the zero-grav task-chair. What he saw when he opened his eyes however, would have brought him fully awake if he'd just come out of a coma.

There, on the left-side screen was a flashing message, SYSTEM OFFLINE—and no views from any of the jam-cams. Now, he was blind on all fronts.

He could have screamed his head off. Ahhh, what the heck, he was alone in here; he did scream his head off. And why not, this time it wasn't the hackers' doing. He had seen this kind of message before and knew exactly what had happened. So many animals had been trying to access the surveillance cams that they'd ended up crashing the network.

"STUPID, IDIOT, CHUCKLEWEED GAWKERS! WHAT THE FOX DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, TRYING TO ACCESS THE CITY-CAMS NOW? HAVEN'T YOU GOT ANYTHING BETTER TO DO AT TWO O'-STINKING-CLOCK IN THE MORNING? MORON MUTANTS FROM THE PLANET DIMBULB…!" He went on in this vein for nearly a minute before he finally calmed down.

All right, he was cool…he was centered; but now what the heck was he supposed to do? It was a question that quickly answered itself, but the solution was one that the fugitive young silver fox most definitely did not want to hear. There was still a way for him to get eyes on Savanna Central Plaza, BUT…

A. It might not work.

B. Even if it did work, it wouldn't be nearly as effective as the traffic-cams, and…

C. This was the big one: It would require him to leave the sanctuary of his loft.

He didn't even think about not going with it.

Five minutes later, Conor hobbled out of the elevator, pushing the Furzarelli moto-bike ahead of him. It struck him then that while he'd remembered to keep it hooked to the charger, he had forgotten to check the battery level. Yep, the indicator was showing 100%, he was good to go.

Only…where was he going? Hopefully, he wouldn't need the Furz…or the items in the backpack slung over his shoulder. But as the old saw went, 'Chance favors the prepared mind,' and he was taking a lot of chances by doing this.

He reached down to pat his injured leg, now supported by a jury-rigged brace of ace-bandages, duct-tape, and heavy-duty cardboard. It was as ugly as a cuckoo-clock, but he wasn't wearing it as a fashion statement. And besides that, it was getting the job done; his stumbling gait had been downgraded to a minor limp and his knee was no longer threatening to give out at every third step.

So far, so good; but now, before he left the garage, he needed to perform a final check of his gear. He totally hated having to do this; every second was precious…assuming Erin had made it safely out of jail; had she? He didn't have a clue but he felt it to the core of his bones. And Craig Guilford: what about that guy? Conor wasn't so sure about him—but there was something else that he couldn't afford to chance; if that punk managed to get his paws on Erin… Don't think about that; get your gear checked.

Okay, backpack straps, good and tight, URSA pistol, locked, loaded, and snug in its holster. Ditto for the dart-gun—the longer-barreled brother of the one he'd lost at the auditions—cell-phone, charged and secure, tactical pen secure, tactical whip secure, GPS jammer, armed and ready; okay, time to roll.

Climbing tentatively aboard his bike, Conor twisted the throttle by only a hair, easing forward for just a few short yards before stopping again.

All right, he could handle this…so now it was time to get his tail outside and try to figure out where the heck that bunny had gotten to…if she had also made it outside.

The door to the garage seemed to move at a sloth's pace, actually taking no longer than usual to open, but in the eyes of this young silver fox, it seemed that by the time it was all the way up, interstellar travel would be a thing. Oh, he could hit the emergency switch and get it open NOW…but if he did that, it would need to be closed manually, something for which you better believe he didn't have the strength at the moment.

Moving out into the darkness of the underpass, Conor punched the button to close the door and removed his red-tinted glasses. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the sounds of a pitched battle, muffled briefly by the rumble of a ZTA Metro Train passing overhead.

Now he pulled out his cell phone and called up the Flippar app. Okay, that was working, and now he switched over to a new screen, the control function for the drone he'd left marooned on that construction site. Okay…not fully charged, only 85%, but it was enough; it would work, it would have to work. Only…could he get the camera-feed to interface with Flippar? He had never tried it before, but it should be possible…YES! Yes, it was.

"Okay-y-y, here goes nothing…but I hope not."

Perched atop a concrete slab a half-mile distant, a pint-sized helicopter whirred suddenly into life and shot up into the sky, scanning the earth below with its onboard camera as it banked in the direction of Savanna Central plaza.

What Conor saw down there made him glad he'd skipped dinner; it would have ended up all over the alleyway floor. What was happening below in Savanna Central Plaza was worse than he could ever have imagined. In front of Precinct One dark line of ZPD riot police was advancing like a juggernaut towards a crazy quilt of rioters—marching right through the fountain in the center of the green-space! Meanwhile another line of cops was harassing the insurgents from behind. He saw the serpentine swipe of a water-cannon, the kicks of smoke as the cops fired pepper-gas and rubber bullets into the mob of angry young mammals opposing them. He saw kids falling back as they were hit, or trying desperately to shield their eyes. But they weren't giving up, hurling whatever they could lay their paws on at the oncoming line of riot-police…including several more Moletov cocktails.

Dangit, why didn't those idiots throw in the towel? Even with their greater numbers, they didn't stand a chance against that kind of firepower. This was a hundred times worse than the ZAPA riot. It was more like…like…

"Myeeep, nooooo!"

Conor whimpered and pulled himself halfway into a ball, unable to stave off the oncoming flashback. There he was, outside of Finagles again, frantically trying to get away before the cops moved in…backed up by another, much nastier, pack of animals. He remembered exiting the tunnel, being grabbed by a cop—and being ushered back towards the line of spectators when the elk-in-blue mistook him for a thrill-seeker.

He remembered watching the nightclub burn…snuffing out the life of every remaining member of The Company that wasn't already dead—except for two that might just as well have been killed.

It was then that his phone began to ping, breaking the spell at last. Conor snatched it up and looked. There she was, she'd made it out okay…and there was no sign of Craig Guilford…yay! Way to go, Erin!

But now, wait a second; where the heck was she…going?

"Nooo, not in THERE, dumb bunny; what do you think you're gonna do, hop a train back home or something?"

Conor didn't know whether to laugh, give himself a face pawlm, or head back inside the loft and return to his bed.

Monday—02:28 Hours, Savanna Central Plaza. Savanna Central, Zootopia

Once again, Erin had no idea where she was going. When she'd exited the alleyway and onto a side street, she had turned right and just kept moving. In another time, it might have interested her to know that this was the same street through which her sister Judy had once pursued a fleeing weasel.

The avenue ended in an elbow bend that widened out onto a flagstone piazza, with a row of benches lining one wall— several of which, she noted, had been torn out by the roots.

But then the instant she made the final turn, the young doe bunny halted in her tracks with her paws flying up to her face.

Stretched out before her, in all its hideous glory, was a raging battle; cops against rioters; rioters against them and against more cops on the opposite side of their lines. She saw a flaming object go hurtling through the air, saw the police retaliate with a salvo of rubber bullets.

And then her heart froze, and she felt ears go up and turn backwards. Someone big was coming up fast behind her; no, several somebodies, animals large enough to create a low-grade earth tremor as they came. Erin had no idea who they were but knew she didn't want to be around when they got here. She needed a place to hide, but…? Wait, what about under there?

She scrambled beneath one of the benches. Ewwww, there was gum under here, and…stuff! If she ever made it back home again, she was going to stay in the shower for a week.

Now the ground began to quiver in earnest; the pounding thunder of big feet was heading her way fast. A split second later a mini-horde of young mammals went rushing past her and into the chaos beyond; all of them members of various large-size species. Erin still had no idea who they were—except that they hadn't been cops. Since when did the ZPD storm into battle singing the, 'We're Not Gonna Take It'?

She waited until she was sure they had gone, and then scooted out from under the bench.

…and saw, just off to her left…oh, blessed be; Savanna Central Station! She took a quick look around and then hurried off in that direction.

No…she wasn't planning to snag a ride back to Bunnyburrow…only to the Palm Hotel where her mother and sister Violet were staying. Had she known of Conor Lewis' thoughts right then, she would have felt incredibly smug…for about three seconds, until she noticed the wreck that had once been the coffee-kiosk, laying in a crumpled heap out in front of the train station. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea after all.

When she entered the building a moment later, there was no longer any 'maybe' about it. Kids were thronging everywhere, and there was no sign of the ZPD…but there were plenty of signs of vandalism, broken lights, pulled up plants, and graffiti all over the place. The tubes that had once made up the rodent carriers lay smashed in a scatter of multi-colored remnants.

It was then that Erin finally realized something. D'ohhh, dumb bunny…how the heck was she supposed to get to the Palm Hotel when she didn't have her wallet or ID…or any money?

The idea became even less of an option when a train pulled into the red-line platform…and was instantly swarmed by a mob of young mammals, trying to clamber aboard all at once. None of them seemed intent on causing mayhem; they just wanted to get away from here right now.

So, apparently, did the train operator, who pulled away from the platform without ever opening the doors. Okay, she could scratch that exit-plan, but now…?

All at once, Erin became aware of a dark presence, somewhere close by. She couldn't hear, see, or smell it…but it was there, she could feel it.

She looked around; nothing. And then she looked up…and…

"Oh sweet cheez n'….Nooooo!"

It was impossible, it couldn't be…but there on the balcony above her was Craig Guilford.

And he was looking right at her…with that same demonic expression he'd worn the last time she'd seen him. She watched him raise his muzzle and sniff the air. And when he looked at her again, he was wearing just the merest hint of a smirk…a smirk that spoke volumes. 'You can run…but you can't hide, bunny; I've got your scent imprinted. Wherever you go, I'll find you.'

She turned and began to move towards the exit, slowly at first, trying to keep her ears cocked backwards. How…how had this happened?

She began to pick up the pace just a smidge.

There was only one possibility she could think of…

She started walking with a brisker stride.

Somehow—in the panic that had swept through the corridor when the freight door started to close—somehow Craig had made it outside ahead of her.

Faster, still faster; Erin was moving as quickly as she could now without breaking into a run.

But why hadn't he gone after her as soon as she'd exited out of the freight door? Hanging in the air like that, she would have been a sitting duck. Maybe, in all the confusion he hadn't noticed her. Maybe his first priority had been to get as far away from the precinct as possible. Or…maybe he HAD seen her, but hadn't been willing to tangle with a Tasmanian tiger. Or perhaps… Never mind, there's the entrance—move your tail, bunny-girl!

Erin dropped to all fours and bolted for all she was worth, unaware that Craig Guilford wasn't the only one tracking her.

Outside the station, she was spotted at once by the drone hovering overhead.

"Ohhh thank goodness." Conor breathed a sigh of relief. "She's OUT of there…wait, what? What the heck is she running for? Whoa, no! Ohhhh, no!"

Another bracketed figure has just exited out of a service door, on an end-run course to intercept the fleeing young bunny.

Conor knew without guessing what Craig was up to. Had he followed Erin out of the station's front entrance, he'd be on her upwind side right now. This way, he was downwind of his quarry…able to track her without having to see her.

"Well I can play that shtick too, punk." the young fox snarled beneath his breath, "and I got a ride—and weapons!"

Without another thought Conor killed the drone's drive motor, caring not at all where it fell.

And then, mentally crossing his fingers, he lowered his helmet visor and thumbed the Furzarelli's power switch. "Hang on Erin, I'm coming," he growled—and then shot off down the alleyway at full throttle.

Monday—02:40 Hours, Savanna Central Plaza. Savanna Central, Zootopia

By now the rioters were in full retreat, though in a way, it was actually a sort of triumph for them. Only a few minutes previously, they'd been caught between two lines of riot-police—and the squeeze was on.

But then the kids who'd come late to the party—for example the ones Erin had seen go flying past her hiding place—had come rushing to the aid of their trapped comrades. They'd been unable to break the police line, but they had managed to open a gap in it…and the kids trapped inside had come pouring out in a flood tide of young bodies. Many of the animals Erin had seen trying to board that Red-Line train had been members of this group.

Around the backside of Precinct-1, the retreat was much more orderly. The kids here had begun to pull back as soon as the last detainee was safely over the wall. With their primary mission accomplished, they'd had no reason to hang around any longer.

About a third of the kids up front managed to get through the police lines before they closed it again. But the rioters weren't done yet; they still had one more card to play.

Nobody ever found out where they got the thermite…but everyone knew what they did with it, sending an RC dump-truck loaded with the incendiary powder scurrying beneath the water-cannon truck. Almost incredibly, no one on the ZPD side noticed—not until it detonated.

Monday—02:47 Hours. Savanna Central, Zootopia

Erin was leaning against a parking meter, doubled halfway over and breathing hard. It was no use; she just had to stop and catch her breath. After the day she'd had so far, it was a miracle she had anything left in the tank at all.

Perhaps 25 yards from the train station, she had wisely decided to get off the thoroughfare, ducking quickly into a side-street and then the first alleyway she'd come to. After that, she'd been moving entirely random, making turns on a whim, exiting one alley and then bolting into another, taking every shortcut she came to until ultimately, she had no idea where she was.

But if she didn't know that, maybe Craig wouldn't either…or that was the idea anyway. Like her, the young coyote hailed from Bunnyburrow…which meant he wouldn't know his way around Zootopia any better than she did. All in all, it wasn't a very good plan; even she didn't think so. But for the moment, it was all she had.

Several times already Erin had come across groups of other kids…mostly trying to get away from Savanna Central Plaza as fast as possible. That told the young doe-bunny that the police were winning…and that was why she had declined to accompany any of the groups she ran into, even after being invited to tag along. They were trying to get away from the cops and she was hoping to run into them. In the arms of the ZPD, she'd be safe from Craig Guilford once and for all.

But where the heck WERE they? Over by Precinct-1…DUH, but how was she supposed to get there?

"DUMB bunny! You should have given yourself up to the police when you had the chance," meaning when the ZPD had intercepted that microbus. Ohhhh, sweet cheez n' crackers…if she'd known then what she knew now, she would have begged those officers to take her into custody.

All at once she felt her ears go up again; someone was coming and, thank goodness, it wasn't Craig Guilford—not unless he'd figured out a way to shrink himself down to rodent-size in the past few minutes.

Yes, yes…here they came, a total of five; two ground-squirrels, a gopher, a chipmunk and a degu, all of them looking scared and bedraggled.

"Excuse me," Erin raised a finger and moved towards them.

In response, they all froze…and for a second she thought they were going to scatter. But then she stepped into the moonlight and they were able to see it was only a bunny-girl

"Yes, what?" the degu asked her, half anxious and half annoyed.

"I'm sorry," she told them, trying to sound as contrite as possible, "But can any of you tell me how to get to the Plaza from here?"

"Savanna Central…Plaza?" One of the ground-squirrels was staring in disbelief, "Whoa, you don't want to go there, bunny. The cops are busting everybody they can lay their paws on."

Erin thought fast for a second.

"I know…but I-I have to; my sister's back there somewhere and she's got her phone turned off…and she won't leave until she knows I'm okay."

Okay, that did the trick, the rodent gang's faces went from cross to sympathetic in the blink of an eye.

"Go that way," the gopher said, pointing back in the direction from which he and the others had come, "take the first left and then the second right…that'll take you right to it."

"First left, next right…got it," The young doe bunny nodded, "and thanks so much."

"Welcome," the degu replied, "and good luck."

"You too," Erin answered, and hurried on her way.

Finding the first street was easy; the next one was a bit trickier. About 20 yards along she came across a gap between two buildings, a touch too narrow for a street, but a pinch too wide for an alleyway. Was this street number one, or was it just another alley? Well either way, she wasn't supposed to turn here.

At the next street, she held up for a second, deciding that she needed to check things out before proceeding any further. That action was probably what saved her; when she peered around the corner, Craig Guilford was there. He had his back turned, so he couldn't see her…but he also had his nose in the air.

Erin hastily ducked back the way she had come, lifting an anxious ear. Was she upwind or downwind of that psycho-coyote? Neither one; there was no movement in the air whatsoever. Never mind, she needed to get away from here, and do it like five minutes ago.

Two steps backwards, and another three, and then she turned and ran. Ohhh, carrot sticks…the way before her was wide open. If Craig came out of that street behind her, he wouldn't need to catch her scent to know she was there; she'd be about as difficult to spot as mayonnaise on blacktop. Ohhhh, why, Why, WHY did she have to have white fur?

Wait a minute…here was the street she'd passed earlier. Yes, yes…go that way, hurry. Erin swerved to the left and into the maw of the alleyway/street/whatever-it-was. It narrowed quickly but then seemed to open out again, perhaps a dozen yards ahead. She put into high-gear and bounded for the exit.

…And skidded to a screaming halt.

"Noooo-no-no-no-no-nonononono, NOOOOOO!"

She was inside a mews, a courtyard with no exit, a dead-end. Locked doors, dark windows and dumpsters all around her—and in front of her, a wall topped with razor-ribbon…way too high for a bunny to jump.

But with a revenge-crazed coyote likely to show up at any second, Erin knew she had to try it.

Sinking into a tight crouch, she gulped down a breath of air and steeled herself. Even on a good day, a leap like this would be almost impossible. In the wee hours of the morning, running for her life, and having eaten nothing since dinner—she might as well flap her arms and try to fly over that wall.

"Okay…Okay…4-3-2-1-GO!"

She bounded forward, not far enough, she would have to jump further than that; another leap…yes, that was better…and another and another, and…Whoa, wait, stopppppp!

Only now did she see the traffic cones and the yellow 'Caution' tape.

…and the sign, reading, DANGER: BEWARE OF SINKHOLE.

No time to stop, she could only go with it, jumping up and over the tape and flying through the air, and…oh no, she wasn't going to clear the wall, not even close, only halfway up. Turn sideways, quick, and try to land feet-first…it's your only chance.

Erin barely managed it, hitting the wall and bouncing off, back the way she'd come. But her angle was all wrong, she was flailing through the air and she couldn't tell where the hole was…and now she was coming down fast.

She hit the pavement on her left shoulder and went tumbling in a liquid roll. Well at least it was the pavement, and not the sinkhole. But when she got up again…a shaft of dry ice seemed to shoot through the spot where she'd smacked into the asphalt. Stifling a cry, Erin got up slowly on her other shoulder…and in that instant, she knew.

He had caught her scent…and he was coming.

She looked frantically around, searching desperately for a bolt-hole; no…no good, no basement windows, no storm-drains, no nothing…not even an air-vent. Wait, that stack of plywood propped against that wall there; maybe there was an opening behind it.

Erin knew there wouldn't be…but she went over and looked just the same. Nope…nothing back here but spiders. Spiders? Ewwww! Brushing anxiously at herself, she laid a heap of curses on whoever had put that plywood here; cheap wood anyway, too thin to be useful in any construction—even if it wasn't half-rotten.

Wait a second…hold that thought.

The bud of an idea began to bloom in the young doe-bunny's mind. Would it work? Could she pull it off with her shoulder hurting?

She had no idea; she knew only that she had to move and move now.

Monday—02:47 Hours, Near Savanna Central Train Station. Savanna Central, Zootopia

Conor had expected that it wouldn't be easy. Here he was, a kid, on an electric motorbike with no plates, obviously way too young for an operator's license and riding into the heart of a riot—with the officers of four other precincts besides Savanna Central crowding the field.

And yet somehow he had made it to the place where he'd last seen Erin—so, after all that good effort, shouldn't he have been able to at least get a whiff of her scent?

You would think so…but nope, nix, nein, nada, nothing.

Oh he could smell plenty of other stuff; tear-gas, pepper-gas, smoke, gasoline and diesel fumes—and the legacy of a thousand-and-one cans of spray paint.

But no Erin; not even a hint of her scent was lingering in the air.

Well, she had to be around here somewhere; even hightailing it at full speed she couldn't have gone very far.

But which way had she gone? "C'mon fox—think! If you were Erin, where would YOU have gone? Hmmm…that way, maybe? No, she doesn't know Zootopia like I do. So maybe she…"

A police cruiser shot across the intersection in front of him. The lights were out, but there was no mistaking that emblem on the side. Had they seen him?

The answer came swiftly from around the corner; a screech of brakes and a squeal of tires. They had seen him.

Conor spun the bike in a doughnut and dug out fast. A half second later he heard the whoop of a siren and saw red-and-blue lights flashing in his mirror.

He swerved quickly into the next alleyway. Dangit, too wide, they'd be able to follow him here. Sure enough in the space of a mouse's heartbeat, they were right behind him. Think, fox, think…try to remember. There's gotta be someplace around here…wait yes. Sugarbush Lane! That's it, that's the place.

Out of the alley and into a fast turn; Conor's bike messenger skills were swiftly coming back to him. This wasn't the first time he'd had a police cruiser on his tail, and his ride for tonight was a wee bit faster than the stripped down, single-speed bicycles he'd ridden back in the day.

Fast…but not fast enough; The Furz had a top end of maybe 60 mph, not even close to what a ZPD cruiser could do. On a straightaway course, he didn't stand a chance against that thing.

But if could get where he was going before they caught up to him, then maybe—just maybe—he could stack the odds in his favor a little. And there it was, up ahead, on the left; Sugarbush Lane.

Behind him, the police car came flying out of the alleyway, swerving into a drift before righting itself. And then it was coming straight at him, locked on like a homing missile—a lot closer than he'd hoped. Could he make it?

Conor pushed it to the max, watching in the mirror as the cruiser continued to gain on him. It was close enough now that he could see faces behind the windshield, a caribou and a polar bear, meaning they were probably out of the Tundratown Precinct. Well, wherever they came from, they looked about ready to boil him in oil when they nabbed him.

"Not tonight guys," the young fox growled under his breath. Because here was Sugarbush; and now he made use of a favorite old trick from his Zoo York City days. Pretending to turn right, he kicked the rear tire around and spun into a left-paw speedway-turn…straight into Sugarbush, past the sign reading 'No Motorized Vehicles.'

His ploy worked; the police car went shooting past the street entrance, unable to correct in time, and had to circle around for another try. By the time it completed the maneuver, Conor had regained every inch of ground he'd lost earlier.

But there had been a price to pay; the Furz was a heavier machine than any of his bicycles…and now bolts of red-hot pain were shooting upwards from his ankle to his knee.

Conor bit them back and kept going; in here, it was advantage, silver-fox. Sugarbush lane was both narrow and winding, with front stoops and big potted plants every few yards. His bike might not be faster than that cop-car, but it was quicker and way more maneuverable—to say nothing of being small enough to not need to bend it through every turn.

His pursuers, on the other paw, didn't have that luxury…as evidenced by the occasional crunch of smashed terra-cotta coming from somewhere to his rear.

And yet…and yet…

The noises didn't seem to be getting any further away; that cruiser was still on him. Dangit, these guys were good…and Sugarbush Lane had only about hundred more feet to go before it emptied out onto Acacia Street, a wide boulevard, where they could easily run him to ground.

All right…okay…no choice; he would have to go to the nuclear option.

And here was just the place; a turn to the right, sharp enough to be a blind curve. Conor whipped it around the bend and then turned into a slide-out, coming up on his good leg. He allowed himself to skid for perhaps ten or fifteen feet, and then pulled up sideways, reaching for the holster at his belt and drawing out an almost comical looking weapon, a pawgun resembling a scaled-down, sawed-off, four barreled flare-gun, a Russian-made URSA pistol.

He snapped it open, checked the load, and snapped it shut again.

Then he aimed it into the turn he'd just made…and waited.

He did NOT have long to wait. In mere seconds he heard the whoop of a siren, saw the space in front him flickering in red and blue, while the headlight beams against the right-side wall grew brighter…and tighter…and…

The cruiser slewed around the corner… directly into his sights. He set his jaw, steadied himself…and pulled the trigger.

The URSA kicked and popped as if fired. And then a splatter of black the size of a pizza-box burst across the cruiser's windshield on the driver's side. Conor watched as the wipers went on, and couldn't resist a smirk. They weren't getting rid of THAT stuff so easily; it was a mixture of quick-drying ink and etching fluid.

But then heard the shriek of the tires; smelled the bitter sting of burning rubber…and saw that the police car wasn't stopping. Caught by surprise, the driver was jamming on the brake and the accelerator pedals at the same time.

The cruiser was coming straight at him; he had to move, he had to get out of the way…but his bike was turned sideways, and with his bad leg, he couldn't move fast enough; they were going to…

At that instant, the police car slipped sideways and the right front wheel dropped into a basement stairwell. That did it; the cruiser banged to a shuddering halt with its rear-wheels spinning helplessly in the air.

"Sorry!" Conor called to them, meaning it….and then got the heck out of there, fast. Turning onto Acacia street he blinked twice and then eased the Furz to a stop.

And then he lifted his nose, sniffing the air. There she was at last.

Monday—02:47 Hours. Unknown Location, Savanna Central, Zootopia

Erin winced as she tugged on the sheet of plywood; only a few minutes ago, this would have been an easy task. Now, with a shoulder halfway out of commission, it was a labor of Harecules.

She tried a different method, pushing instead of pulling. That seemed to turn the trick; the plywood sheet finally cleaved away from the others in the stack. For a second or two it stood in a vertical wobble, wavering back and forth as if trying to make up its mind. And then, with a rush of musty air and a dry, slapping noise, it toppled to the ground.

But it hadn't fallen straight, would it work? Yes, the hole was covered, but she had missed one of the traffic cones. She scrambled around the edge of the sheet, and kicked it away into the shadows.

For a long moment she remained where she was, letting her breathing return to normal—and then straightened up suddenly with her nose twitching and her right foot trying to thump.

Someone was behind her.

With the slow, clockwork movements of a wind-up ballerina, Erin turned to see who was there. The only thing visible was a slash of orange, deep within the entrance to the courtyard.

But that was all she needed to see to know who was there

Forcing herself to move, Erin took several steps towards him, peering closely with a twitching nose, as if unsure of what her eyes were telling her. Anyone watching would have thought it was exactly the wrong move.

And maybe it was—but she needed him close behind her if this was going to work.

"Nowhere to run, Hopps," Craig Guilford's snarl was a mixture of gravel and acid as he strolled into the moonlight.

Erin gasped and took a step backwards. Her voice trembled as she spoke, and it wasn't an act. "Craig…please…I didn't do anything. You know I never snitched on you. Please…let me…"

He didn't seem to hear her.

"Bunnies," he growled, taking another step in her direction "Always stupid bunnies." His eyes were crazed, and his mouth was feral, twitching over exposed fangs, "You're all alike…ALL of you!"

Another step for him…and two more steps for Erin; more than anything she wanted to turn and run for her life—but not yet, not yet.

"Wait'll he's down on all fours."

"No," she whimpered, raising her paws, "stay away from me, leave me alone." Once again, she wasn't playacting. It occurred to her then that this was the same gambit she'd pulled on him back in the youth jail. Could it possibly work again?

Craig's lips pulled all the way open and into a sick, fiery grin.

"Yeah…I'll leave you alone," he snarled, and then dropped to all fours and charged.

Erin spun on her heel and ran. She too began to drop to all fours, but then remembered she couldn't…not with a bad shoulder. Ohhh, why hadn't she…? Run, rabbit, RUN!

She ran for all she was worth, felt the edge of the plywood beneath her feet, felt the wood starting to bounce as she sprinted across it. Oh no…Craig would feel it too; he wouldn't be….

Yes he was, he was right behind her…but much too close; he was almost on top of her. A paw grabbed at her arm, missed and fell away, but he wouldn't miss a second time. He…

That was when she finally heard it, the plywood starting to crack and splinter, thick enough to withstand the weight of a bunny, but not a coyote—much less a bunny and a coyote.

Erin crouched and leaped with everything she had left, landing easily on the other side of the plywood...just in time to hear a yelp of fury, coming from behind her. "YOU DURTY, BACKSTABBIN' LIL…!"

That was as far as Craig got before the plywood gave way completely. With a noise like an elephant stepping on a ginormous bag of potato chips, he was dropped head-over heels into the sinkhole.

Erin stood there for a moment, breathing hard and clasping her injured shoulder.

Then she moved, cautiously, to the edge of the pit. She knew she shouldn't but…

Two paws snatched hard at the lip of the hole and fell away with a growl.

Erin stumbled backwards and almost tripped. She saw Craig try to climb out again, a better grip, but still not enough, and he slipped away once more.

But that was still a lot further than he should have been able to get. The hole wasn't that deep after all…and fueled by his rage, the vengeful young coyote wasn't giving up. On his next attempt, he almost got an elbow on the rim. She had to do something…but what? If he managed to get out of there, she'd never be able to… Wait, that dumpster over there; it looked like it was on rollers…was it?

She hurried over; yes it was. But was it chained up or anything? No, it wasn't. Okay, how full was it? About a third…

"Shut up and get shoving, you dumb bunny!"

Erin braced her good shoulder against the dumpster and pushed. It refused to budge, and she tried again. It rocked on its wheels a little, but that was all. She dug in with her feet and gave it a third shot. She got maybe an inch of movement this time, but that was all. Ohhhh, if only her shoulder wasn't hurting; if only she wasn't so tired.

"Come on!" she cried and tried again; still nothing. "COME ONNNNN!" she screamed…and the dumpster began to move—at a snail's pace, but rapidly picking up speed as it rolled in the direction of the pit.

But, what about Craig; was he still…? Erin chanced a look around the edge of the dumpster.

He was halfway out of the sinkhole.

"Oh no, you don't!" She pushed harder… saw his eyes widen, watched him drop back into the pit—YES—just as the front wheels of the dumpster went over the lip. And then it tilted and began to slide downwards.

…TOO far downwards. Noooo, wait, it wasn't supposed to go all the way into the hole. She didn't want to hurt Craig, only to…

Her thoughts end in a whoosh of relief as the dumpster caught against the far side of the sinkhole, coming to rest in the upward tilt of a sinking ship. But it had still gone in much further than she'd planned. Was Craig all right in there?

The answer came in a torrent of abuse.

"YOU STINKING LITTLE CARROT-HEAD, I'M GONNA KILL YOU, Y' HEAR ME? YOU'RE DEAD MEAT, BUNNY…YOU TOO, FOX!"

Erin stepped back in surprise, ears up and nose twitching. Fox…what fox? Who the heck was he…talking…to…?

She turned and looked left…and there was Conor. So that was how she'd been able to move the dump…ster…

With a wrenching cry, Erin launched herself at the surprised young silver-fox, clawing and kicking and wanting him to go away forever. At first he was able to fend her off easily, but then she caught him by surprise, throwing her good arm around him and burying her face in his chest…sobbing and shivering and completely unable to stop.

"Ssss, take it easy bunny-girl; it's okay," Conor's voice was soothing as he held her, "Don't hold it back, just let go. It's only gonna hurt a whole bunch more if you try to keep it inside. Yeah, that's it." She felt his paw begin to stroke the back of her neck, and heard his voice soften to a whisper. "Hey-y-y, what're all the tears for anyway, huh? You GOT him, Erin. You did good, you did real good."

She only pulled herself closer and cried harder.

Until somewhere in the distance, a roar like the crack of doom rent the air.

Erin turned to look and so did Conor. Away, out over the rooftops, a colossal fireball was billowing up into the sky, orange on black, the color of Halloween.

The two of them watched for a second with trembling ears and a trembling tail. Erin knew how Conor felt because she felt the same way; this poor, battered city…and why, WHY?

But then the fireball was gone and the spell was broken. She saw the young fox move away from her and now, for the first time, she saw the moto-bike propped against the wall behind him.

And then he held out a paw in her direction.

"C'mon, we need to get off the street. I know a place."

Chapter 35: The Children's Crusade (Cont'd...Part 5)

Summary:

Truth and consequences

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 6—The Children's Crusade
(Continued…Part 5)

I want to go home
Take off this uniform and leave the show
And I'm waiting in this cell because I have to know
Have I been guilty all this time?

Pink Floyd – Stop

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Monday, 04;30, Unknown location, Savanna Central, Zootopia

When the door opened, Erin nearly jumped clear out of her seat. But of course, it wasn't Craig…it was only Conor.

"Okay, I got the bike put away," he said, closing it behind him.

She didn't know how to respond at first; her mind was a whirlwind of questions. Where had he stowed that bike? It couldn't be too far away from here, he'd only been gone for like twenty minutes. And what the heck was that thing; she'd never seen a ride quite like it…or sat on one. Dang, but that bike was fast, something made even more unnerving by the fact that it was virtually silent. And what the heck was in that backpack slung over his shoulders—and in that holster clipped to his belt? Was that a…gun? And how the heck had he found her—especially in his current state. Check out the brace propping up his knee; it looked like a reject from a junk pile. And why did he keep clutching at his side like that? Was it her imagination, or was he having trouble breathing? Nearly a minute passed before she was finally able to decide upon which of so many questions to ask first.

"Conor…where ARE we?" She was seated in a wing-chair, inside of an office somewhere; high ceiling, wood-paneled walls, lights mounted on overhead fans; fans that turned lazily at the flick of the switch. All of the furniture had been shrouded in drop-cloth when they'd entered; most of it still was. The coverings they'd removed had revealed an antique coffee-table with legs carved to resemble mangrove trees, and chairs of similar vintage, a mite too large for her, but just right for him. Well, wherever this was, it wasn't part of any recent construction; the staleness of the air in here easily belied that notion…but again, where was this place?

The path to get here was still a blur; dark streets, darkened alleyways, and then even darker passageways, followed by a labyrinth of corridors that had ultimately led them through a low-ceilinged room filled with row upon row of hydroponic planter tanks. Most were empty, but some had contained various types of plants and shrubs, sprouting beneath greenish-amber grow-lights. Nearly all of their species had been unknown to the white-furred young doe-bunny, never mind that she came from a horticultural background. There had, however, been one very large exception to that rule; a row of healthy-looking Nighthowler blossoms.

"We're in the Natural History Museum," Conor told her, setting down a grocery bag on the tabletop, "Specifically, the office of Dr. Grant Simovic, beech marten, assistant curator of botanical specimens, currently on a plant-gathering expedition somewhere in Boarneo."

Erin stared at him with her nose twitching. "Wha…? How do you know all this; what, did you hack his computer?"

"No," he replied coolly, regarding her with a jaundiced eye, "It's all right there on the Natural History Museum's website…for anyone to see."

He reached into the grocery bag and pulled out two cans of soda, one of which he slid across the table to her. She was only barely able to restrain herself from pouncing on it. When he followed up with a pair of cello-wrapped sandwiches, all pretense of self-discipline went out the window. The heck with how she looked; she was hungry!

"Where the heck did you get these?" she asked, before snatching up a sandwich and tearing away the wrapper with her teeth.

"From the commissary upstairs," he answered, opening his sandwich with a wee bit more decorum than she had, "They got vending machines up there."

"Ohhph, I sphee," Erin spoke through a mouthful of her own meal. Sprouts and Cucumber sandwich; not the best she'd ever had but right now she didn't care.

Conor, meanwhile, had his own sandwich unwrapped, but instead of taking a bite, he looked down and away from her, drumming his fingers on his knee. Then he sagged a little and shook his head.

"So…whaddaya think, am I an idiot, or what?"

Erin's eyebrows went up and so did her ears. He had luckily caught her between bites. "An…idiot, wh-what the heck are you talking about?" If there was ONE problem this silver fox kid didn't have, it was a lack of intelligence.

"You know what I mean, Snowdrop," he said, turning towards her with a tight-lipped expression, "Running off to your rescue like that…when you already had it covered."

There was something rather endearing about the way he'd said that, but she wasn't about to let it show. He still had a lot to answer for.

Just the same…he hadn't been quite right in his self-assessment. And so she set down her sandwich on the table for a moment.

"Conor, I didn't need you to come and rescue me, but I did need you to help me move that dumpster, and…" She fidgeted uncomfortably for a second, "and then after, when I…ummm…" More fidgeting and then a change of subject, "And I would have had no idea what to do next if I'd been on my own. For sure, I wouldn't have known to come here." She waved a paw around the room. "Uhm, is this really the Natural History Museum? I went there a couple of times with Judy and my folks…and I don't remember anything like this."

A foxy smile stretched out along his muzzle, "Go ahead and finish that," he said, pointing to her sandwich, "I'll explain while we're eating."

Erin grabbed for her food as if it were the last morsel on the face of the earth. Conor did the same, but in a much more leisurely fashion.

"The Natural History Museum's actually a lot bigger than most mammals realize, bunny girl; what they keep on public display makes up only like 7 percent of everything they got. There's supposed to be crates down in the basement—some of 'em more than 200 years old—that have never been opened. That's how big their collection is, and that's only what's here in the central museum. There's like tons more stuff, out in the annexes."

"Annexes?" Erin was staring with her nose twitching again.

"Yep." The young fox nodded. "After Zootopia was divided into separate eco-zones, someone—Dr. Lionheart I think—got the idea to transfer some of the more easily damaged stuff to…uh, how'd that go again…? Oh yeah, 'to more suitable climes.' And then that's what they did; they moved the tropical plant collection to the Rainforest District; the mummies, the old documents, and whatever else needed to stay dry got sent over to Sahara Square, and of course the stuff that needed to be kept cold ended up in Tundratown."

"Howf foo you…?" Erin swallowed and took a swig of soda then repeated her earlier question. "How do you know all this?" She could feel her nose twitching.

Conor only shrugged. "Field trip, back in the sixth grade; got an A on my report that I wrote."

"Okay-y-y," she asked, drawing out the word and eyeing him warily, "But how did you know to come here?"

"Well-l-l-l," the young silver fox replied, perhaps mimicking her and perhaps not, "These days, it kind of behooves me to keep a few good hidey-holes handy."

"Oh," Erin took a quick bite of her sandwich, feeling very small for a moment. She had almost forgotten that the silver fox sitting opposite her was a wanted fugitive.

And that reminded her of something else; she beckoned with a finger, "C'mere a second?"

Conor tilted his head and then set down his drink, leaning towards her with a curious expression. "Uhm, okay Erin, what…?

She slapped him hard across the muzzle, "THAT'S for what you did to my sister Judy!" and then braced herself for the inevitable angry comeback.

Except none was forthcoming; he only rubbed his face and shook his head sadly. "Okay, I probably deserved that."

"Probably?!" Her foot was thumping like a compressor-pump. Remorseful response or not, her sense of family honor was anything but satisfied. The NERVE of some mammals!

"All right, yes…I had that coming for sure," the young silver fox admitted, throwing up his paws and still not ready to argue. "For what it's worth Erin, your sister did a pretty darn good number on me, too." He reached down to pat at his makeshift leg-brace, "In case you didn't notice."

For a long second, she hesitated. She had not only taken notice of his leg, but also of the fact that he didn't look too good in general.

All right, but still…

"Conor Lewis, that's no excuse; you attacked HER first!"

Again, she was unable to provoke a hostile response.

"Yeah I know," He said and then rubbed at his cheek where she'd tagged him, "And I'm sorry for that Erin, really I am." His gaze shifted sideways, as if the walls had become transparent and he was able to see everything taking place in Savanna Central Plaza. And then his head sagged and his voice became an airy murmur. "For that and for everything else that went south after I showed up at your audition; it's my fault Erin, all my fault."

She thumped her foot again, louder.

"Your fault!" she bristled, "What do you mean, your fault? I'M the one who started that riot!"

"Which never would have happened, if it hadn't been for the kids I invited to be there," NOW he was up for a quarrel, halfway out of his seat with his ears flattening.

Erin stood up as well, clenching her fists.

"Do you tell them to lose it if someone got busted? It's not your fault, it's mine."

"Like HECK it is!" Conor smacked the table with his pawlm. "If I'd only stayed away from that amphitheater, none of this would have happened."

"And then I never would have made it out onto that stage," the young doe bunny reminded him with an ice-cold glare.

He glared at her right back

"Yes, you would have. Tuff Guy Tufts only made you go on last coz he wanted to keep ME hanging around."

Erin blinked and reeled back slightly. "What, you know about that?" For the first time since the argument started, she'd been caught off-guard.

"Yeah, I know about that!" he snarled, and at once she realized he wasn't angry at her, as much as at the squirrel.

That was all it took to get her right back into a fine, high dudgeon.

"No, I wouldn't have. Even if you hadn't shown up, it wouldn't have made any difference, not as long as…Tuffy, or whoever, thought you were going to be there."

There…that was unarguable.

Not quite; Conor waved his paw as if wiping a window.

"Then I should have made sure he KNEW I wasn't coming. It's my fault, Snowdrop."

"No way, charcoal-boy, it's MY fault." She was all the way up on her feet now, and leaning in close, so angry that she'd nearly forgotten about her injured shoulder.

Conor also seemed to have forgotten about his injuries.

"Get real, rabbit; it's my fault!"

"Says you, fox; it's my fault!

"It's my fault!"

"It's my fault!"

"It's MY fault!"

"It's MY fault!"

They were screaming in each other's faces now.

"DUMB BUNNY, IT'S MY FAULT!"

"IT'S MY FAULT, YOU STUPID FOX!"

"Okay, okay-y-yyy," Conor fell back in his seat and threw up his paws, "Have it your way, it was my fault."

Erin rolled her eyes and groaned. What the heck did he think this was; a cartoon or something? She threw up her paws as well, but in disgust rather than surrender.

Or that is…she tried to.

"Oh, puh-LEE-OWWWWW!" All at once, she was doubled over and clutching at her injured shoulder. Sweet cheez n' crackers, she really had forgotten all about it.

And Conor immediately forgot about his anger.

"Wha… Erin? What's wrong with your shoulder?"

"I'm fine!" she pouted, turning away with her ears laid back. Ohhh, WHY had she ever gotten on that bike with him?

"No, you're not; come here." He got up and took her gently by her good arm, turning her around. She let him, but was barely able to keep from planting another paw in his face.

A moment of close scrutiny followed, during which neither one said a word.

"Don't touch it," she warned, but Conor only hemmed and hawed as he studied her injury more closely.

"Hmmmm….yep, it's dislocated…don't think anything's broken though. The good news is, it'll take like three seconds to fix it once you get to an ER."

"Can you fix it?"

The question was such a curveball, it nearly made him go tripping over his own tail

"Wha…? What, are you dumb AND crazy? That's your shoulder Snowdrop, not a stinking bass guitar."

She only glowered at him. "Fine…can—you—fix—it?"

Conor slapped a paw over his eyes, trying not to gekker. "Erin, listen to me. If anything IS broken…"

"Can YOU…fix it…yes or no?"

"Agggh, Grrrr!" he snatched his can of soda, hurling it across the room in a whirl of spraying foam. "What makes you think I'd even know how to fix it?"

Her ears began to pull back again, but then they stopped and she let her voice soften, "Because I know a thing or two about this kind of hurt myself, Conor. I'm a country-girl, remember? Stuff like this happens all the time down on the farm. So please…can you fix my shoulder?"

By way of response, he fell back in his chair, releasing a long, slow breath up at the ceiling. "That still doesn't…okay, yeah…yes, I know how…but I've never actually done it, and…" he swiveled towards her with hard anxious eyes. "Erin, what I CAN'T do is, be sure whether or not anything's broken." He swallowed and gave her a pleading look. "I could end up making things a whole lot worse; you follow what I'm bringing out?"

She reached out and took hold of his paw. "Wha…? What am I smiling for..?"

"I'll take that chance, Conor."

"Erin, no, I…"

"Hey, let me finish, okay? Back when I was six, I was riding with my father on a tractor when we hit a mudhole and it started to tip over. Dad got me out in time, but he wasn't so lucky himself and it went over on top of him."

"Holy…foxtrot." His voice was a dry gasp.

"Oh it wasn't that bad," Erin said, waving an airy paw, "It could have been…but thank God the ground was so soft. Anyway, when Junior and the others got the tractor off him, the only thing wrong with my dad was a dislocated shoulder."

"Um, okay," her companion's head was tilting again. "But I don't see how…"

"Hang on, I'm getting to that. Dad had someone go get him an aspirin, and then he pointed at his shoulder and said to Junior. 'Son, put this back for me, will you? I can't take any more time off today; I have too much to do.' Long story short, Junior got his shoulder fixed and he went right back to work."

Conor almost interrupted again, but this time, seemed to put a check on himself; that was good, because she still had more to say.

"What happened to my father that day was way worse than what happened to me back there in that cul-de-sac…believe me, I know. But after Junior put his shoulder back, he was fine…no more problems."

"All right," Conor stretched out his legs, glancing upwards again for the barest of seconds. He seemed defeated, but unconvinced. "But why the heck do you need to do this right NOW?"

Now it was her turn to look away, chewing on her lip. Ahhh, he was never going to understand, "Because…I have too much to do to take any time off either." Once again, she braced herself, knowing what was coming; a burst of laughter followed by 'like WHAT?'

But again he surprised her.

"Okay, that makes sense, I guess; I dunno why it makes sense, but..." Puffing out his cheeks, he looked up at her, on board with the idea at last. "All right Erin, you win…but if you've really seen this done before, you KNOW how much it's gonna hurt."

Ohhhh, why did he have to remind her of that? She felt her foot beginning to thump again and had to step on it to make it stop. "I will NOT show any weakness; not in front of him!"

Conor meanwhile was rummaging in his backpack, coming up with a paw-towel and rolling it into an two-inch-thick cylinder,

"What's that for?" Erin asked him.

"For you to bite down on," he said, passing it her way.

She immediately batted it aside. "Conor Lewis, there's nothing shameful about screaming if you're really in pain." There, that ought to show him she was nobody's shrinking violet.

"As Her Highness commands," he growled mockingly, dropping the towel back where he'd gotten it. And then he slipped an arm beneath hers, reaching up to take hold of her dislocated shoulder from the front. At the same time, he took hold of the shoulder from behind with his other paw. "Okay, count of three…ready?"

Erin clenched her teeth. "Do it!"

"Okay…one…two…three!"

He twisted his paws and she felt a stab of pain, but not nearly as much as she'd expected. "Hey that wasn't so…"

He twisted again, harder…much harder, this time using his whole body.

"AAAAAAHHH! AHHH-OWWWWWWWW!"

Oh God…He had warned her it would hurt, but this felt like her arm was being torn out by the roots. She screamed again, then doubled over and began to cry.

Conor leaned over and laid a paw on her. "Sorry…had to do that; it doesn't work if you're all tensed up."

She turned on him with tear-stained eyes, blubbering wetly, "Will you PLEASE stop apologizing to me?"

"Okay, okay," he said, backing off. "The good news is, I'm pretty sure we got it fixed."

This time, she didn't even try to stop her foot from thumping, "Pretty sure?"

His paws went up like a shield. "Hey, hey, hey…I told you I never did this before. And by the way, you're welcome."

"Um yeah, thanks," Erin answered him wanly, rubbing a tentative paw over her shoulder. It felt as if it had gone back in okay…but dangit, why did it have to keep on hurting?

Her discomfort was not lost on the silver fox crouching beside her.

"I got Purrcocet if you want some," he said, pointing to his backpack.

"Purrcocet…what's that?" she asked, nose twitching, and an ear going up..

"Painkiller," he said, "You want one?"

"Oh yes, please!"

He nodded and opened his pack again. A few seconds of rummaging followed, and then he was pressing something into her palm: a pill that could quite easily have been mistaken for a plain, old aspirin tablet.

Erin swallowed it with the remains of her soda…at the same time realizing something. If Conor was feeling the need to carry a supply of painkillers in his backpack, her sister really HAD done a job on him. It brought her one step closer to forgiving him for having drawn first blood.

And while she was on that subject, she crumpled the can and tossed it into a nearby wastebasket. Her companion, meanwhile, had taken his seat again.

"Conor, you don't owe an apology…but I DO think you owe me an explanation."

"About what?" his ears were standing at full attention.

That got her going again.

"What do you mean, about…?"

But he already had his paws up.

"Wait, wait…that didn't come out right; what I mean is, I got a whole bunch of things to explain over here. Where do you want me to start?"

Okay, that was better. Erin sat back in her chair for a second. As far as she was concerned, there was only one proper place for him to begin.

"All right, WHY did you go after Judy first like that?" By now she knew better than to expect a hesitant answer and sure enough, he delivered the goods immediately.

"Because that's how I was trained to fight; it was one of the first things I learned. If your opponent gives you an opening, take it. And forget about all that stuff from the movies or wherever, 'Never throw the first punch, but always throw the last one,' just forget it. In a street-fight, the guy that throws the first punch usually IS the guy that throws the last one."

"So it was all just…tactical?" Erin was staring at him open-mouthed. "But…that was my sister Judy, Conor. How could you do that? You knew her…you liked her, she was your friend. Sweet cheez n' crackers, you saved her life once."

Conor shifted in his chair for a moment; was she starting to get to him?

"That's what happens in a street-fight sometimes…you just start acting on your instincts, and before anyone knows it—Aggggh, grrrrrr!"

He had literally flown out his seat, looking away shamefaced with his muzzle turned downwards at the floor.

Then he lifted it up again, and she saw his back stiffen. "Ahhh, it's no good, I can't do this."

He turned and cast an eye at her over his shoulder, the classic thousand-yard stare. "All right Erin, the truth—but you're not gonna like it; you know I'm living under a fake identity, right? Conor Lewis is NOT the name I was born with."

"Um…yes," she answered, with her nose twitching skittishly. She had known it, but she'd never really thought about it…not until now. "Wh-What's your real name?"

He responded by turning to face her; a pair of fingers planted firmly in the center of his chest.

"My real name is Conor Lewis; that's not just an alias, Erin… it's who I am and who I choose to be. As for my birth name, sorry, can't tell you that…or a lot of other stuff." She would have broken in here, but his paw was already up and ready. "No…don't bother; you don't wanna know my birth name, babe. Trust me, there's a lot about this silver fox that you're better off not knowing."

"All right," she sniffed, wondering why she was feeling teary-eyed again; must be the purr…co…whatever it was she'd taken. "But you haven't told me why you…"

"For the same reason I broke out of jail—even though I had a decent shot at beating the charges against me." His voice had become so flat and icy she could have used it to go skating. "You see, even if I'd won that case, it wouldn't have done me any good." His eyes found hers, and the intensity almost made her want to lay for the door. "The ZPD isn't the only outfit looking to nail my tail Erin. There's someone else besides—and they've got first dibs on me and the power to make it stick." His lip curled upwards, exposing his fangs. "And these are not nice animals, trust me. They wouldn't go easy on me if it was the only way to stop an asteroid from hitting the earth."

"Wh-Who are they?" Erin asked him, the words coming out like worn velveteen. She sounded almost as if she were speaking under hypnosis.

Again, he shook his head.

"Can't tell you that, bunny-girl…but I can show you what kind of mammals these guys are. You see this?" He patted his leg-brace again, "That's diddly compared to what happened to me when…Come here a second?"

She only looked at him with her nose twitching.

"Come on, it's all right," he said, beckoning with a pair of fingers.

Hesitantly, as if she might be sticking her head in an invisible noose, Erin leaned in closer.

"Okay, now look." He turned his head sideways, opening his mouth. And then hooking a finger in the corner of his jaw, he pulled it back and upwards, exposing the full length of his teeth and gums. "You sfee dat?" he said, pointing to the pair of gold teeth, near the back of the lower rim. "C'mon, loof closfer, bunny."

Erin did and saw, for the first time, the ice-white scars branching downwards from the spot.

"I got that, the first day they had me in custody," he said, unhooking his finger again. "These three bigger kids jumped me when I couldn't pay their 'protection fee.' I tried to fight back and I thought I was doing pretty good; but then one of them grabbed me from behind, and-d-d…" his words shuddered to halt, and then he was grimacing with his eyes pinched shut. "And…that's the last thing I remember. Next thing I knew I was waking up in the infirmary with my face all bandaged and in more stinkin' pain than I'd ever had in my life."

Erin could feel her breath getting lighter and lighter as she listened. Good God…was this for real? And …what was that he'd just said; he'd blacked out after one of them had…?

Oh, sweet cheez n' crackers!

"Conor…I-Is that why you lost it when Judy grabbed you from behind?"

"Yes," his voice was quietly matter-of-fact, "Same thing that happened when Nick grabbed me… or when anyone snags me from behind. I think how it works is that whenever anyone does that, it makes me start to remember what happened after that kid grabbed me…and it's such a terrible, stinkin' memory, I can't handle it." His eyes found hers again, earnest and beseeching. "But Erin, that's not what I'm bringing out over here, I didn't get anything close to decent medical treatment after that fight. Heck, they didn't even X-ray me, just gave me some shots and put a cast on my muzzle. And when they took it off again, my face was all crooked…and it stayed that way for a long, long time."

"How did you…?" Erin reached as if to touch it and then pulled back. "How did you…finally get it fixed?"

"Sorry," he shook his head, "That's another thing I can't talk about."

"Huh, why not?" she asked, perhaps a little too stridently—or perhaps there was some skepticism in her voice. The response she got was laid-back ears and an angry snarl

"That DID happen to me, bunny-girl…and it wasn't even the worst thing."

"I didn't say…" she tried to protest, and then yelped as his paw shot out and seized her by the wrist.

"Do you wanna know the worst thing they did?"

Erin grabbed the paw and tried to pull away. "Conor, you're hurting me!"…but he had already let her go.

"Sorry, sorry," again his paws were up and his eyes were closed, head shaking rapidly from side to side, "But I need you to believe me over here. And you need to understand just what the fox will happen to me if those dirtbags ever get their mitts on me again."

"All right," she said, rubbing her wrist and trying to keep her cool, "But the next time you grab ME like that again, I swear to God…I'll turn you in to the police so fast, you'll never know what hit you."

Sweet cheez n'…did she really just threaten to…?

And holy carrot sticks, she'd had no idea his grip was that strong.

"Yeah, okay." He informed her quietly, and then got up out of his chair—with some difficulty, the young doe-bunny couldn't help but note—and then he held out his paw to her again, "Do you wanna know the worst thing they did to us?"

No…Erin didn't want to know that.

But she told him yes anyway, and let him help her up.

And…us? There'd been others besides him?

He led her back outside and into the next room, and…why was he taking her here?

"You know what those are, right?" he said, pointing to the nearest hydroponic tank.

Erin felt her ears go back. Well, DUH! As of two years ago, there wasn't an animal from here to Bunnyburrow who wouldn't know that flower when they saw it.

Her ears went even further back and she thrust out her chin, paws going straight to her hips. "Yes, those are Nighthowlers. SO…?"

"So…watch," he said, and then yanked one of the plants from its pod, breaking it off at the stem.

"Uh, fox…wh-what are you doing?" Erin's foot had started to thump again, only this time not out of any annoyance or frustration.

"Just watch," he said again…and then stuffed the blossom into his mouth and began to chew.

"Conor, NO!" Her scream was even louder than when he'd put her shoulder back. But it had come too late; he had already swallowed most of it. Oh God, no…this was a hundred times worse than Craig. She had to get away from him; quick, before the toxin started to kick in.

She turned and ran…but where could she go? Back to Dr. Simovic's office, it was all she had.

Throwing the door open, she bounded inside and slammed it shut behind her.

Wha…no lock? Why wasn't there a lock…or a deadbolt, or even a doorstop or…?

Someone knocked on the door; they didn't bang or pound on it, only rapped lightly with their knuckles.

"Erin…Open the door, please."

She didn't, but she did stop panicking. What now? Conor didn't sound at all like he'd gone savage; heck, he didn't even sound angry. He sounded…almost kind of sad. And why was he asking her to open up when he could just as easily…?

"Open the door?" his voice came again; and this time she complied. And then there he was, looking just plain weary.

"That's right bunny-girl, no effect…nada." He stepped back inside the office and closed the door, "and just so you know that WAS Nighthowler…" He handed her the stem from the plant he'd taken. Halfway down the length was a tag, reading, 'Midnicampum Holicithias. Caution: Psychotropic Properties–Do Not Ingest.'

"But…But how?" Erin was staring slack jawed, as if he'd just appeared in a puff of smoke.

Conor flopped down in his chair again, spreading himself out like a blanket. "Kinda self-evident, isn't it? I'm immune, Erin…completely immune to both Nighthowler and Morningmew. You could shoot me full of either one of those bad boys—and it wouldn't do a thing to me."

Her nose began to twitch again. Morning...mew? What the heck was…? Never mind, she could ask about that later.

"Ummm, yeah…but that's not what I meant, Conor. How did you get to be immune?"

The question seemed to trigger something, deep within the young silver-fox. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, paws clenching and face hardening into a mask of chiseled flint. His voice, when he spoke was like a block of sandstone, being dragged across a rough-cut floor.

"I got this way…by being one of the test subjects they used to develop the stuff."

Erin gasped and almost screamed again.

"What?" her voice seemed to be coming from the bottom of a deep, dark hole, "Someone was…experimenting on you?"

"Not just me," he said, batting at an invisible fly. "And I was one of the lucky ones. Some of the kids…" he frowned and looked at the table top, "No one was ever sure, but…"

"But…How could anyone DO that?" the startled young doe-bunny couldn't believe her ears. Kids…they'd been testing that stuff on KIDS? She didn't want to hear any more; it couldn't be true, could it? No one was ever that cruel. And yet…those scars on Conor's jawbone were real enough. And so was the Nighthowler he had just eaten—without suffering any ill effects.

"It's something a lot of folks don't think about, Erin. There's no other way to test new drugs except on volunteer mammals. One thing is to offer guys in prison a shorter sentence if they'll agree to let a pharma company use 'em for test subjects. Trouble is, there are never enough mammals like that to go around. That's why a whole heckuva lot of those guys are unwilling volunteers; basically either blackmailed or conned into getting with the program. 'If you agree to help us out with this, you'll get time off your sentence; if you don't, you'll get thump therapy and The Hole.'

"But that's terrible!" The young doe bunny cried out, waving her paws as if trying to ward off a demon, "Forcing someone to do that, even a prison inmate. It's…It's…" She was unable to find the words.

"Well what the heck else are we supposed to do, Snowdrop?" the silver fox in the chair opposite asked her, his face split by a sneer of contempt. "Without bodies to test them on, how are we supposed to come up with any new lifesaving drugs? It's not like there's a lotta dumb animals out there we can use. Nope, it's either sentient mammals or nothing." His look became as penetrating as a diamond drill, "Is that what you want, bunny? Let a whole bunch of good mammals die, because we're worried about a few bad ones?"

"WHAT?!" Erin was halfway out of her seat before she realized something; he was playing the Devil's advocate, a fact confirmed by the next thing he said.

"That's the argument, bunny-girl. I must have heard it a hundred times…and it always manages to shut folks up." He slapped his paw down on the tabletop, "That is, the ones who've never been there, done that." He growled bitterly for a second, and then looked at her again. "You want to know why I attacked first when your sister Judy caught up with me? That's why; I'll do anything to keep those lowlifes from getting hold of me again. I'll DIE before I let that happen." His voice became softer, but his eyes did not. "And if I ever get caught—by the ZPD or anybody else—trust me, it will happen."

Erin could only gape at him. She didn't want to believe it, but she did. What would she do if…?

Waiiiit, hold it, hang on a second; there was a little bit of a hole that story…no, make that a great, big, yawning hole; big enough to drive a train though. She felt her ears go back and heard her foot starting to thump again—and this time it was because she was aggravated.

"Just a minute, charcoal-boy…if you're so scared of getting caught, what the heck were you doing running errands for the Phantom?"

Conor groaned and planted a pawlm in his face. "Ohhh foxtrot, not HIM again," He whipped it away revealing amber eyes, burning with frustration. "How many times I gotta say it, huh? The Phantom doesn't exist. He's an urban legend, a tall tale, a boogie-mammal….a story the bankers invented to scare their kids." He seemed to stop and Erin was about to respond, when he began gesturing riotously with his paw. "He's a myth, a fantasy, a fictional character, a creature out of fairy-story, a figment of the imagination. He's fake news; a fable, a fabrication, an illusion. He has no physical form, no true identity and no distinguishing characteristics. Any similarity between The Phantom and any actual mammals, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. He was created entirely out of thin air; non-corporeal, not real, and wholly non-existent. THERE…IS…NO…PHANTOM!"

For a moment or two, Erin didn't know whether to laugh or roll her eyes. She did neither; instead responding with a cool wave of her own paw.

"All right, there isn't…but you were still carrying money for a loanshark…"

"We were NOT loansharking!" He was out of his chair again…but she was still in her zone.

"Fine…if you say so. But whatever you were doing, you were practically begging to get busted." Now she was the one making paw gestures, "And why Conor…why risk ending up back in the custody of the mammals who hurt you like that? Did you really think you could get away with it?"

To her considerable surprise, his expression turned lopsided.

"Actually…yes, we did think we could pull it off. But uh, if you wanna know why we started that lending-thing in the first place…well, it's complicated.

Erin gestured at the door ,"I'm not going anywhere."

"Ohhh-kay," Conor flexed his shoulder and rubbed the back of his neck. It reminded her of the preps Judy had made before competing in the Carrot-Days Rabbithon. Holy Carrot sticks; that seemed like another lifetime now.

"First of all, don't ask me where I got the money, coz I'm not saying…."

"Hold on, that was YOUR money?" Erin's eyes had gotten bigger than ever and she'd had no idea that her ears could stand up so straight.

His ears, on the other paw, were lying back again.

"Hey Snowdrop, what did I just say?"

"I didn't ask where you got it," she purred, folding her arms, "But that was your money, right?"

"Okay, yes, it was mine," his voice was breathless with exasperation, "Look, do you wanna hear this or not?"

"Go ahead," she answered, rolling a paw and indicating for him to get on with it.

"THANK you," he said, favoring her with a mocking bow—and then becoming serious again. "I don't know how much you already know about our operation, so I need to ask you something. Did anyone ever tell you exactly how we found our clients?"

"Ahhh," Erin sucked on her lower lip, tapping her index fingers together. "Nooo, but I assume it was something to do with…hacking?"

"Yes it did, BUT…" Conor was lifting his own finger as though to emphasize a point, "Supposedly what we did was hack into the databases of a whole bunch of different banks." He shook his head bitterly, "not true, bunny girl; we never hacked into any bank—only into the home computers of some of the banks' employees.

"Ohhhh, like THAT makes a difference!" Erin groaned sarcastically; her eyes were rolling so far up into her head, she almost felt as if she was going into a trance.

The fox sitting opposite her, on the other paw, only folded his arms and sat back with a smirk…a smirk that lasted for less than half a second.

"As a matter of fact Snowdrop, it does. What if I told you those bums we hacked were running a scam…ripping off innocent animals who were only trying to make a life for themselves?"

His neck hair was up and his fangs were showing; that told Erin he wasn't merely being overly dramatic; he had meant every word he just said.

"Go on," she told him with a quiet nod.

He leaned forward on his knees again. "Here's how it worked. Some member of a maligned species…say, a fox, a hyena, a weasel…" He allowed himself a caustic grin, "...Or a coyote would go pay a visit to their friendly neighborhood bank, looking to get a loan to start their own business. Short version, they'd end up getting turned down." His expression became exceedingly somber, "but never because of their species, of course."

"Of course," Erin echoed, mimicking his expression—which immediately went from mockingly sincere to indignantly sulfurous.

"Okay, now here's where it gets ugly. The guy would go to another bank and get another rejection…and another, and another. But what he wouldn't know was that the bank officers turning down his applications were all in cahoots with each other—working behind the backs of their employers, by the way. They'd run the animal looking for the loan around for a while, and then just when he was about to give up, the guy who'd first turned down his application would call him up again." He held up a fist to the side of his face, thumb and little finger extended in the classic phone-call pantomime, "'Hey buddy….great news; I think we can swing you that loan after all.' The mark would be so happy to finally get his loan approved, he wouldn't notice that the payments were gonna go through the roof after the first few months…or that the bank had the right to foreclose if he went short on even a single payment—and 90% of the time that was exactly what happened. The bank would take possession of the guy's business and put it up for auction. And then guess who'd end up buying it for like pennies on the dollar?"

"Um…the bank officer who approved the loan?" Erin felt not a little foolish for asking. It was one of those questions with an obvious answer.

Not quite; Conor immediately shook his head. "Nope, not him; too obvious…he'd get his cut under the table, but it was one of his buds in the scheme that'd always make the buy. And then afterwards, one of two things would happen; either they'd sell the business at a profit and divvy up the proceeds or else, if the place looked like it had the potential to become a serious earner, they'd hang on to it." He was getting angrier and angrier as he spoke, ears laid back against his neck and his fur standing out like sea urchin spines. "And meanwhile, the poor guy who'd broken his tail to make that business work would end up with nothing but a pawful of air."

Okay, that was just much too much for a young doe bunny to handle.

"But…how could they get away with something like that?" she cried Just when she was starting to cope with what he'd told her about his immunity to Nighthowler…Ka-BOOM, here came another bombshell.

Conor laced his finger behind his neck and leaned backwards a little.

"They could get away with it bunny-girl," he informed her icily, "Because, except for the conspiracy part, it was all perfectly legal. There's no law, says you can't make that kind of a loan to a business…only to an individual." Erin started to respond, but he was already there ahead of her. "But that's getting off topic here; you wanted to know how I got involved with The…with this loan thing. Well, that's where my partner comes in. He was the one who first put me on to that scam. So what we did was hack into the home computers of the jerks running it, see who they had lined up as their next marks, and then we'd beat 'em to the punch. We'd get hold of one of the guys on that list and then WE'D offer to loan him the money. It took a while; the first few times, nobody wanted anything to do with us. We got the door slammed in our face, so to speak, a whole bunch of times before we finally found any takers. But once that happened, and the word got around that we were legit, we had mammals jumping over fences at our offer. We never got turned down after that…not even once." There was an unmistakable note of pride in his voice…but Erin wasn't buying it.

"If you're expecting me to be impressed fox-box, don't bother. Whatever else you were up to, you were still running a loanshark racket."

That got him out of his chair right quick.

"Lemme say it again, Snowdrop: no…we…WEREN'T!"

"Ohhhh, I see," she sat back and clapped her paws together. "You just lent all that money out of the goodness of your heart."

He leaned forward until he was almost looming over her. "Lemme tell you something, rabbit. Wanna know how much interest we charged on those loans? Zero, nada, zippity-do-dah; we took a flat fee of a thousand smackers on every deal we made, regardless of how much money we lent out."

Okay…THAT made her jaw fall into her lap, much to the satisfaction of the young silver fox in the other chair.

But then he got serious again.

"You were right about one thing though, Erin. It wasn't out of the goodness of our hearts that we lent out that money, not at first anyway." He looked away for a second; when he looked at her again his jaw was jutting defiantly. "Okay…the first loans we made were a money laundering thing. That cash I told you about—and I'm still not gonna tell you where I got it—needed to be cleaned up before I could spend it. That's why we made those first few loans."

"But…then you kept on lending money, why?" She had caught the words 'early' and 'first.'

He only smiled.

"Awwww you know why, Erin…you've seen it for yourself, back home in Bunnyburrow. We both have."

"What, now?" She knew better than to ask any further, because he wasn't going to tell her. She could either figure it out for herself or go home.

Hmmm, something they'd both seen? Okay, when had they both….? Wait a minute…now she remembered; the argument she'd had with her girlfriends that one time…about the Phantom. Even now it was almost impossible to believe, but…new business, check; maligned species, check…they'd both been there, DOUBLE check! There could be no doubt…and yet she still had to ask him.

"C-Conor," She was almost stammering, "did…YOU lend my friend Terri's stepdad the money he used to start Trask Whitewater Expeditions?"

To her great surprise…he was even more surprised, reeling back in his chair as if he'd just been caught a dodge ball the hard way.

"What the…? How did you ever…? Uh yeah, Erin, that's right, we did; the only time we went outside the city limits. But, uhhhh…" His face had become foxy sly, "But that isn't who I meant, bunny girl. I was talking about Gideon Grey."

"Gideon…Grey?" Erin drew the name out slowly as if it was one she barely remembered. "What do you mean, Gideon Grey? He wasn't one of your…uh, clients."

He smiled again, but this time it warmed her like a sun-lamp.

"No…he was your client; excuse me, your mom and dad's cli…"

"Partner!" she snapped, cutting him off at the pass. "He was their partner." Calling Gideon a client made it sound like her folks had him by the puppet-strings or something.

"Partner, client, whatever," Conor shrugged and flipped a paw. "What matters here is that he was the last guy most mammals would have taken a chance on; not only a fox, but a fox with a record. And that goes double for your folks, Erin; look at what went down between him and your sister Judy, back when they were kids. And yet, even with that kind of baggage, your mom and dad still went in with him on that bakery biz…and look how nice it all turned out—for everybody." Without warning his smile vanished, replaced by an expression that seemed to bring a chill to the air. "But where do you suppose he'd be right now if, instead of your folks helping him get a leg up, he'd gotten ripped off by those banker-bums? He'd prolly be right back in the slam again."

"Ohhhff!" His words were like a punch to Erin's gut and she grunted and almost doubled over. That was exactly what would have happened…no question about it.

"Right, I think you're getting it now," he winked and cocked a finger in her direction. "Your parents did a great thing, Erin…a really great thing. I only wish I coulda told them so when I met 'em. If only there were more mammals like them around, willing to offer a chance to a maligned species, I wouldn't have needed to lend out that money."

"Uhm…thanks," the young doe bunny answered, fidgeting and looking away; and then here came that heat in her ears and cheeks again, what the HECK?

Conor nodded and then went on.

"So now you know why I kept going with that loan operation, even knowing the risks. Every one of our clients—I mean every single one of 'em—ended up owning a successful business." He sat back in his chair again, rubbing the bridge of his muzzle; he seemed to be feeling almost as uneasy as her. "But… I didn't do that out of the goodness of my heart either. There were…other reasons."

"Such as?" Erin asked, reminding herself, for the umpty-eighth time, not to take everything he said at face value.

"Well, for starters, trying to get off my guilt-trip." He seemed to have an invisible gun to his head, one that was forcing him to meet her gaze. "I'm not happy with myself over that fight I had with your sister, Erin…but that's nothing compared to some of the other stuff I did, back before I came to Zootopia." His mouth worked for a second while he pulled on his fingers with his other paw. "And that thing I DIDN'T do…after I got here!"

Sweet cheez n' crackers, her ears were going to end up stuck in the vertical position forever if this went on much longer—and was her nose ever going to stop twitching?

"That you didn't…do? Ohhhh….please tell me that isn't something else you can't talk about." If it was, she'd clobber him, and who cared how strong his grip was.

He seemed to sense it and smiled…if for only a fleeting second.

"No, that's one thing I can tell you—you'd probably figure it out for yourself anyway. Remember two years ago, when all those predators started going savage and nobody could figure out why? I knew, Erin…I knew it was Nighthowler the first time I saw it on the news; I knew," he clasped at himself, shivering and seeming to shrink by several inches. "I knew what it was…and I never said a word about it, not to anyone."

For once Erin's black tipped ears stayed where they were and her nose held quietly still. Unexpected revelation or not, it made absolute, perfect sense. "IF he was telling the truth about those scars," her inner voice reminded her.

Well, maybe so, but there was no harm in going with it, yea or nay.

"All right Conor, but why…why would you do that?" She thought she knew but wanted to hear it from him.

He blew a puff of air out the side of his muzzle, at the same time, working his paws.

"There's a lot of answers to that question, bunny. Like…ohhhhh, I thought it was probably Nighthowler, but I couldn't be sure; that's a lie, I was a zillion percent sure. Or…that I knew it was Nighthowler but I didn't know how those preds were getting hold of it. That's the truth, I didn't have a clue; never imagined for a second that anyone might be darting 'em with the stuff. The best I could come up with was that maybe it had gotten into the water supply or something." Seeing her expression, he quickly raised a paw. "Yeah, I know….that's still no excuse for not coming forward. But then, here's the big one; even if I spilled what I knew to the law, no way was anyone gonna believe me." His eyes locked into hers, "And that one was 100% true. After all, how would a kid know something like that? And uhhhh, what's that thing they always say about my species again…something about 'shifty and dishonest?'"

"But…you could have shown them, Conor." Erin didn't want to argue, but couldn't help it. "You could have shown the ZPD that Nighthowler has no effect on you…just like you did with me." He only raised a finger in a 'tut-tut' gesture.

"Ahhhh, not quite, bunny-girl; the ZPD had no idea back then that Nighthowler makes you go savage; even your sister didn't know until your folks told her. If I'd eaten some of that stuff in front of the cops and nothing had happened, it would have proven…well, nothing. I'd have been tossed outta the precinct on my ear—if I was lucky!" He slapped his knees and blew another puff of air, looking flinty all over again. "But, that being said, there is a way I could have convinced them that I knew what I was talking about…only I didn't think of it until after the savage pred thing was over." He clenched a fist and gritted his teeth, "I not only knew it was Nighthowler making those predators go ballistic, I also knew the antidote…I even had a supply of the stuff; still do, as a matter of fact. I could have given some to the ZPD…or maybe figured out a way to get a shot off at one of those savage preds with it. Then they would have had to believe…"

Once again, Erin couldn't keep from interrupting. "Oh come off it, Conor, how the heck were you ever supposed to…?"

"It doesn't matter, bunny-girl!" he was out of his chair and almost shouting again, "Didn't you hear what I said just now, I didn't think of it until after Mayor Bell-whatever went to jail—and for the same reason I dummied up in the first place; I was too stinkin' scared." He fell back into his seat again, looking like a spent cartridge, "scared of being sent back to…" His eyes, his whole body seemed to screw shut—and when he spoke again his voice was a ragged croak, "…that place."

Ohhhh, what was a young doe-bunny to do after hearing something like that? She had always known he wasn't Captain Invincible…but this was a whole new level of vulnerability for him.

She got up and put her arm around the quivering young silver-fox.

"Conor, c'mon and stop that, okay?" She told him gently. "You don't need to go beating yourself up like that; my sister Judy already took care of it."

He made no reply but she could hear the little sniggers and feel his shoulders bobbing. Oh-kay, she was off to a decent start.

"And whatever you did or didn't do, it all worked out in the end. Nobody got killed, Dawn Bellwether went to prison—AND they found the antidote for Nighthowler all by them…"

That was as far as she got before he pushed her away. The guilt and shame had fled from his face, replaced by a more familiar expression; the look he got before telling her that he wasn't going to talk about something.

"You got NO idea…" was all he said…and she knew it was pointless to press him any further.

For many long moments, there was nothing between them but an awkward silence. The only way to break it, Erin knew, was to give him an opening—except she couldn't come up with anything to save her life, dumb bunny.

Except for maybe…well what the heck, it was better than nothing.

"Conor…it couldn't only have been about feeling guilty." Not the smoothest way to break the ice, but good enough—she hoped.

It was; his shoulders squared and he turned to face her, once more wearing that look of proud defiance.

"No Erin, you're right, it wasn't. There's another reason why I got into that lending thing. For as long as I can remember, The System's been sticking it to me." he poked himself in the chest with a thumb. "So this is me, sticking it back! No…you're not gonna cheat this animal, just because he's a mink; no, you're not gonna rip this guy off, just because he's a hyena; not this time. The King John Gang isn't running their stinkin' little shaft on this mammal, not if I got anything to say about it."

"The…WHO?" Okay…now he had her ears reaching for the ceiling—and for crying out loud…AGAIN?

Conor smirked just ever so slightly, and then explained.

"The King John Gang, that's what the guys running that lending scam called themselves—and don't look at me, it was their idea."

"Okay, yes," Erin was thumping her foot in exasperation, "But…how the heck did they ever come up with that name?"

"I know, right?" The corners of the young fox's mouth were going in two different directions. "I couldn't figure it out either, the first time I heard. Anyway, it comes from how King John acquired a lot of his property; it wasn't just taxes, y'know. What he used to do was sell positions with the court to this or that mammal. 'You too can become a sheriff, for only twelve easy payments of…' You get the idea. So then His Majesty would forget to collect on the debt for a while…or pretend to. And then, after the bill got big enough—or if he decided he didn't like you any more—WHAM! He'd send his bailiffs to demand payment; all of it, right now, or else your entire estate was forfeit. It's one of the big reasons his barons made him sign the Magna Carta."

"Gah!" Erin could only shake her head, "How brazen can you get; naming yourselves after THAT greedy jerk?"

"Tell me about it." Conor's growl was both harsh and cynical.

"Hmmmmm," all at once, the young doe-bunny felt a wicked smile unzipping along her face. "You know, I just thought of something. If those bankers were the King John Gang, then I guess that makes you Robin Hood… Alllll riiight, what's so funny?"

He was laughing so intensely it looked as if his chair was about to tip over. It took nearly a minute before he finally began to recover—and then he was giving her the old 'what a dumb bunny' look.

"Robin Hood…a fox? Gimme a break Snowdrop; like anyone would ever believe THAT!"

"Yeah-h-h-h, okayyy…" she sighed, feeling her eyes roll upwards—and her foot, wanting to thump harder than ever.

She just hated it when he was right.

Chapter 36: The Children's Crusade (Cont'd...Part 6)

Summary:

Reminiscenses and reveals

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 6—The Children's Crusade
(Continued…Part 6)

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"Rioting is a childish way of trying to be a man, but it takes time to rise out of the hell of hatred and frustration and accept that to be a man you don't have to riot."
Abraham Maslow

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Monday, 05:47, Zootopia Museum of Natural History, Savanna Central Plaza

"Uh-huh…just like I thought."

Conor was hunched over his prize laptop, propped open on the coffee table before him. Said table was a wee bit low for his species, ditto for the chair in which he was seated. Combined with the surrounding dimness, it gave him the appearance of a monk, working by candlelight, in a scriptorium.

That was Erin Hopps's impression of him at least and now she moved behind the hunkering young silver fox, peering over his shoulder at the screen below.

What she saw required no interpretation. There, on the Zootopia Museum of Natural History Webpage, was a message in big, red text.

DUE TO UNFORESEEN EVENTS, THE MUSEUM WILL REMAIN CLOSED FOR AN INDEFINITE PERIOD OF TIME. WE WILL GIVE NOTICE OF A POSSIBLE REOPENING DATE WHEN WE HAVE MORE INFORMATION.

PATRONS ARE ADVISED TO PLEASE CHECK BACK WITH US PERIODICALLY. THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE.

And below that, in smaller text, another message:

All Museum Fursonell and Employees are advised not to come in to work for the next two days.

All doors and entrances will remain locked for the duration and no access will be granted to any museum fursonell; please do not attempt to retrieve any fursonal items from the premises before that time.

We appreciate your cooperation.

The note concluded with a pair of illegible signatures.

Erin studied it for a second and then took in a breath between her teeth. "If no one else can get in, how are we supposed to get out?" She wondered for a second if the police already knew they were in here.

Conor turned and looked up at her narrowly, as if to say, 'What do you mean 'WE' rabbit?' And then he smiled and flipped a paw, "Ahhh we got IN when the place was supposed to be locked up, right? I wouldn't worry too much about it." But then his mouth stretched downward in a classic fox grimace. "Ahhh, they'll have to let SOMEBODY in before then; a place this big isn't gonna maintain itself." He stroked his muzzle for a second. "We should be okay until dark though."

"Dark?" The young doe bunny's ears were standing up and her nose was twitching feverishly.

"Yeah, dark," her companion answered, pointing to the time signature on the laptop. "Sun's been up for almost 15 minutes now. And I do NOT wanna make any moves in daylight—not unless I have to," he said this, and then added as an afterthought. "Anyway, even if someone does decide to show up, there'll be plenty of warning." His certainty sounded more than a little forced—and Erin had also caught his use of the singular 'I' rather than 'we'.

She knew better than to bring that up, too…and so she turned back to the subject they'd been discussing before he'd brought out the laptop.

"You said you thought you could get away with that loanshaaa—ahhh, lending business. Oh-kayyy, but how?" He had never gone into detail on the subject.

Conor sighed, it seemed to deflate him just a little, and then he turned to face her; rueful, but still able to meet her gaze.

"Well, when you look at our plan on paper, our plan was stinkin' foolproof. Like I said, we weren't hacking into the banks' computers, only some of their employees' home set-ups; way easier to get into without being spotted than a bank's database. And even if those King John jerks had managed to figure out we'd hacked 'em—which, believe me, they weren't going to—what were they gonna do, call the cops? Yeah, right…" He made that thumb-and-little finger gesture again. "'Hello, ZPD? This is Potter Sleezeball from the King John Gang. Yes, well…some lowlife hacked into our ripoff scheme. Can you send somebody over right away? Oh, good; thank you.'"

He pretended to disconnect, while Erin curled up into a fit of giggles.

The fox in the chair facing her didn't seem to think it was all that funny. If anything his outlook had change from biting to bitter.

"Yeah, yeah…the perfect setup. But there was just one, teeny-weeny little thing we forgot about, bunny girl—Wells Furgo."

Erin wanted to groan; there he went, talking in riddles again—and there went her nose and ears…again. "Wells…Furgo. That's another bank right?" They didn't have any branches in Bunnyburrow, but she seemed to recall hearing something about that particular institution on the news. When was that, a year ago?

In point of fact, it was two years…as Conor now swiftly confirmed.

"Yep that's right. Coupla years back, they got socked with a $3 Billion Smacker fine; the biggest penalty ever laid on a bank…up until then, that is."

"Whoa," Erin felt her ears stand up again; okay, that was impressive. "What'd they do?"

"Nothing…not the guys in charge anyway," Conor was waving a finger, "It was a group of employees, scheming behind their bosses' backs, same as the King John Gang. What they did was open a truckload of savings and credit card accounts for a whole bunch of different mammals—without their knowledge or consent. I'm not exactly sure how it worked, but it cost a lot of honest mammals a lot of money."

"Okay," Erin nodded, still slightly confused, "but if Wells Furgo's employees were running that scam behind their back, why did they end up getting fined?"

Her fox-companion's demeanor became almost scholarly for a moment.

"Because of something called due diligence; basically, it means that if you hire a guy, you're responsible for keeping an eye on his activities. I forget the exact details, but it doesn't matter. The important thing is, THAT'S what caused our lending business to go south on us—and here's how it happened. One of the guys in the King John Gang got greedy and started skimming off some of the businesses they'd grabbed. When his partners found out, they tried to put out a contract on him." He paused for a second, sniggering and grinning sardonically. "Like THESE jerks were ever gonna pull that off! Total amateurs, buncha soft-pawed suits; they had no idea what they were doing. The first guys they hired to do the job just took the money and split." He growled and turned serious again. "But then it really hit the stinkin' fan. The bum they'd tried to have whacked found out about the contract and just totally lost it. He went running to the bank president and told him everything, gave up every other member of the gang…anything to save his own tail."

"Wha…?" Erin was more confused than ever, "Why didn't he go to the police?"

For once, Conor was every bit as puzzled as her. "Your guess is as good as mine, bunny-girl. But what happened next was this; the bank prez went into a huddle with the other boss bankers that had guys in the King John Gang…and they decided that what happened to Wells Furgo was NOT gonna happen to them. To make a long story short, they stonewalled it. They fired the King John guys of course, but didn't turn 'em over to the law—with the understanding that the ONLY way they weren't going to jail was if they kept their mouths shut. Then they had all of the gang member's computers, tablets, and cell-phones confiscated—whether or not they were company issue. Anything that might have had data relating to that lending scam got taken, and you better not complain if you don't wanna spend the next ten years in the slam." He sighed and pounded lightly on the chair arm. "And that was when our troubles started; the banks' cyber-security guys were way sharper than the King John Gang. It took 'em less than a day to figure out those machines had been hacked—and when the bosses got the word, they had the mother of all freak-outs."

"No kidding," This time, Erin didn't need to be enlightened. "Bad enough for them if the law managed to get wind of the King John Gang—but if it came out that they'd had known about those jerks and covered it up…whoa, they'd really be up the creek."

"Without a paddle OR a canoe," Conor grinned again and cocked a finger; he seemed pleased that she had figured it out on her own. But then his expression hardened once more. "So, basically the next thing they did was double down. They whitewashed the files from the King John guys' computers, deleted every reference to that loan-scam, and then uploaded 'em into their databases and had the original machines destroyed. And then they called the cops. 'Help, police, we've been hacked!' I-I think you can guess how that worked out, Erin."

Yes, she could…and it had ultimately led them both to this office in the bowels of the Natural History Museum. However, there were still one or two gaps in the narrative that needed to be filled in.

"Why didn't you just quit when you found out?"

Conor sighed and then yawned. He'd been up since 1:00 AM, and was beginning to look the part. (Come to think of it, she'd had even less sleep than him.)

"Because we didn't find out until AFTER I got busted." He regarded the floor, looking disgusted with himself. "Like I just said, those banker-guys were a lot smarter than the jerks in the King John Gang. They kept all their communications with the ZPD and the Attorney General off line; handled everything face-to-face." He pretended to throw an invisible stone. "Believe me Erin, if we'd known what they were up to, we'd have let that Ian Shortal guy keep the rest of his money. As it is, he was gonna be our last client anyway; once we were done with him, no more loans.

Erin almost asked him why, but instead opted to once again flex her powers of deduction.

"Let me guess; you didn't know the bankers were talking to the ZPD, but you did know that they'd shut down the King John Gang; am I right?"

"Yep, exactly that," Conor almost smiled, "There went our source of potential borrowers, so after we were done with Mr. Shortal, there was no point in carrying on any more." His head tilted and his amber eyes narrowed slightly; and then he cocked a finger. "And now let me make a guess. Your next question was going to be, why didn't we blow the whistle on those banker bums, right? Yeah-h-h, I thought so, and the answer to that is another question. Who you gonna believe over here, John Q. Banker, Mister All-Around Fine Upstanding Citizen—or some fox-punk hacker with the cops already looking for him?"

There was no trace of irony in his voice, no animosity…but Erin felt as if she'd taken another hit to the gut.

Maybe so, but it didn't stop her from picking up the thread.

"And you couldn't have done it anyway, not without giving yourself away to, uh…that other uh, outfit, looking for you."

This time, the silver-fox in the other chair was unable to keep from a genuine smile.

"Hey, smart bunny over here. Right again Erin, and the part that really bugs me is that siccing the cops on us was completely unnecessary. After I made that final pickup, those banker guys were never gonna hear from me—or my partner—ever again. For sure we weren't planning to try and blackmail anybody." He let out a combination of a grumble and a weary sigh. "I think that's what scared those suits more than anything else. Wasn't gonna happen, though—we were done; outta there. If I'd managed to make that pick up at the beach without being spotted, the ZPD wouldn't have heard from me again either."

Erin watched him for a second with her nose twitching. Did he sound proud…or frustrated? Or was it a mixture of both? But now the question that had been germinating in her mind ever since their arrival here was sprouting through to the surface. Ohhh, she was going to have to handle this as carefully as if she were tip-toeing through a minefield, toting a jug of nitroglycerine.

"Conor…I know you didn't do it, but I need to hear you say it. Please tell me you had nothing to do with that cyberattack last night."

She expected anger at worst, a terse understanding at best. What she never expected was a bait and switch.

"Yeah, Snowdrop….as matter of fact I did." And then, just before her paws were able to reach her mouth, he added, with a wink, "Me and my partner were the ones that stopped it."

Ooooo…she almost slapped him again, but then realized something. If he really had helped put an end to that cyberattack…well, then he had every right to take offense at her question. Except…just a carrot-pickin' minute!

"Wait a minute, what did you do?"

"Uploaded a kill code to the servers," he said. He was trying to sound flippant, but there was a nervous undercurrent to his voice—as if he was feeling guilty for that little flim-flam just now. "It's standard procedure in shutting down a cyberattack. Soon as we took those bad-boys off line, the system reverted to manual, and the cops were able to take control again."

If he was expecting a show of gratitude…or at least a little understanding, he was in for a rude awakening. If that was true, then it also meant…

"WHAT? You mean, you're the reason I almost got stuck inside that jail with Craig looking for me?"

"Not true." the young doe-bunny's inner voice reminded her archly. The renegade young coyote had somehow managed to make it out ahead of her. In light of that fact, it would have been better if the door had closed before she could get to it.

Erin remembered, but she didn't care. She was tired and sore and needed a punching bag…and Conor was the only thing handy.

He was also feeling not even the slightest bit guilty for his actions…his next words notwithstanding.

"Sorry, bunny-girl but I had to do it. Those hacker-guys were onto me and they were trying to boot my bushy, black tail out of the mainframe." By way of illustration, he held up a thumb and forefinger with barely a sliver of light between them, "They were that close to getting rid of me when I pulled the plug. It was either shut down then, or else watch 'em hit the ZPD with a ransomware attack. That's where…"

"I know what a ransomware attack is!" Erin snapped at him—mostly to cover for her own creeping guilt. Conor had only done what was right and she had no cause to take her near miss out on him—especially since it had been a miss.

She needed a change of subject and she needed it fast. Luckily, he had already given her an opening.

"Okay," she said, "In that case, do you have any idea who the real hacker was?"

"Hackers," he corrected, "My partner's pretty sure there was more than one of them…and the more I think about it, the more I agree with him. There had to be at least two; probably more like three, or maybe even four of those cyberpunks." The disdain in his voice could not have been clearer.

"Okay, fine, more than one hacker," Erin ventured cautiously… as if she was stepping out onto what might or might not be thin ice; he still hadn't answered her question. "Do you have any idea who they were?"

"No," Conor's head-shake was as solid as a monolith and as bitter as old coffee grounds, "I only WISH I did. I'd of doxed those punks so stinkin' fast; they'd be in custody like ten minutes ago."

That was enough to make the young doe-bunny's ears stand up again, albeit this time for a slightly different reason.

"Wha…? I thought you had a problem with snitches."

"I do," Conor admitted, and then brushed it aside like a patch of lint. "But I draw the line at lowlifes that try to hurt other mammals just for kicks—especially the kind that are gonna keep on laying down the hurt, unless they get caught."

Now Erin's ears were really standing tall. "Y-You really think they'll strike again?" It was something she hadn't considered.

The young fox yawned and rubbed the back of his neck. "Not for a while, no…not if they got half a brain between them. But eventually, yeah, they'll hit Zootopia again." He swiveled in his chair to face her. "You understand Erin, this is all strictly a gut feeling…but it's a really, REALLY strong one."

"Uh huh," the young white furred bunny could only nod cautiously. She too had always made a point of trusting her instincts.

Just then, a noise like a hotel's desk-bell went pinging through the office. Erin looked around for an anxious second before realizing it was coming from Conor's laptop. And sweet cheez' n' crackers, what the heck kind of computer WAS that thing? It looked like it could stop .44 magnum slug at point blank range.

"What's that ringing all about, fox?"

He turned and reached for the laptop's track-pad. "Hourly alarm, it just turned straight-up six." He clicked, scrolled, and clicked again. "Let's check in with ZNN and see how bad things are out there."

That was pretty much the last thing Erin wanted to know at this particular moment, but she understood the importance…and, in any case, it couldn't be avoided.

"You'll think there'll be anything about it on the news this early?" Even to her that sounded weak, but Conor only waved a paw.

"After what I saw last night, I'd be surprised if they haven't been running coverage on that cyberattack and/or riot for the last three hours…on EVERY stinkin' cable news channel and newsfeed."

So saying, he moved the cursor and clicked twice, bringing up the ZNN web-page. Just as he had predicted, the cover was devoted entirely to one subject—and the headline was as strident as an air-raid siren:

Night Of Terror In Savanna Central

Directly below the header was a swirling, overhead live-camera feed of Savanna Central Plaza, presumably by way of a news helicopter.

It was enough to bring Erin's paws flying straight up to her face.

"Oh Sweet cheez n'…" Her words ended in a choking sob.

"I know right," Conor muttered grimly, never taking his eyes off the screen.

Savanna Central Plaza looked like a cross between a war zone and an abandoned refugee camp; mounds of trash; heaps of rubble, and scorched earth everywhere. Benches had been pulled up; tram shelters had been pulled down. The trees surrounding the Plaza Pond had been reduced to nothing but charred stumps. The fountain at its center, strangely enough, was still working, sending merry jets of water into the air at ten second intervals, in an ironic counterpoint to the surrounding carnage.

But the most stomach-wrenching thing of all was the burned-out Armored Fursonell Carrier, marooned halfway between the pond and the entrance to Precinct One. There was practically nothing left of the rear section; and what little remained looked…melted?

It was too much even for Conor to handle. "How the heck did they manage THAT?" he gekkered, speaking in a breathless rhetorical gasp, "Those bad boys are supposed to be stinkin' diesel powered!"

Erin wondered how the heck he could have known that, but kept the question to herself. It would be another one of those 'things he couldn't talk about,' she was all but certain of it.

On the screen the overhead view of The Plaza had mercifully vanished, replaced by a pair of ZNN co-anchors, Peter Moosebridge and Fabienne Growley, at the moment engaged in a conversation of some kind…or so it appeared; the sound was currently muted.

Conor quickly corrected that oversight, just in time to hear the snow-leopardess make an announcement.

"For more on that, we go to Zootopia City Councilmember Claudia Nizhang."

The face of a weary-looking red panda appeared on an inset screen behind the two anchor-mammals. Erin had no idea who she was but Conor…

He was sitting up straight staring raptly at the screen with his ears on full alert, and…his lips were moving; what was he saying?

Well, whatever it was, one thing was abundantly clear. He didn't just recognize that red panda, he knew her from somewhere.

Fabienne Growley, meanwhile, was speaking to her.

"Councilmember Nizhang, good morning."

"Good morning Fabienne, Peter," she responded curtly, obviously in no mood for small talk.

"It's a sad day for Zootopia Councilmember," Moosebridge said, making the obligatory generic observation.

"A very sad day," the red panda echoed, adding harshly, "and the day's only just getting started."

"Councilmember," It was Fabienne Growley, "As I understand it, when you served with the Zoo York City Police Department, your area of expertise was cybercrime."

Claudia brushed with her finger at a cheek tuft. "Yes, that's correct,"

"Yes," the snow-leopard regarded her teleprompter for a moment, "We heard just now from ZPD Chief Bogo, saying that he believes Conor Lewis was behind the cyberattack on Precinct-1. For those who don't remember…"

That brought the fox-kid in question flying out of his seat like a bottle rocket. "Wait…WHAT? Where's he get that stuff, the big, stinkin' lummox!"

"Shhhh!" Erin knew it was useless to shush him, but tried anyway; she wanted to hear this.

"What is your take on that?" Fabienne queried, completing the question.

Claudia shifted in her seat before answering.

"While I have only the highest regard for Chief Bogo—I consider him to be an exemplary leader, and an all-around good cop—I must respectfully disagree with him on this point. While whoever carried out this horrendous act may well have been inspired by the actions of young Mr. Lewis, I do not believe that he, himself, had anything to do with it."

"Darn right I didn't," Conor snarled, under his breath.

"Why do you think so, Councilmember?" It was Peter Moosebridge. "According to what the Chief told us, only a few moments ago, young Mister Lewis allegedly threatened the ZPD with," he consulted his earpiece, "'Something you don't want to THINK about' if his demands weren't…"

There was more, but it was cut off by Erin's cry of dismay.

"You DIDN'T…!"

She had jumped back a good two feet, gaping in horror at the silver fox seated in front of her.

He responded by turning towards her again, hugging his elbows as if a chill had just blown through the room. "Ahhh, I may have gotten a-a-a…a little bit carried away there."

"A little bit carried AWAY?" Erin was shaking her head, completely incredulous. "Are you serious, Charcoal Boy? That's like Aaron Purr saying 'Whoops, my aim was just a little bit off.'"

Conor growled and turned back to the laptop screen. "Can we talk about it later? I wanna hear this."

Erin almost reached for the chair to spin him around to face but then stopped when she remembered something. She was standing behind him…and you never wanted to grab this fox-kid from behind.

It turned out to be a wise move in more ways than one; on the screen Claudia was gesturing with a paw.

"That may have been so, but keep in mind that we're more than eleven hours away from that deadline—and three hours away from when the courts open. That's important because securing the release of those four young mammals could only have been accomplished with an order from a magistrate. And Conor Lewis would certainly know that; he made his escape from ZPD Youth Detention using a fake judge's order. That's reason number one why I don't think he did it."

"And…the second reason?" Fabienne Growley's tail was twitching back and forth.

In response Claudia's face turned stone-cold serious.

"You've seen what the inside of the youth jail looked like this morning. You saw those ambulances leaving the Plaza—so you know that cyberattack put a lot of young mammals in jeopardy…including those four whose release the Lewis boy was demanding." She shook her head, "I think a kid smart enough to con his way out of jail like that would also be smart enough to know what could happen to his friends if someone hit Precinct-1 with a cyberattack. Again, with all due respect to Chief Bogo, I do not believe Mr. Lewis was responsible for this."

Chancing a look in the fugitive young silver fox's direction, Erin noted that he looked, 'as smug as a bug in rug,' as her mother might have put it.

In the meantime, Peter Moosebridge had moved on to a different subject.

"Councilmember, if I may; speaking as an expert on cybersecurity, do you have any idea as to how this attack might have been carried out?"

Claudia shifted uneasily in her chair again, while Erin peered closely with a twitching nose, "Cybersecurity…seriously?" That red panda bore about as much resemblance to a computer nerd as a bodyguard does to a ballerina.

"Only one of the best darn cybercops, ever," Conor muttered, seemingly to himself, "That's what Kieran thought, and believe me, it took a lot to impress that…" He stopped abruptly, looking embarrassed and waving a hasty paw, "Never mind, it's not important."

Too late; Erin had already decided that she would mind, because it was important—but not now, when they were done watching the news.

On the laptop screen, Claudia Nizhang was speaking again—this time a little more hesitantly.

"Well, that gets kind of technical Peter…and there's still a lot we don't know. All I can tell you right now is that the attack was very similar to the Buxnet attack of ten years ago…though obviously using more advanced software."

"Buxnet," Fabienne's tail was clocking again. "Wasn't that an attack initiated by the federal government on a nuke facility?"

"Yes," Claudia nodded, "on Iram, to be exact; carried out by the NSA. It was the first known cyberattack aimed specifically at damaging hardware—in this case the centrifuges used to convert Uranium into fissionable material."

"Hang on a second," Peter Moosebridge's snout appeared to be jumping up and down, "Are you suggesting that this attack may have been carried out using classified software?"

Conor rolled his eyes and started to say something derisive, but was cut off by Claudia's response.

"That's not as unusual as it may sound, Peter; and it brings me to the only other thing we know about this cyberattack at the present time. It's almost certain that the ZPD database was breached using a hacking tool developed by the NSA, an application known as EternalZoo. On the screen, behind her a logo appeared; a white infinity sign on a blue field, with the name underneath in Kaiti text.

Erin couldn't help but be a little bit impressed. Those ZNN techs were right on the ball. Conor, on the other paw, seemed thoroughly bored, perhaps even a little nettled.

But then the young doe-bunny felt her heart skip a beat, although she hadn't the slightest inkling as to why. Never mind; on the laptop screen the pair of ZNN anchormammals were bidding farewell to Claudia Nizhang and preparing to go to a commercial break.

Oh-kay-y-y and now back to her regularly scheduled program.

"How is it that you know Councilmember Nizhang, Conor?" She straightened up, curling her fists against her hips, "And don't say 'the same as everyone else', because I heard what you said about her…AND I saw the way you looked when she showed up onscreen just now."

He turned to face her again, narrowing his eyes and cupping one paw on top of the other. "Okay…how about if I say this? That's something else I'm not going to tell you. And don't ask me who Kieran is either; we don't talk about him OR Bruno."

If there'd been something handy within reach, she would have thrown it at him. Dangit, he'd known what she was going to ask next. Snarky, smart-mouth, little so-and-so silver fox!

"Fine, I'll just figure it out for myself," she sniffed.

Conor instantly fell back in his chair, laughing so hard he seemed to have hurt himself, once again clutching his side.

"Really? How you gonna do that, Snowdrop? Crystal ball? Tarot cards? Oh wait I know; a magic mirror, right?

"Laugh while you can Charcoal-Boy," Erin went back to her own chair and let herself fall into it, folding her arms and thrusting her chin upwards at the ceiling. "Okay, I can't figure out who that Kieran animal is…but Claudia Nizhang's a different story." She began to stroke at her muzzle with a finger. "Let's see…you called her a cybercop just now. That means you know her from back when she was a police detective. That was before she came to Zootopia—so it must have been before YOU came to Zootopia, too. And that means you likely came here from the same city as her." She tilted her head and cocked an ear. "How'm I doing so far?"

She must have been doing nicely, because Conor's only response was wide eyes and a wide-open mouth.

Good!

"Nowwww," the young doe-bunny continued with her musings, "What city did she say she was from again? Ahhh, dangit, I can't remember…but it should be easy as heck to—Oh, my God!"

All at once her speculations halted in their tracks. And then she was pointing past the young silver fox with a quivering finger—zeroing in on his laptop. There it was on the taskbar, the thing that had made her heart miss a beat a moment ago, the thing she'd barely noticed at the time. But it sure as heck was getting her attention now…and it was making her heart do backflips.

The icon next to the one for Zoogle Chrome was a blue square set with a white infinity symbol. The text was too small for her to read, but no matter; she knew what it said—and what that thing was.

"Th-That's the icon I saw on TV just now," Erin's finger was shaking like a dead branch in a gale. "That's the Eternal Zoo symbol!" She got up, backing away from the young silver fox as if he was diseased. "You have the EternalZoo app on your computer!"

"Erin…" Conor's face was 3 parts patience to 2 parts exasperation, and 1part exhaustion.

"You LIED to me…you liar!" her finger was aiming at him now, and this time it was rock-steady.

"Erin, listen to me…"

"Did you carry out that cyberattack? You did, didn't you?" The first creeping tendrils of hysteria were beginning to envelop her.

That got his attention for sure.

"NO!" he almost shouted, rising from his chair, "I just told you I…"

But she had already turned to flee. She managed exactly two steps before she felt him seize her by the wrist again, this time from the underside. And then she was being spun in a circle, her arm whipping up, sideways and then down again. The next thing she knew it was being twisted up behind her back.

"I will not cry!" she told herself—and then did anyway.

"Owwww, let me GO!"

Conor did; at the same time whirling her around and shoving her back in her chair again.

"Okay," His face was only an inch away from hers, "I tried to talk reasonable, but you didn't wanna listen—so now siddown and shuddup; it's story time!"

Erin rubbed at her wrist, sniffling. Ohhh, just wait until she got out of here; she was SO going to turn him in, just like she'd said…

He clapped his paws in her face. "Pay attention Snowdrop, class is in session! Now…you think coz I got the EternalZoo app on my laptop that I'm the punk who ran that cyberattack on the ZPD last night; is that about the size of it?"

"Y-Yes," she answered, pressing herself into the back of the chair as if attempting to will herself through to the other side.

Conor's lip curled upwards, exposing his fangs.

"Ehhhh, wrong, rabbit! That's like assuming a guy's been street racing, just coz he's got a fast car." He flopped back in his own chair, eyeing her moodily, "Would have expected better than that from you."

It took several hard swallows of air before she was able to find her voice again.

"Wh-What are you talking about?"

He crossed his good leg over the one with the knee-brace.

"What I mean is that Councilmammal Nizhang only told part of the story about EternalZoo. Yeah, it was developed by the NSA, but no, it's not some super-secret hacking tool possessed by only a special few; matter of fact, it's been all over the dark web for more than five years now."

"What?" In spite of her fears, Erin's ears were up and her nose was twitching. "Are you serious, Conor?"

The corners of his mouth turned in opposite directions, "To quote The Raven, 'nevermore.' It all started back when this hacker group called the Shadow Barkers penetrated the NSA database and made off with a whole bunch of apps and web tools."

Erin was almost agog now. "You're kidding; someone hacked the National Security Agency?" To her, it sounded like the digital equivalent of trying to rob Fort Knoxen.

"Yep, and it's not as hard as you might think." Conor's nod was both dour and knowing. "Remember that guy Edward Snowden? He stole all those files he took using a $100 buck tool-app called Webcrawler."

"Mmm, okay," yes she had heard the name Snowden before. "But…I'm guessing that EternalZoo was one of those things the Shadow Barkers stole from the NSA?"

"Yes, it was," Conor rubbed at his nose. His anger had finally dissipated, but Erin knew that it would take very little to bring it back again. She continued to watch him carefully. "And what they did was put it up for sale on the Dark Web. Didn't work out so good; they couldn't find any takers."

"What?" Sweet cheez n' cracker, did this silver fox kid NEVER run out of surprises. "I would have thought something like would have every hacker from here to Podunk going 'shut up and take my money!'"

"So did the Shadow Barkers." Now the young fox was actually smiling again. "But like a lot of hackers I know of, these guys were online smart, real-world stupid; there were three things they hadn't thought of." He held up a trio of fingers, ticking them off, one by one. "First of all, they couldn't have picked a worse time to try and sell their pirate booty. This was right after a whole bunch of Dark Web contraband sites got taken down in a sting operation—so everyone was cooling it to begin with. That made for an even tougher sale if you were somebody no one had ever heard of, which—second of all—the Shadow Barkers were back then. And last, but not least; no one had ever gotten that deep into the NSA database before, so everyone was naturally skeptical that a gang of unknowns had been able to pull it off. It's one thing to swipe a few data files from one of their contractors, like Eddie Snowden did. But going directly into the NSA mainframe and ripping off an actual program—especially one that's highly classified—now THERE'S something you don't see every day, Chauncey. But then guess what they did next?"

"Oh, I don't know," Erin flipped a paw in the air. "Let me guess…they just gave it away for free, right?" It was meant sarcastically, but Conor fell back in his chair, looking stunned.

"Wha…how'd you ever…?"

And then it was her turn to be bowled over.

"What, you mean they DID?"

"Yep," Conor nodded and pursed his lips, "'Free, to good home, adorable NSA hacking tool.' And yeah, it blew me away too, the first time I heard about it. But that was actually a smart move by the Shadow Barkers. After that, they NEVER had trouble finding buyers…and they had plenty more goodies to sell where EternalZoo came from. Oh, and by the way, they've never been caught."

Erin started to answer, but he had already raised a paw.

"The point is, bunny-girl, that EternalZoo is not exactly a rare item—and even if it was, it's been around for nearly five years now. That's back in the dinosaur age in software years. About the only thing it's good for these days is hacking into city government computers…like, for example, the ZPD database."

"You make it sound like…" Erin groped for the proper words, "like hacking into the ZPD computer was…I mean is a piece of cake."

"It is," Conor shrugged, "comparatively speaking. And it's the same thing, just about anywhere else you'd care to name. Check out the budget of almost any big city and you'll find cybersecurity all the way down, near the bottom. A couple of years ago, when Atlambta got hit by a ransomware attack, they called in some guys from Microsloth to come and help out. When the Gates guys got a look at their security set-up they just about split a gut. 'It's a miracle this didn't happen years ago,' one of 'em said."

"I see," Erin's answer was a study in slow caution. She was fascinated but also aghast. The ZPD's computers…no, Zootopia's computers were THAT vulnerable? No wonder the fox kid in the other chair had been able to pull off that jailbreak so easily. It was enough to give her the willy-shivers. "So…who do you think really hit the ZPD with that cyberattack?"

She expected a shrug and a declaration of ignorance—and once again she was proven wrong. Conor's shoulders hunched and his muzzle dipped downwards at the floor.

"Kinda obvious isn't it?" He sounded almost as if he'd started to develop laryngitis, "Hadda be some of my 'loyal followers'."

Erin groaned inwardly. What was that line by Kris Kristotterson…a 'walking contradiction?' It described this silver fox kid to a 'T'. One minute, ready to rip her a new one for daring to think he might have been behind that cyberattack; the next minute beating himself up over it anyway.

"Oh come on, Conor…you really think some kids were behind it?"

He regarded her sourly, "I'M a kid, remember, Snowdrop? And a second ago, you thought I did it!"

Oops, touché; she winced as if she'd stuck her paw on a blackberry thorn. Luckily, he was already moving on. "And heck yeah, it could have been some kids. Ever heard of the LEPUS$ Group? That's Lepus with two S's and the second one's a dollar sign."

"No," Erin admitted, feeling her foot begin to thump. Was he needling her? That name practically screamed that at least some of the members were bunnies.

Perhaps they were, but he didn't belabor the point. "Big international hacking group, they've penetrated some of the toughest databases out there; Microsloth. Oryxcle, even Dapple; and you know who's the head of that outfit? This hedgehog kid outta Oxfurshire, England, lives at home with his mum and dad—16 stinkin' years old!" He spoke with a mixture of wariness and contempt. "And he's just one example; you follow what I'm bringing out?"

Erin did, although she almost wished she didn't. Maybe Conor was right to feel guilty after all. He had known there were kids like the LEPUS$ group out there, and yet he'd never stopped to consider what acts they might commit in his name.

"I get you." She said, and then sensing the approach of yet another uneasy silence, she decided to nip it in the bud. "So…what do we do next?"

Notes:

Author's Note:

For the record, much of this episode is grounded in fact. The Wells Furgo (Wells Fargo) Banking Scandal and the subsequent fine happened pretty much as described above. Likewise, the Buxnet (Stuxnet) cyberattack is matter of record. EternalZoo (EternalBlue) is an actual thing, and its history is also more of less as depicted in the above chapter. The Shadow Barkers (The Shadow Brokers) are real groups of hackers as is the LEPUS$ Group (The LEXUS$ Group) and their suspected leader IS a 16-year-old living at home with his folks.

The concluding episode to this chapter will be published later this week.

Chapter 37: The Children's Crusade (Concluded...Part 7)

Summary:

Conor vs. Erin

And this time...it ain't just a verbal confrontation.

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 6—The Children's Crusade
(Concluded…Part 7)

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Rescue me, should I go wrong
If I dig too deep, if I stay too long

You wreck me, baby
Yeah, you break me in two
But you move me, honey
Yes, you do

Tom Petty—You Wreck Me

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For maybe half a second, the ghost of a smile flitted across the young silver fox's muzzle—as if he'd been anticipating that question from the get-go.

"What we do is sit tight until it's dark," He said, and then nodded in the direction of the door, "and until things start to quiet down a little. And then what you need to do is get your tail back over to Precinct-1 and turn yourself in."

Erin had to mull that over for a second. It went without saying that she'd have to go back eventually. Given her druthers, she'd never have joined that jail-break in the first place. Still…she didn't like the idea of leaving Conor to his fate when he was hurting like this; it felt almost as if she'd be abandoning him. But if she was going to give herself up, wouldn't it be better not to wait? "Maybe…I should go now?" she suggested.

"I wouldn't," The fox in the other chair was wagging a finger, "There's a whole bunch of seriously angry cops out there right now. And it's daylight, like I said; you'll be grabbed before you can get anywhere near Precinct-1, and then probably get hauled off to one of the other districts—and then NOBODY'S gonna believe you were trying to turn yourself in when you got pinched." He shifted in his chair a little, his expression softening into sympathy. "I know, I know…you're worried that sister Judy and the rest of your family are gonna be worried about you. But if you get dragged off to the Rainforest District, or Outback Island, or wherever, it'll take 'em even longer to find you. Nope, it's better to hold off until after sundown before you turn yourself in. Trust me bunny girl, I know what I'm talking about."

She did, but again she had to wonder how he knew all this.

And, would he also know…? She didn't want to ask, but she had to.

"C-Conor…am…am I going to get in trouble for running away from jail like that?"

He smiled and shook his head. "Not when they see why you did it, Erin." By way of explanation, he pointed at his laptop. "I got it all on video; Craig chasing you through the jail, and then again, after you left Savanna Central Station. When the cops see that, they'll understand why you bolted. For sure, your sister Judy will. Don't worry, you'll be fine."

She could have hugged him for that, so relieved she didn't even stop to wonder how he'd been able to see Craig chasing after her?

But then something else occurred to the white-furred young bunny.

"Conor, did you maybe see Craig going after anyone else…besides me, I mean…like, um—another rabbit?" She mentally crossed her fingers, praying hard.

"Hrmmm," the young silver fox frowned for a second, pinching thoughtfully at his chin, "Brown fur, bigger than you, kinda looked like a jock?"

Erin clasped her paws expectantly, "Yes Conor, that's him. Did you…?"

"Ahhh, no worries bunny girl," he was smiling again. "Craig went right past him with like only a quick glance or something. I wouldn't even have noticed, 'cept your guy was with this other rabbit-kid, had fur looks kinda like mine." His head tilted sideways for a second, "Friend of yours?"

She was unable to keep her eyes from rolling. "I-I-I wouldn't call Max a friend; just someone I know from back in Bunnyburrow. Kind of a stuck up jerk, thinks he's God's gift to soccer."

"And he's also the bunny who stopped YOUR ungrateful little cotton-tail from doing a crash dive into the concrete, remember?" Erin's inner voice rebuked her, prompting a quick change of course. Instead of bringing up the fact that Max also had a crush on her, she decided to broach a different subject.

"I guess you didn't see it, Conor, but if Max hadn't grabbed me, I would have fallen off of the third floor railing…and not onto the walkway; I mean all the way down to the commons floor."

Something heavy dropped into the pit of her stomach. Wha…? What was that all about?"

"Whoa, good for him," Conor, was nodding appreciatively, "But what the heck were you doing up there in the first place?"

"Trying to get away from Craig," she said, shrugging it off as though it were no big deal—except, for some reason, the heaviness in her belly seemed to have increased, and now she was having trouble meeting his gaze. "I…I guess I zigged when I should have zagged."

"Oka-y-y," the young fox drew out the word, eyeing her carefully. Her sudden skittishness seemed not to have escaped his notice. "Um, tell me though, why the heck was that coyote punk trying to catch you in the first pl…Erin, what's wrong?"

She had burst into tears. Now she remembered; now she understood her apprehension. "Give me a minute," she sniffed. Conor sat back and waited with a tilted head, while she tried to get herself under control. It seemed to take forever, but eventually her sobs diminished down to sniffles and she was able to speak again.

"Conor…th-there's something I need to tell you," she said, and then held out her paws to him. "It's…It's not good."

"Okay," he said, taking wary hold of them, "What is it?"

She needed three false starts before she was able to deliver the news…and even then she couldn't bring herself to look at him.

"It's…about your friend, Saad…I-I think he's dead." Now, finally, her eyes met his, "I think…Craig killed him."

His reaction to this was…no reaction; nothing, nothing at all. He didn't gasp, he didn't yelp, he didn't stiffen, pull away, or tighten his grip. The only noticeable response was that all the emotion seemed to drain from his eyes, leaving nothing behind; not even coldness.

"And you're only telling me this now?" He sounded almost like the computer from 2001, a Space Odyssey. And then before she could even begin to think of a reply he said to her, still in that same toneless voice, "Tell me what happened…no, wait."

He held up a paw, while at the same time making a fast draw for his belt.

"Wh-What are you going to do?" Erin gulped and thought she was going to cry again—but he was only reaching for his cell-phone.

"Hello…ZPD? This is Conor Lewis…yes, THAT Conor Lewis. I…" He growled and she saw his grip tighten, "Don't bother trying to keep me talking; you won't be able to trace this, I won't be on for more than…SHUT UP AND LISTEN YOU IDIOT! One of the kids who broke outta jail last night, Craig Guilford, coyote, is stuck in a sinkhole over in Inselberg Terrace…What, you never heard of Zoogle maps? Okay, listen there's a dumpster on top of the hole where he's…what, hey? Don't go away on me! Huh, who's this? Okay…did you hear what I said, Chief? Then get someone over there before he gets…BECAUSE HE OFFED A FRIEND OF MINE, BUH-BYE!"

He yanked the phone away from his face and jammed it back in the holster, at the same time grumbling under his breath. "Nice try, babe."

Erin watched him and felt her nose twitching…and her foot wanting to thump uneasily. Talk about an iron-will; no sorrow, no tears, not even the slightest expression of grief—just a quick phone call to report the sand-cat's…murderer to the police.

Yes…about that; there was something about that call that had felt…off, and for the life of her she couldn't put her finger on it.

And she wasn't going to be able to, either. Conor was looking at her with that deadpan expression, and speaking in that same lifeless voice.

"'Kay, now tell me what happened."

The story came out in fits and starts. She had to backtrack at least twice; but eventually the fugitive young silver fox got the gist, if not the specifics of what had happened to his friend. Craig had initially gone after Max March rather than her, pursuing the athletic young rabbit over an imagined offense. Erin had followed behind, hoping she could help, and had caught up with them just in time to see the vengeful young coyote snatching Max up by the ears—and that was when Saad had intervened.

"Yeah, that's something that sand-cat would have done," Conor was shaking his head, speaking for the first time since the story had begun to unspool—and also in a quavering voice. His emotional levee at last seemed to be giving way. "He always was the kind to jump in first, ask questions later; whenever someone was picking on a friend of his. Never could understand why he was like that; he was otherwise kinda mellow." He blinked and the steel returned. "So, what happened after that?"

What happened next was the hardest part of all for the young white-furred bunny to recall; she broke down at least twice while recounting it. Conor, for his part, remained silent and stone-faced throughout the tale—but he wasn't fooling her; she could see the wilting ears and drooping tail. But though he never pushed her, never prodded, Erin couldn't get away from the feeling that he was forcing the story out of her. Sweet cheez' n' crackers; up until this point she'd found it nearly impossible to believe that he had drawn first blood in that fight with her sister.

Not any more, she didn't. Now she knew that the silver fox sitting across from her was capable of all that and more.

This was a dangerous young animal.

So, why the heck was she feeling an overwhelming urge to hug him?

"You okay?" she asked when she was done.

"I'm cool!" he almost snapped…but he was unable to meet her gaze, and she had heard the cracks in his voice.

She reached out and took his paws again.

"Conor you don't have to hold back because of me; it's okay if you need to cry."

He abruptly pulled away from her.

"Sorry bunny, I can't cry."

"Yes, you can," Her foot was thumping. "There's no reason…"

"No, no," he interrupted again, "I mean, I'm like…physically incapable of crying; haven't been able to since the day I got my face beat crooked." He patted the side of his muzzle, while his voice softened into velvet. "I can't cry…even when I want to."

For perhaps a thousand moments—or maybe just one—Erin didn't know where to go with this. Conor's admission had been no swaggering declaration of machismo. He seemed genuinely bewildered by his inability to shed tears; bewildered…and also frustrated.

She took hold of his paw again.

"Then it's okay to want to cry," she told him…and this time he didn't pull away. He almost did…but only almost. "Dana told me Saad was the one who introduced you to her." It wasn't much, but hopefully it would keep the conversation going.

This time, she was successful. The young silver fox almost smiled again.

"Yeah, that's right. You know what an Oud is?"

The white-furred young doe-bunny thought for a second. "Ahhhh, it's some kind of musical instrument…I know that much. Ummmm…looks kind of like a lute?"

Conor nodded and cocked another finger

"Right…except it has twelve strings and kind of a twangy sound. Anyway, Saad had one and he knew how to play it. One day, when he was hanging with Jason and Dana, he tried jamming on Led Zep's Kashmir with it. Long story short, they decided they needed another guitar player, and so Saad got hold of me. Later on, I called in Mike, and whoa, we just tore that tune down, bunny girl."

"I bet," Erin said, "Ahhh, I wish I could have been there."

"So do I;" The young silver-fox smiled…but then turned away with a wistful expression on his face, gazing off into the middle distance. "And now it'll never happen." His voice was like a wisp of air—and then it trailed away into silence.

Erin almost said something, but stopped herself. Now was not the time to talk, it was the time to give him some space. In his own way, at last, Conor was finally mourning his friend.

After a long, silent interlude, he spoke again. And when he did, he sounded just plain tired.

"You should have told me about him earlier, Erin." he said and then yawned wide-mouthed, "I would have called the cops as soon as we were out of that cul-de-sac."

"Why then?" the young doe bunny asked. She didn't really care, but it was either ask the question or say she was sorry…and she was NOT going to apologize for that. No! Stinking! Way!

"If I'd called before we left," he said, "'Yote-boy would have heard me, and he would have gone crazy trying to get his tail outta that hole. He's gonna be working hard enough to dig himself out as it is." He smirked for maybe half a second. "Besides, no way was I gonna call the cops from inside of a dead-end street, with only one way in or out. For all I knew, there could have been a ZPD-cruiser less than 30 feet away."

"Dang," Erin marveled silently. Good Lord, was this fox-kid calculating or what? It made him even more dangerous in her eyes. "Do you…think they'll get to him before he's able to make it out of that hole?"

"If he hasn't already," her inner voice chided, making her wish she could kick the thing…especially since Conor's only reaction was an exaggerated shrug.

"I dunno, I hope not;" But then his thoughts seemed to turn inward. "Ahhh what the heck, I should have alerted the cops anyway, Saad or no Saad." He appeared to shrink a little, "Craig's still the jerk who tried to help his dad dump a load of defoliant on the Carrot Days festival. I shoulda dropped a dime on that coyote-punk the first time I spotted him…outside the precinct I mean."

"Oh right," Erin nodded. She had forgotten all about that herself. Still, she had to admit, his confession was making her feel better.

"Okay," he yawned, rising from his chair and stretching, "I dunno about you, but I need to go get me some shut-eye." He pointed behind her, towards a long piece of furniture draped in white. "Pretty sure there's a couch under there. You can have that; I'll go find some other place."

Erin turned and looked over her shoulder. "That looks big enough for both of us, don't you think?"

But he was already stowing his laptop in his backpack. "Best to keep separated," he said, checking that weird looking four barreled weapon, and holstering it again. "If some security-type shows up and spots either one of us, the other one will be able to get away."

"Oh," Erin nodded; that made sense—she supposed.

Conor, meanwhile, was slinging the backpack over his shoulders and tightening the straps. "You don't have a watch, right? Ahhh, didn't think so…'kay, there's a clock on the wall behind you." He checked his own watch. "Lessee…sun goes down around 8:40. If I'm not back by 9, go ahead and take off without me."

Erin's ears went up and her nose began to twitch. "Wha…? Where are you going?"

"To find a place to crash, like I said," He sounded peeved again, "But if some janitor or whoever shows up…Look bunny-girl, I plan to be back long before then, but I don't wanna take any chances; you follow what I'm bringing out?"

"Ummm, yeah, I see." Actually she didn't, but she was in no mood to argue. "Whatever, I'll see you tomorrow."

"It IS tomorrow," he winked and offered a half grin, and then was gone before she could respond.

Not that it mattered, she was too tired anyway. She toddled over to uncover the sofa, or whatever was under that drop cloth. She was almost there when something else caught her eye; the only item of furniture in the room that was covered by a clear plastic sheet rather than linen or canvas.

It was a desk—and although the view beneath the covering was milky and slightly distorted, she could clearly make out a phone, parked on top of it.

"A land line," she giggled silently. Jiminy Christmas; who the heck used those things anymore? This office wasn't just old, it was a living fossil. But sayyyy, what if it worked? Judy, Mom, and Violet must be worried half to death right now. She changed course, but then hesitated for a second. Should she, or shouldn't she? Conor had advised her to wait until dark, but that didn't apply to making a phone-call, did it? Well, if she kept it short and sweet; just long enough to let them know she was okay. "First thing's first Erin," her inner voice prompted, "that phone has to be working."

She flipped away the sheet and picked up the receiver. It was fairly new for a land-line phone; there was even a row of speed-dial buttons. But was there a…? Yes, there was a dial tone. She immediately began to punch in Judy's number.

Or that is, she tried to; it began to ring on the third digit—and then only buzzed once before it went to voicemail.

"This is Professor Blackwood; I'm not at my desk right now, so please…"

Erin hung up in annoyance and tried again; her mom's number this time. Once again the phone began to ring on the third digit. And this time, she got a robotic, female voice for her troubles. "We're sorry but your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please check the number and try again."

She hung up a second time, nearly slamming down the receiver. What the heck was going on here? She was about to give up when she noticed the last number on the speed dial list; it was for the ZPD. Why Dr. Whatsherface needed that when she could just as easily dial 911, the young doe-bunny had no idea. She reached down and pressed the button, too tired and/or frustrated to remember that, unlike her mother and sister, the police had the wherewithal to trace any incoming phone calls.

It turned out not to matter in any event, because she ended up with another recorded voice—even more silky and mechanical than the last one.

"We're sorry, all circuits are busy. Please try your call again later."

Erin sighed and let the phone receiver fall back into its cradle. Awww carrot stix, she should have known. At a time like this, it was a no-brainer that the ZPD would be deluged with phone calls. Or maybe their phone system had gone offline when the servers had been taken down; there were only about a hundred possible reasons why she'd been unable to complete the call. It made her wonder how Conor had been able to through.

All at once her eyes went wide and then SHE was wide awake.

"He didn't get through!" And with those four words, everything she'd seen just prior to his departure began to play back in her head.

He'd refused to sleep in here even though there was plenty of room. He'd put his backpack all the way on, instead of slinging it over one shoulder, and then he'd adjusted the straps…but not before checking that strange-looking weapon he was carrying. When she'd asked what he was going to do, he'd said nothing—and then why had he told her to clear the heck out if he wasn't back by sundown?

There was only one possible explanation; that phone call of his had been a fake…and that reverie he'd apparently slipped into had actually been a brooding silence.

Put all of that together and…Oh, NO!

She had to find him; she had to stop him…but how? She didn't know her way around this place. She couldn't…

"Shut up and move your tail, rabbit!"

Erin turned and bolted for the door. Ohhh, if only she could track him by his scent, the same way he could track…

"I said shut UP!"

There was only one other door to the hydroponic room, but the hallway beyond it led quickly to a three way-junction. Only one of the corridors was lit, however, and taking a chance, she went that way. That method got her through two more intersections, but then she came to a two way branch with the lights turned out in both hallways. Great; now what? Wait; she had an idea.

She went to the first one, jumped up and brushed her paw against the overhead light. She felt nothing, it was cold. She went to the other corridor and repeated the process. This time, when she touched the light, she felt warmth against her paw. This way; he'd gone this way. Ohhhh, she could only hope that leg-brace of his would slow him down enough for her to catch up with…Ahhhh, Dangit!

She was in a round room with hallways branching off in five, count 'em, FIVE different directions—and this time, the lights were on every single one of them. Did Conor know she was following him? Never mind, pick one and get moving.

With nothing else to guide her, she went with the hallway that just felt right. It led to an L-turn and a set of stairs leading downwards—no!—but down below, near the foot of the stairway, Erin thought she detected a faint, red glow.

"Ohhhh, please let that be an exit sign," she begged silently of whoever might be listening, "and PLEASE let this be the way he went."

She jumped down the stairs, taking them five at a time….and yes, it was an exit sign, and a door with a bar-handle, two doors actually. One for larger mammals and a smaller one set into the first. But was it locked, was it alarmed? She didn't see a keyhole. Oh never mind, just TRY it already.

Erin pressed on the smaller door handle and felt it swing open. Stepping outside she felt an immediate urge to hug herself tightly. The sun might be up, but it was anything but light outside; the skies were etched in steel wool, and the rain was coming down in big, heavy drops. What the…? When she'd watched that newscast earlier, she hadn't seen it storming. Just then, as if to make clear that this wasn't only her imagination, she heard distant a rumble of thunder.

Where was she? A brownstone building occupied maybe half the street opposite on her right. Directly in front of her, she could just make out what looked like a metro train overpass, maybe 30 yards away. The street signs at either end of the avenue were indecipherable behind the curtain of rain.

That made her hope for a second that the sinkhole where Craig was trapped wouldn't flood, but then that reminded her of something else, and she looked hastily up and down the road. No police, no signs of anybody…and especially no sign of Conor.

She had missed him, he had gotten away…and she had no idea which way he had…

Twenty yards to her left, a door opened, and the fugitive young silver-fox exited into the rain, pulling up his collar against it. Looking at him, Erin had the oddest feeling that something was missing from this picture.

She called out at once, "Conor!"

He wheeled about, thoroughly startled…but only for a second. And then his eyes went cold, ice cold—colder than the driving rain. "Don't, Erin." It was the same flat, lifeless voice he'd used before. "Don't even think about it."

Taking a step towards him, the young doe-bunny stretched out her arms in a pleading gesture. "Conor no, you can't…do this."

"That coyote punk's not done with you, Snowdrop," He informed her in that flint-hard toneless voice. "If he gets free, he'll want to shut you up for good. I know; I've seen his kind a whole heapin' bunch of times."

Erin would never know where she got her next words.

"Then that's what's going to happen. Conor, I won't let you do this. This isn't who you are!"

His eyes only narrowed in contempt. "Like I told your sister, bunny-girl; you don't know what kind of kid I am…and you can't stop me."

As if to prove it, his foot moved back into a defensive stance…while the young doe-bunny could only stare, mesmerized like a deer caught in the glow of a pair of hi-beam headlights. Was this how he'd looked when Judy had come upon him in that theater?

One thing was abundantly clear; even with his injuries she'd never be able to take this fox. Unlike her elder sister, she had zero fighting skills; what she DID have was a shoulder that wasn't at 100%. When she'd tried to run away earlier, he had handled her like a plushie toy.

But then he went on to say. "So do the smart thing Snowdrop; step aside, turn around, and cover your eyes. One way or another, I'm doing this thing."

At first, Erin didn't understand; why did he want her to…?

But then it all came crashing down like a load of gravel. He didn't have his bike with him—that was it, the missing piece! And he was going to need it to get back to that cul-de-sac. Even without a hurt leg, it would take him forever to get reach it on foot.

And somehow she had ended up between the furious young silver fox and his ride. To get to it, he would have to get past her.

With that understanding came another, bigger revelation; almost an epiphany.

She KNEW how to stop him; it would be the most foolhardy, reckless thing she could imagine—it might even get her killed—but it would work; she knew it would work.

It had to work.

She sniffled, trying to bring up some tears. It didn't take much effort, and in seconds, they were streaming down her face.

"A-All right Conor, you win," she blubbered, "But after this, I don't ever want to see you again."

She spun on her heel and turned her back on him.

"Then that's what's gonna happen." He said…only this time his voice wasn't empty of emotion. He sounded determined, but also immeasurably sad—almost heartbroken, not to put too fine a point on it.

Erin kept her eyes shut, but not her ears, listening for his approach with every fiber of her being. One chance, that was all she was going to get…and even if it worked…

"Don't think…listen."

She could hear him, getting closer, three feet…two feet…and then he stopped. Oh no, had he sensed something? No, he was moving again.. Not yet…not yet; wait'll he's past you…NOW!

Erin wheeled in a fast pirouette and leaped up…grabbing Conor by the scruff of the neck, and letting herself fall backwards, pulling with her weight as hard as she could.

At once his muzzle shot upwards and a scream like rending sheet metal pierced the air.

She let go just as he screamed again…and then wheeled around with claws extended, swinging hard and aiming for her face.

…and finding nothing but empty air. It was the young white-furred bunny's one and only hole card. When Conor had lost it with Nick and Judy, he had caught them both completely by surprise.

Not Erin, not this time; when she'd grabbed him from behind, she'd known exactly what was coming.

"Come on," she shrilled, stepping backwards and spreading her arms in a taunting gesture. "Come on, Charcoal Boy…come and get me!"

He let out another fox scream…and went rushing straight at her.

But she was already bounding away at full tilt. If she could just keep him busy, keep him going until he came back down off his frenzy, then maybe…she didn't know what, only that she had to move; he was right behind her. Jiminy Christmas, how was he able to run so fast with that thing on his…?

"Never mind, head for that alley across the street…HURRY!"

Erin wheeled towards it in mid stride, heard Conor stumble and fall behind her. He could run, but he couldn't make fast turns.

Okay that was something, but now he was up on his feet again and closing fast.

She darted into the alleyway. Halfway down its length she found her pathway blocked by a barricade of bricks and overturned oil-drums, a parting shot from some of the rioters. No worries, this was something she could clear easily. She jumped, landing in a crouch and then jumped again, this time with all her strength, sailing effortlessly over the barricade and coming down in a three-point stance. Behind her, Conor didn't have it quite so easy, snarling and fox-screaming as he scrambled up and over the makeshift wall. Dangit, how long did it take him to come out of that berserk state?

Turning to flee again, the young doe-bunny saw just what she needed, about ten yards up ahead of her; a fire escape—big, beautiful, and five stories tall, with a ladder at its lower end dangling six feet off the ground. That was another jump she knew she could make—and that Conor couldn't, and… "Oh no, here he comes, move it!"

She wheeled about, running hard and fast, leaping for the ladder and landing neatly on the third rung—and at once felt it start to slide earthward. Drawn by her weight, it hit the ground with a dull thud. Only then did the young doe-bunny realize her error. Being a country girl, she was unfamiliar with how fire escapes actually worked…and now she was learning the hard way.

She began climbing with everything she had. Her bad shoulder was crying out in protest, but at least it was still working.

A sudden, tight vibration shook the ladder…and she knew that Conor was right behind her again. The landing…if she could just make it to the second floor landing, she'd be safe; with his injured leg there was no way that fox-kid could catch her on the stairs. And yes, there it was, right within reach. Grabbing for the edge, she felt something seize her by the ankle, sharp claws prickling her skin.

Erin screamed and kicked out blindly with her other foot…felt it impact on something, felt the claws letting go of her, slipping away.

And then she heard a 'whump' as something hit the ground below…hard.

Holding on to the ladder with her right paw, she turned and looked down over her shoulder.

Ten…perhaps twelve feet below her, Conor was lying in a fetal position.

"Oh, NO…I didn't mean to…!"

She slid down the ladder, fire-pole style, hearing it 'chink' upwards and back into place when she let go.

"Please…please be…"

Yes, he was breathing, and…was he whimpering? She thought she could hear it, but wasn't certain.

She reached out to touch him; he looked up at her suddenly, with both fangs showing. For a second, time froze. Only now did it occur to the white-furred young doe bunny that this whole thing might simply be a ruse; hello sucker…any last words?

But when she looked into his eyes, she saw no madness, no savage fire. He was over his episode at last.

But there had been a price to pay. "Dumb bunny!" he groaned, in a feeble, guttural snarl—and there was no mistaking the fact that this fox-kid was in some serious pain.

She heard the ladder hit the ground again, and when she turned to look, she saw a troupe of young mammals clambering down to street level, a pine marten, a raccoon, and three opossums, with a black bear bringing up the rear. They ranged in age from middle-school to high-school, although none of them looked old enough to drive. For a second, Erin wondered where they'd come from—until she noticed that the second-floor window was now wide open. She also noted that the rain had stopped. Wha…? When did that happen? And now she heard a door open, and more kids coming…ascending up a flight of steps from a basement somewhere down below. She recognized one of them, a member of the bunny-squad; the kids who'd caught her after she was pitched over the top of the police line, a young marsh rabbit. The leader of this second group appeared to be a lanky young deer-buck. He looked only vaguely familiar; one of the kids from the youth jail perhaps? It would explain all the piercings that were now nothing but empty pucker marks…but why had he painted his antlers red like that?

Uh-oh, here he came…but then he stopped in his tracks with his mouth agape and all the color draining from his ears. When he turned his gaze on Erin, he seemed to be wishing that looks could kill.

"What happened?" he asked—in a voice even colder than Conor's.

It was the silver fox who answered him…second-paw by way of Erin.

"All right Snowdrop…you win, that ladder was too much for my bum knee." He said this while tapping weakly at what was left of his leg-brace.

"Dangit, I TOLD you," she cried, picking up the thread, and at once all of the hostility from the others evaporated like steam in the desert sun.

"You okay, dude?" the deer was leaning over Conor with a worried look.

For a second or two, the injured young silver fox only looked up at him puzzled…but then a meager flame of recognition lit up behind his eyes.

"Eez…that you?"

"It's me, bro'," the young black-tail buck smiled, offering a four…which the young fox tried and failed to return. That brought an even more worried look to Eez's face—and also Erin's; Conor was hurt even worse than she'd thought.

"Yo, Eez…who that?" It was the black bear, lumbering over with a furrowed brow and a tilted head.

"Whoa, where you been, Root?" The deer's expression was a mixture of surprise and contempt. "That's Conor Lewis, dude."

At the mention of the silver fox's name, everyone drew back a step, as if they were in presence of some sacred relic they dared not touch. Erin even thought she saw the marten getting down on one knee.

The bear, however, remained skeptical.

"Seriously, buck? That fox don't look nothing like him."

That brought an annoyed response from both Eez…and Conor.

"And just how the heck would YOU know that?"

"I…changed my look…okay?"

Before anyone else could chime in, a shrill whistle pierced the air, pre-empting any further conversation.

"'Scuse me guys," Erin's foot was thumping as she took the fingers from her mouth, "But can you do this AFTER we get off the street…please?"

Everyone regarded each other awkwardly for a moment; everyone, not just the bear and the deer.

Then Root said to Eez, "Here, help me." And the two of them formed a cradle with their arms.

They brought Conor downstairs to the sublevel, with Erin following close behind and the rest of the group trailing in their wake.

She expected to end up in some dank basement, complete with cobwebs, moldy walls and bare bulbs that offered only minimal illumination. Instead she found herself in a cheerfully lit break-room complete with a sink, fridge, microwave, and even an air-hockey table, for mid-sized mammals.

By now, Conor had lost consciousness. They laid him on a couch in the corner with Erin to keep an eye on him and then went into a huddle at the opposite end of the room.

It annoyed the young doe-bunny, to practically no end, that she was being cut out of the loop; she had known the silver fox lying sprawled out on the sofa longer than anyone else in here. However, even without her sharp rabbit ears, she would have been able to pick up on their conversation; noises really carried in here.

"Let's face it guys; there's nothing any of us can do to help that fox-kid. He needs a doctor."

"Yeah, my uncle took a fall like that once. He thought he was okay, but then he woke up the next morning and could barely breathe. Turned out he had three broken ribs."

"Okay, yeah," a wee voice piped up from down around floor-level, "that's really interesting Sparky. But what are we supposed to do? We can't take him to the ER; they'll throw his tail right back in detention."

"Yeah, and us too," the marten-kid observed pessimistically.

"Well would you rather have him die on us?" the black bear demanded. Since learning that the fox-kid they'd found in the street really was Conor Lewis, his attitude had gone through some major adjustments.

"Uhm, excuse me?" another voice spoke up, a bunny's voice—which meant that it was probably the marsh rabbit Erin had seen earlier, "my sister's a nurse practitioner. Maybe she could help."

"Can you count on her to keep quiet?" Eez asked him, gesturing in Conor's direction.

"She'd never tell on ME." The marsh-bunny's answer was ambiguous at best, but it seemed to satisfy the young deer-buck. "Okay, let's do that," he announced, but then took note of the look on the rabbit's face, "Uh, what?"

The young bunny turned away before answering, "She's…over in the Canal District.

A collective groan went up from the group of young mammals—including Erin. She had no idea where the Canal District was, but it sure as heck didn't sound like it was anywhere close by.

"Oh, nice," It was the marten again, "Any idea how we're supposed to get him there?"

"I…know a guy," a ragged voice croaked from over in the corner, and everyone turned to see Conor trying to rise up on his elbows, "Can you guys get me to the Lion's Gate docks?"

"Mmmmm, yeah…I-I think so," Root, the black bear told him, eyes wary as if the young silver fox might be speaking out of delirium.

"Kay, hang on," he said, and then fell back on the couch, reaching for his cell-phone holster. "This thing better not be damaged," he muttered, giving Erin an accusatory look.

She had to force herself to ignore it; if he hadn't chosen to go after Craig like that, he wouldn't be in this mess. "Need any help?" she asked.

"I can dial a number thanks." he spat out the words like bile, and then punched in the digits. "C'mon, c'mon, pick up…Billy, that you? It's Conor…Never mind; listen. I'm hurt pretty bad and I need to get to a doctor…"

"She's not a doctor, only a nurse," the marsh-rabbit spoke up in protest; Conor semi-ignored it.

"Okay, a nurse…but she's the only one who can help, and she's clear over in the Canal District. Can you pick me up, over by the Lion's Gate docks, and…?" His eyes closed and he let out a cheek-puffing breath. "Ohhh, thanks Stripes…you're a lifesaver—and like for real. Okay you know that new construction site, where they're building that fish-processing plant or whatever? About twenty yards to the right there's a tunnel entrance, a viaduct they used to use to bring in coal-barges to…Hey guy, don't make jokes, huh? I'm in some serious hurt over here. Naw, it's okay, but how soon…? Gimme a sec," He closed his eyes performing some mental calculations and then opened then again. "Ahhhh, dodging cops and all…prolly an hour, hour-and-half; can you swing that? Okay, thanks again Billy, see you soon." He disconnected and shook his head, grousing under his breath, "Why a duck!"

"Can YOU swing that?" Erin had overheard and now she was asking the other kids. The first to respond was Eez.

"We'll make it happen," he told her, swearing it like an oath.

"Thanks," Conor answered, casting a jaundiced eye in the doe-bunny's direction, as if she'd just stolen his thunder. And then he said, "Can some of you guys take care of her until it gets dark?" He was met with nods and grunts of agreement and then adjusted his gaze and spoke to her directly, in a voice that was rapidly weakening. "Okay, and then Erin…you…need to…go do that thing we talked about earlier."

She immediately shook her head, "No way fox; I'm staying with you."

It was like a shot of pure adrenaline. Conor was up on his elbows again, so fast that it looked almost like some kind of miracle cure. "No, you're not…wait, hold it. Guys, can you give us a minute here?" He was speaking to the other kids.

"You heard him, let's go," the deer buck pointed at the door and the others promptly began to file outside. It was almost frightening—how quickly they obeyed his command.

Whose command though, Erin had to wonder; the deer-kid…or Conor?

"What'd you do that for?" she asked, speaking to the young silver fox when they had gone. She felt as if she already knew, but couldn't be completely sure.

His response was probably the biggest non-answer he'd given since last night. "Go pound on the door first."

She looked at him with a twitching nose, and then went over, hammering on it twice with an underpawed fist.

Immediately, she heard, "OW! All right, all riiiiight," followed by the sound of hastily retreating footsteps.

"Trust everyone but cut the cards," she almost giggled—almost, because Conor was finally answering her question.

"Coz we don't want those guys to know that you're planning to turn yourself in to…"

Erin balled her fists and thumped the floor. "Hey Charcoal-Boy, I thought I said…"

"Or even that you were thinking about it," he went on smoothly, cutting her off, "They'd prolly label your tail a sell-out…maybe even peg you for a snitch."

That really brought out the umbrage; her foot-thump became a stomp.

"What? WHAT! I'd never…"

"I know you wouldn't but they don't!" he interrupted, pointing at the door…and then rolled up into a coughing fit. And this time, Erin thought she saw a fleck or two of blood. She tried to go to him, but he only waved her off.

"I'll be okay, just give me a sec."

It took longer than that, but he finally recovered—mostly. Then he looked at her in earnest.

"Look bunny-girl. If you don't want to get into any more trouble for going rabbit…"

"Going…WHAT?" Now she was the one interrupting.

"Sorry, sorry," he held up his paws as best he could, "jail-speak for making an escape, nothing fursonal. But now, listen to me Erin…turning yourself in without ending up with your tail in a sling is like a limited time offer. You need to do that tonight. If you're not back in custody by tomorrow morning, you're gonna end up being declared a fugitive…and then not even that video of Craig going after you will do you any good." He tapped himself weakly in the chest. "And believe me, I know all about that stuff."

Erin couldn't help but question…how much of that was true? Was any of it true? Well, in any case it would need to wait; he was still talking.

"Best thing you can do is call your sister Judy before you take off and let her know you're coming." He pointed at his backpack, "I got a burner-phone in there you're welcome to use."

"Uhhh, thanks Conor, but I already tried and couldn't get through." The excuse was almost weaker than he was, but the only thing she could think of.

He attempted to pull up on his elbows again.

"What…when?"

"After you tried to con me and went off to go after Craig," she said, unable to resist the little dig. "There was a phone on the desk inside that office, but I couldn't get it to work…except when I called the ZPD…"

"You did WHAT?" Now he was up on his elbows…and then he was doubled over in another coughing fit. "You…*cough!* called the cops…*cough!* *hack!*…on a stinking LAND-LINE? *cough!* *hack!* *cough!*

"Uh, no I couldn't get through," she said, wondering what she could have done to set him off like that, "All the circuits were busy."

"Good thing they were, Snowdrop!" the young silver fox half rasped-half gekkered. "They could of traced that call in like a microsecond." An almost unspeakable change had come over him. His eyes were on fire, his nose was crinkled and both fangs were showing beneath a twitching upper lip. It was as if every ounce of loathing and disdain he'd been holding inside for the last ten years had chosen this moment to come percolating to the surface.

"I can't stinkin' believe…and you wanna stay with me? How about this instead? Kill me now and get it over with."

Erin blinked, and then stared. Had really just said that to her?

"Kill you now? Wh-What are you talking about."

If such a thing were possible, his contempt actually kicked up a notch.

"What the fox do you THINK I mean, bun-bun? Not only did you nearly bring the cops down on us, but now I have to get to the Canal District and find that nurse-doc, or whatever she is…which I wouldn't need to do if it hadn't been for YOU, ya walking blonde joke." He snarled and looked as if he was going to spit, "Grabbing me from behind…on purpose? Of all the stupid, brain-dead…you coulda got us both killed; you know that, cutie-pie? And now you got the nerve to say you wanna STAY with me? Like heck that's gonna happen. The last thing I need is some cute, airheaded, little dumb bunny messing up my life any more than she already has, you follow what I'm bringing out?"

Erin stared at him for a second and then folded her arms and sniffed, "Hmph, nice try Charcoal-Boy."

"Nice…TRY?" Conor's snarl was more like a wheeze; and now it was his turn to stare.

She only angled her chin upwards and curled her lip. "You don't mean any of that, Conor Lewis; you're only saying those horrible things because you're scared that if I stick by you, I'll get hurt or something." She leaned over him with her ears laid back. "Well, I won't, and IT won't work—dumb fox."

Conor tried, he really tried to keep up his sneering façade, but it was a losing battle. In the blink of an eye, all of his scorn had melted away, leaving only a long, wide-eyed, flabbergasted young face.

And then he clenched his fists and teeth—along with his eyes.

"Agggggh, grrrrrr, I swear…if I ever get my paws on the guy who invented rabbits, I'll rip his LUNGS out!" He looked up again, almost spitting out his next words, "Fine, whatever Snowdrop; but when they drag your cute little bunny-tail off to juvie, don't come crying to me!"

So saying, he rolled over and faced the wall, showing her his back. In mere seconds he was snoring like a ripsaw.

Chapter 38: The Cascade Effect, Pt1

Summary:

Meanwhile, what's going on with Judy?

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 7—The Cascade Effect
(Part 1)

Monday, 07:27, ZPD Precinct-1, Savanna Central, Zootopia

The insanity began while Judy was in the midst of eating her breakfast cereal and wondering if it was too early to call her mother and sister. Mom would almost certainly be up—typical farm-family matriarch—but Vi would likely still be asleep. Flipping open her laptop to check the morning newscast, she was instantly confronted by a shrill, screaming headline:

Night of Terror in Savanna Central

At once, she found that she had no appetite. And when the overhead camera-feed of Savanna Central Plaza appeared on the screen, what little food she had in her stomach threatened to perform an about-face and head back up the way it had come—never mind that rabbits are incapable of vomiting.

And that was only the beginning. Next she learned was what had triggered the riot—a cyberattack; a cyberattack followed by a mass breakout from Precinct-1 Youth Detention.

Oh sweet cheez' n crackers!

Grabbing her cell phone from the charger, Judy punched the speed-dial button for the precinct, only to run into the same recording that had stifled her sister earlier.

"We're sorry, but all circuits are busy; please try your call again, later."

No sooner did she end the call than her phone began to peel like a church-bell, informing her that a text had just arrived.

When she looked, she saw that the sender was none other than the Chief of the ZPD himself. And his message was both short and to the point:

Hopps, stay home; we've got enough bedlam here as it is. Bogo

When Judy read it, she nearly said something in a language she never, ever used. How could he expect her to stay away at a time like…?

Before she was able to complete the thought, her cell phone chimed a second time.

Hopps, come in right away. Bogo

At once the doe-bunny's mood swung from bothered to bemused, "What the HECK?" It was as if he'd never sent that first text.

Things became even more confusing when she exited the Crying Pangolin Arms and found a ZPD Cruiser waiting at the foot of the front steps. Confusing…and also not a little frightening; the hood was bent into a half-concave and the passenger door now sported a message, crudely rendered in shocking-purple spray-paint.

WER'E NOT GONA TAKE IT!

Sweet cheez n' crackers; if Bogo was willing to send a vehicle in this shape out on the streets, the situation at Precinct-1 must be even more chaotic than she'd imagined.

Approaching the cruiser, Judy saw Claire Swinton, waiting at the wheel. She also took note of the remnants of several eggs and a rotten tomato, splattered across the windshield and fenders. The riot might be over, but the animosity that had fueled it still remained.

Then the driver's door opened and the pig cop's head popped up over the cruiser's roof. "Dangit Judy, hurry up before we get ambushed!"

There wasn't another soul in sight, but the doe bunny hurried as best she could; ignoring the lingering ache in her midsection. It seemed to take forever; a rainstorm had hit only a short while ago and the streets were slick and shiny…not the best footing when you're nursing an injury. It wasn't until they were well on their way that she finally turned and spoke to Swinton…whom, she couldn't help but notice, was decked out in full riot-gear, sans helmet.

"Why did Bogo send a car for me?"

"No choice," her porcine companion answered, keeping her eyes on the road, "Metro's down, there's no trains running…at least not into Savanna Central; no buses either…or cabs…or even Zoober."

"Oh-kay-y-y," Judy answered warily, "Do you have any idea why Bogo wants to see me?" He had never specifically said so, but she knew him well enough by now to appreciate at least a few of his habits. No way would he have sent a cruiser to pick her up unless he wanted to speak to her fursonally.

"Sorry, not a clue," the pig cop answered, still not looking in her direction. She seemed incapable of speaking in words of more than two syllables. That was hardly surprising, given her appearance. Her collar was open, the lower half of her face was scorched and grimy, and her eyes were shot with so much red, it looked almost like demonic possession. The night just past must have been hell-on-earth in Savanna Central Plaza,

But then, without warning, Swinton gunned the motor and the cruiser leapt forward, slamming Judy backwards into her car seat.

"Claire, wha…?" she started to say, but the pig-cop only waved her off. Looking ahead through the windshield, she understood at once the reason for their sudden acceleration. Perhaps twenty yards ahead, an overhead walkway stretched over the road in a rainbow arc.

It was lined end to end with what looked like a horde of young mammals; barely visible at this distance, and yet also clearly hostile.

Too late to question the wisdom of attempting to run this gauntlet; the only thing she could do was grit her teeth and cross her fingers.

As the cruiser shot streaking beneath the overpass, a deluge of objects came showering down all around it. Only one of them scored a hit; something squishy by the sound of it.

Judy barely noticed. It was the thing that landed maybe two feet behind the cruiser that REALLY caught her attention.

"Holy Carrot Sticks, was that a…VENDING MACHINE?"

Yes, it was…and if that thing had hit them…

She shuddered at the thought and then angled her gaze upwards; less than ten seconds had passed since they'd run beneath that flyover…and it was already completely deserted.

That was when Judy knew something; not a single one of those kids was ever going to be caught. The realization made her ears lay back and caused her foot to thump.

The remainder of the ride to Precinct 1 was uneventful, except for the checkpoint at the perimeter of Savanna Central Plaza. The bongo in charge of the gateway—an officer the doe bunny didn't recognize—insisted on seeing both her and Swinton's badges before letting them pass.

When they entered Plaza Circle, Judy had to force the tears to stay away. It was nothing she hadn't seen already, but the overhead view from that news camera had given only the merest hint of what to expect at ground level.

Surveying the scenery in front of her, she couldn't help but remember the first time she'd seen The Plaza; a bright-eyed rookie from Bunnyburrow, fresh out of the Police Academy and ready to make the world a better place.

The world before her now seemed wholly beyond redemption. Savanna Central Plaza looked like it had been hit by either a bombing run, or a missile strike. The trees were gone, the coffee kiosks were nothing but scrap-heaps and not a single bench or tram-stop shelter remained standing. Council Rock had been reduced to a tumble of shards and stony fragments, and even now, in spite of the cloudburst earlier that morning, plumes of smoke were rising from every corner of the common. Police in tac-gear seemed to be everywhere, many of them glaring into the surrounding streets, as if daring the rioters to come back and try it again. The Department's Armored Fursonell Carrier had by now been hauled away, but a coal-black rectangle remained branded into the spot where it had burned, in stark testament to its fiery fate.

Swinton took them around to the rear of the precinct—and it was only when they entered the parking lot that Judy understood; Bogo had sent a damaged cruiser to pick her up because it was practically the only one left still running. She counted 1…2…3…4…at least nine other vehicles on the disabled list and likely to remain there for the foreseeable future. Two of them appeared fit only for the boneyard, and the bigger one could have almost been put through a car-compactor already.

Judy's nose began to twitch almost uncontrollably; yet another realization had dawned upon her. Precinct-1 was that short on vehicles—and Bogo had still seen fit to send one to collect her at her flat and bring her here.

And THAT could only mean…whatever he wanted to talk about, it was in regards to something urgent.

But…what? What could it be?

Swinton let her out at the precinct's rear entrance and then drove away without a word of farewell. Judy let it pass; she'd seemed dazed rather than angry…something the doe-bunny was starting to feel herself and in no small measure. If it hadn't been for the lingering ache in her side, she might almost have expected to wake up in her bed at any second. It had all been just a bad dream—thank God

Even so, she wished that Claire had hung around a while longer. She was going to need some help in getting upstairs to Bogo's office; that injured diaphragm didn't lend itself to climbing even a gentle slope. Well, maybe someone could assist her after she checked in with dispatch..

She was just reaching for the door handle when her cell-phone buzzed again—and there was no question of not taking the call. It was her mother on the other end.

"Judy!" was all she said when her face appeared…and it was all she needed to say; the worry lines, the reddened eyes, and the dark circles underneath them told the younger bunny everything she needed to know; if such a thing were possible, her mother looked even worse than Claire Swinton.

And she was supposed to be the Hopps Family's tower of strength!

"Judy, where are you?" Her sister Violet's face appeared behind mom, looking every bit as careworn as the elder rabbit.

"I'm at Precinct-1, Vi." Judy told her, adding quickly as an afterthought, "Don't worry, I'm all right."

"What about Erin, is she all right?" Her mother's voice was almost a sob.

"Oh my God," Judy felt herself go numb; felt her heart fall into tummy, and then all the way down to her feet. Erin, Erin…oh, HOW could she have forgotten about her little sister, locked up in Youth Detention? And there it was; that was why Chief Bogo had changed his mind about wanting her to come into work. There was no other possible explanation. Something had happened with Erin, and it wasn't anything good.

Or…had it? Bogo had only told her to come into the precinct; he hadn't said anything about wanting to talk to her fursonally.

"Oh, really?" her inner voice countered, "That's not what you said when you saw Swinton waiting at the…"

"Judy, a-are you there?"

Oops…dangit again!

"Sorry Mom, I don't know anything more than you do right now. I couldn't get through when I tried to call the precinct…"

"Neither could we," Violet spoke up in the background.

"…and I only just got here a minute ago; I haven't had time to speak to anyone yet. I'll call you back as soon as I know something, 'kay?"

"P-Please," her mother whimpered, "Please let Erin be all right," as if her bunny-cop daughter somehow had the power to make that happen.

And ohhh, how Judy wished that she did.

"I'm sure she's fine, Mom," she said, although she actually had no idea. "I'll call you back later, I promise."

"We know you will Jude." It was Violet this time; she appeared to have taken the phone off Bonnie's paws.

"Okay Vi," she nodded, "Listen, I've got to…"

"We understand, we won't keep you," Her older sister said, "talk to you soon."

"I'll call again, I promise," Judy assured her for the third time…and then rang off.

At the last door before entering the precinct lobby, she had to stop and take a moment to collect herself; recalling her former partner's favorite adage, 'Never let them see that they get to you.'

No, she wouldn't let her fellow officers see her distress. She especially would not let them see her cry.

The moment she entered the lobby, her promise became moot.

Not fifteen feet in front of her, Officers Fangmeier and Johnson were holding each other tightly and blubbering into one another's shoulders. Over by the wall, seated on a bench by himself, Officer Grizzoli was sending up a mournful howl at irregular intervals. Even the ever-thick-skinned Officer McHorn was affected; sitting with his face buried in his hooves and mumbling the same words over and over.

"Just kids…just kids…"

Judy looked away and kept going.

"All right Jude, keep it together, you know what you need to do."

She hurried over, as fast she could, in the direction of the dispatch desk. Even on a day like today, proper procedure was proper procedure. Before anything else, she needed to check in with Benjamin Claw…

Wha…? Where the heck was he? The desk appeared to be unoccupied; today, all days? Noooo, that couldn't be right, but where could he have…?

Just then, her sharp rabbit ears detected a faint scraping noise on the other side of the partition.

"Benjamin?"

At once, the plus-sized cheetah's face lifted up into view. And as anyone could have predicted, he looked nothing like his usual jolly self. His eyes, streaked with red, were so puffy that he almost appeared to be suffering from an allergic reaction. His cheeks were wet, and Judy could almost have sworn that a couple of his fur-spots were running like ink-blots in the rain. His mouth, meanwhile, had shrunk to the same small, inverted crescent that the doe-bunny had seen on the day he'd been transferred to the records department, 'down in the basement…by the boiler.' Only his immaculate uniform served to deny the image of hopeless sorrow. In all the time that the doe-bunny had known him, Benjamin Clawhauser had never come to work looking anything less than spruce and spotless. It was his one and only point of honor.

"Oh, hello Judy," he said, trying and failing to manage a smile.

Unable to think of anything else, she pointed to the dust-pan, held shakily in the big cat's right paw.

"What's that for Benjamin?"

He answered by aiming a pudgy finger at the ceiling up above. Following his lead, Judy saw only a misshapen, blackened oval where the overhead casement window was supposed to be. At first she didn't understand…until her eyes took note of a hint of wood grain in the mix. Plywood…it was covered over in plywood.

"The rioters," Clawhauser explained, as she brought her gaze level with his again, "Some of them managed to get up onto the precinct roof last night and break out the skylight…left a ginormous mess." By way of illustration, he hefted the dust pan, displaying a small collection of glass fragments. I tried to clean up earlier back here, but I…I missed a few."

He looked away, shamefaced, and that was all Judy could take. She hopped up onto the countertop, threw her arms around the plus-sized cheetah's neck and gave him a big hug.

Benjamin immediately hugged her back…drawing a sharp, painful wheeze from the injured doe-bunny. It was her own fault, really; in the rush of emotion, she had forgotten about her bruised diaphragm. Luckily, Benjamin heard the noise and quickly let go of her.

Before either one of them could say anything, a well-worn basso-profundo boomed out across the precinct lobby from somewhere high above.

"Right…everyone listen up!"

Judy and Clawhauser turned and looked upwards. Chief Bogo was standing on the top tier of the concourse with his hooves splayed out on the railing.

His appearance was almost the diametrical opposite of Benjamin Clawhauser. His uniform was rumpled and dirty, and had several buttons missing; his left sleeve was gone altogether.

His face, on the other hoof, was a portrait in stoicism; gleaming eyes, a hard-set brow, and a chin jutting defiantly outwards.

"There's no denyin' that the ZPD has taken a knock," he said, sweeping a steely gaze over the lobby below, "I'd even go so far as to say this is the worst disaster this department has suffered since the day I became police chief. No, I take that back, since the day I joined the force." He paused momentarily, and then went on. "We've lost nearly half the vehicles in our motor-pool, and the computers are still down—and we've no idea how long they're going to remain offline. At least five of our fellow officers are in hospital, and at least a third of the detainees in the youth jail got away and are still at large. It's an emotional time for all of us, and I wouldn't expect any member of the ZPD to carry on as if none of this had happened."

Before anyone could react, his thick, hard hoof came thundering down on the railing.

"But carry on, we must! We're still police officers and the City of Zootopia is still depending on us…now more than ever. It's a lot to ask; nobody knows that better than I do." For the first time since he'd taken his stance, his expression seemed to mellow, just ever so slightly, "But I also know my officers—and I know that you're up to the task, every single one of you. You are, without question, the finest group of policemammals it has ever been my privilege to know. You can do this; you can muddle through this crisis, I will never doubt that for a moment." He paused again, this time lifting a finger. "And here's something of which you can be certain. For all the damage they did last night, the rioters never got inside the precinct…and that's all due to your efforts, especially those of you who were trapped outside on the riot line, with no one to help you when the doors locked. You're heroes, every one of you—and you'll be getting the commendations to prove it." He snorted for effect and continued. "And one more thing; through the struggle ahead, know that I'll be right there behind you, and I'll always back your play, no matter what." His finger arced downward, pointed in the direction of the precinct's front entrance and from there across the plaza to City Hall.

"And so will the Zootopia City Council; even as I speak, they're meetin' in emergency session to work out a response to this crisis. And rest assured; this is no idle debating session going on over there, I have that on the best authority. Something will get done today."

He paused again looking over the lobby one more time…and then went into his peroration.

"So let's press on with our work as well, then. Let's put our shoulders to the task facin' us…and show the mammals of Zootopia that the miscreants may knock us down, but they can't KEEP us down—and they'll never, ever, ever knock us out!"

At first, the big, Cape buffalo's speech seemed to have no effect, greeted with only a velveteen silence.

But then, somewhere in the foyer, a pair of paws began to clap, and then another pair, and then a pair of hooves. In mere seconds, every officer present was applauding their chief, none more enthusiastically than Judy Hopps and Benjamin Clawhauser. And then someone cheered, and then someone else cheered…and then a chant began to swell.

"Bo-GO! Bo-GO! Bo-GO! Bo-GO! Bo-GO!"

And that was all it took to break the spell. At once the big Cape buffalo blew an angry, bellowing note, through both nostrils.

"Right, shut it, ALL of you! What d'yer think this is, a football game?"

The officers instantly silenced themselves…but the look of proud defiance on their faces still remained. Bogo nodded approvingly, and then allowed his gaze to wander over the lobby, eventually settling on the bunny cop perched atop the dispatch desk.

"Hopps, there you are; I'll see you in my office right away."

She immediately turned to Clawhauser, clutching at her side to illustrate her situation.

"Ummm, is there someone who can help me up the ramp?" she asked.

"I'll help you, Judy." a voice answered from behind—and when the doe bunny turned around, she saw at least half a dozen officers waiting to assist her. In this dark hour, in the aftermath of 'Hell-Night ', as it would soon become known throughout the precinct, there were no predators or prey species here, no bunnies, canines, big cats or hoofed mammals; no desert species, no semi-aquatic species, and no arboreal species. In Precinct-1today, in the wake of their Chief's address, there was nobody here but us police officers.

Several moments later, aided in her ascent by Kii Catano, Judy was knocking on the door to Bogo's office. On the way up, Kii had taken the opportunity to fill her in some more on the previous night's events—and it had led the doe-bunny to a swift and immediate conclusion; the Chief of the ZPD had never been one for beating around the bush—and so she decided that she wouldn't either. The second he opened the door, she asked it

"Hello, Chief; is this about my sister, Erin?"

Before he could even begin to reply, she already knew the answer. The set of his jaw and the flick of his ear said it all.

"'Fraid it is, Hopps…mostly. But there's more I've got to tell you, and it's not good news either, sorry to say." He stepped aside from the doorway, gesturing with a meaty hoof at the chair in front of his desk. "Come in and sit down…please."

Judy's ears locked up and her twitching nose went into an instant freeze-frame.

"'Please'…he said ' please?'  Oh, sweet cheez n' crackers, it's worse than I thought."

At least she wasn't going to have to wait to hear the news; as soon as she was in her chair. Bogo folded his hooves on his desktop and gave it to her straight

"At the present time Officer Hopps, your younger sister, Ms. Erin Janelle Hopps remains…unaccounted for."

Judy's whole world seemed to halt in its tracks. At any other time, she would have found such excess formality to be aggravating in the extreme.

Not now; it was the one thing she hadn't expected…an inconclusive response. Unaccounted for; Bogo didn't know anything more about Erin's situation than she did…any more than her MOTHER did!

Except…if her sister's whereabouts remained unknown it meant she hadn't stayed put in her cell and sheltered in place when the doors opened…the way she should have done.

And that was it; that was how Judy had managed to forget about her little sister until Mom had called. Until this moment she had assumed that the younger bunny would at least have enough sense to…

"Ohhhh, Erin, what's the MATTER with you?" She would have screamed it out loud if she'd been alone. "Why didn't you stay PUT, you dumb bunny?"

"Easy Jude," her inner voice countered, soothingly, "You don't KNOW what happened; Erin might have had a perfectly good reason for leaving her cell."

All right, maybe so, but that still didn't explain…

"Sir, how can…that…be?" Judy groped for each word as though it was a slippery fish. "Somebody must…know…something…I mean, what happened. Didn't…the surveillance cameras… pick up anything?"

Bogo took a short breath, his face morphing into a study in controlled anger.

"No Hopps," he told her flatly, "Our little silver-fox friend succeeded in disabling the recording system when he hacked into our data-base. We've got no footage at all from inside the precinct last night…or from the outside either, except for the city cams and the video from that dragonfly-copter Precinct-7 managed to get into the air." He pounded the desktop with his fist, causing several of the objects parked there to get up and dance. "The only thing we've got left on disc is a rather substantial collection of very rude messages!"

For a tick of the clock, Judy was unable to respond. What, the Chief thought CONOR was the hacker? No way; even in his worst moments, that boy would never dream of doing anything so cruel.

…Right?

Her chief, meanwhile, was still talking.

"None of the correctional officers on duty in Youth Detention saw anything either, I'm afraid. They took shelter in the Lieutenant's office when the sprinklers went off and then got locked inside. They couldn't see out the windows either; the detainees gobbed them up with wads of bathroom tissue."

"But what about those other kids?" Judy could hear the desperation in her voice; she didn't care. "One of them must have seen what happened to my sister."

Bogo rapped the desk again, but not as hard.

"No doubt one of them did," he muttered, as much for his own benefit as hers, "But so far, the only detainees willing to talk to us are the ones who didn't see her. The young mammals arrested along with your sister weren't even aware that she'd gone missing until they heard it from us." For the slimmest of seconds, his eyes darted away, and then came back again, harder than chips of onyx. "As f' the rest of 'em, they won't even tell us their names." His words must have prompted a look of despair on Judy's face, because he added a fast qualification, "Mind, though, we're not anywhere close to being done with taking their statements."

She felt like beating on the desk herself. Dangit, what was she supposed to tell her mother…or Violet?

But…wait a minute, hold it; another thought had just occurred to her. Maybe…just maybe…

"Sir…has anyone talked to either of those two young bunnies arrested at the Academy Auditions…Er, the ones caught trying to dig that tunnel under the stage?"

Bogo stared for a second with his ears flicking, as if trying to recall who she was talking about. Then they ceased their movements and he shrugged his shoulders. He remembered, but…

"I…don't know," he frankly admitted, indicating the blacked-out workstation on his desk as either an excuse or an explanation. "Why do you ask, Hopps?"

Judy mentally crossed her fingers.

"Because they're both from Bunnyburrow, Chief—and they know my sister; at least one of them does. If anyone might have some idea as to where she could have gone…"

Before she could finish, Bogo already had his phone out.

"Hullo, Lieutenant Barrow? Wha…who's this then? What? Hsing, are you still there…and what are you doing with Barrow's…? All right, never mind…there's a couple of young rabbits you're holding in Youth Detention, errrr…" He cupped a hoof over the receiver and looked at Judy.

"Max and Zack March," she told him.

"Max and Zack March," Bogo repeated into the phone, adding "Turns out they know the Hopps girl…yes, that's right, Officer Judy Hopps's sister, the one we've not located yet. Do you…?"

He pulled the phone aside and spoke to Judy again, "He's checking."

A moment of pregnant silence followed while they waited for the panda bear's return.

And then finally…

"Right…right then; and the other boy? Hold on a second." Bogo rummaged around his desktop until he found a pen and some scratch paper, "Right, which hospital? Mmm-hrm, d'yer know which room? Right then, we'll find out from here. Thanks, Hsing…and since you're on his phone, may I assume that Lieutenant Barrow is there, then?" He straightened up and his grip on the cell tightened noticeably. "No…I don't need to talk to him, I need YOU to get y'self home and get some sleep! Ahhh! Don't argue with me Hsing; that's an order. If I ring up Youth Detention again and find out you're still there… Ahhh, never mind just go home!"

He hung up, drumming thick, hard fingers on the desktop and fuming at no one in particular. "Mmmnnnngh…I blasted hate being so short hooved; y' can't threaten to suspend anybody."

"Ahhh, sir?" Judy was looking up at him, anxious and hopeful. She had caught the words, 'Which hospital?'

Bogo folded his hooves on the desktop again.

"The one boy, Zack, is still being held in Youth Detention, awaiting a release order. The other one…errr, Max, broke his ankle and got taken to St. Bart's."

The same hospital where SHE had been taken, after her fight with Conor—Judy couldn't help but remember. Good Lord; that seemed like ancient history now, even with the occasional jolt of pain in her side to remind her otherwise.

And that reminded her of something else.

"Sir, I know how difficult things are right now, but would it be possible for me to get a ride over to…?"

"Sit down Hopps, I haven't dismissed you yet."

"Oops, sorry Chief."

Crike, she hadn't even realized she'd been trying to get up from her chair. Luckily for her, Bogo wasn't that much of a hard-case. He was even good for a sympathetic nod.

"S'alright Hopps; I understand. I'd be anxious too, if it were my sister." But then the forbidding expression returned to his face; if anything he looked even grimmer than when she'd come in here. "But as I said in the beginning, there's more I've got to tell you." He looked away for a second, gritting his teeth, "And it just keeps gettin' worse and worse. According to Lieutenant Hsing, young Mister March received his injuries at the paws of a young coyote by the name of Craig Guilford," his eyes met hers again, "Who, I'm sorry to say, also remains unaccounted for."

Judy gasped before she even had time to process the information …and then she was unable to stifle her worst fears.

The odds against that renegade young coyote encountering Erin on the outside were somewhere in the neighborhood of astronomical.

But still, Judy knew, she was the officer who had collared him—and he'd spent the better part of the ride back to Precinct-1 swearing revenge not only upon her, but on all rabbits in general.

Oh yes…Craig Guilford was perfectly capable of exacting his vengeance upon the sister of the bunny-cop who'd busted him; of that, there was little, if any, doubt.

She needed to speak to Max and Zack March right now; no, make that five minutes ago!

But Bogo still had more to tell her.

"And," he was having trouble looking her way again, "That's not all of it either, I regret to say. You're familiar with Burrow County Deputy Mac Cannon…errrr, I actually want to say, do you know him?"

"Uhhh, yes sir," Judy answered, feeling once again as if the contents of her stomach was about to spill out all over the floor—even though by now her belly was largely empty. Oh please…not Mac. "Yes sir, I know him very well. Um, wha…what happened?"

To her surprise…and to her immense dread, the big Cape buffalo got up and came around his desk, laying a massive hoof on her shoulder. "He's in hospital too, I'm afraid, in the ICU. He was caught outside on a walkway when the cell doors opened and got beaten very badly by some of the detainees." His lips pulled inward and he looked away, patting his knuckles. He seemed to be trying to make up his mind about something.

Eventually, his eyes found hers again.

"Some of the young offenders who didn't get away are insisting that Deputy Cannon assaulted and then killed one their number, a young sand-cat named…ehhh, Sade Zakkir; I-I think that's how it's pronounce…"

"NO!" Judy was standing on her seat with her ears laid back. "No...no way! Mac would NEVER do a thing like that—especially not to another feline…"

"Sit down Hopps!" Bogo bellowed, getting right in her face to ensure that she obeyed him—which she did. "D'yer think I'D ever believe such drivel? Good God, you know me better than that!"

"Yes sir." Judy answered, thoroughly chastened. Yes she knew him, and no, he'd never buy into a rumor like that one.

But even so…oh no, poor Mac! And poor Erin; the bobcat deputy's daughter was one of her besties. And poor… Her ears wilted as she remembered the sand-cat from the nighttime jam session on the Beach Promenade. "No…!"

She looked up at the Chief. "Saad… He's not really…?"

He only looked at her, and then turned away, eyes cast downwards while he silently pinched the bridge of his muzzle. It was the nearest to weeping that he'd ever come in Judy Hopps's memory…and it hit her like a dagger through the heart.

She folded halfway over and stifled a sob.

"The trouble is," Bogo had returned once more to his desk-chair, plopping himself down with a sigh so heavy, it nearly muffled the squeak of the springs. "They believe it—the young mammals in Youth Detention, I mean—and I've no idea how long we can keep the lid on, or even if it can be kept on at all."

Judy could only nod dumbly. It was not at all inconceivable that the rumor had already begun to spread beyond the walls of Precinct-1. What was that old saying again? 'A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is still putting on its…'

Someone knocked on the door, drawing an angry scowl from The Chief.

"What?"

"Sir, it's Clawhauser," the familiar meek voice responded timidly.

Bogo turned up the volume a notch.

"What d'yer want? I'm busy."

"Uhhh, Sorry Chief," the plus-sized cheetah sounded like Oliver Twist, asking for more gruel. "But Lieutenant Tufts is somewhere in the building."

"What?" The big Cape buffalo stood up and blew a double barreled note through his nostrils, splaying his hooves on his desktop for good measure. "He's not s'posed to be anywhere near Precinct-1! And how'd he get in here anyway…and what d'yer mean; 'somewhere in the building?'"

"Uhhh, I don't know sir." Clawhauser answered the first question first. "He may have slipped in with a group of officers. But anyway, he came to the reception desk and said he wanted to see you. I told him that he couldn't even be inside the precinct lobby while he was under suspension, and that he had to leave…and well…"

The voice trailed off into a bewildered silence.

"And then what?" Bogo belled in exasperation, and then groaned and waved a hoof, even though he knew the cheetah couldn't see him. "All right, come."

Clawhauser cracked the door open and stepped inside with his hat in his paws.

"Yes, sir. Well, when I told him he had to leave, he jumped up on the reception desk, and then he just…disappeared."

"Dis-ap-PEARED?" Bogo spoke every syllable as if he was stapling it to a wall. Judy didn't know whether to feel sorry for Benjamin Clawhauser—or relieved that it was him and not her.

"Y-Yes, Chief." the big cat clutched his hat even more tightly, "I…WHOAAAA!"

Something squirmed out onto the big cat's shoulder from beneath one of his cheek folds, and then leapt down to the floor.

Chief Bogo was out of his seat like a jack-in-the-box. "TUFTS!"

"Wait Chief; hear me out first, please!" The Kaibab squirrel had his paws thrown up like a revivalist preacher. "You need to know this…and right now." His plea was so compelling even Judy was inclined to let him have his say.

Bogo, for his part, was less impressed, rolling his wrist and pretending to scowl at his watch. "Five minutes, then. As f' you, Clawhauser; back to your station."

"Yes sir," the plus-size cheetah responded, almost grazing the floor as he bowed out the way he had come.

When the door finally closed, Tufts took in a breath and let it out slowly.

"Chief…I heard what you said on ZNN earlier…and you're wrong. The Lewis boy didn't…"

"I've already heard that from Councilmember Nizhang!" Bogo cut him off with a wave of his hoof.

"But you didn't hear everything!" The tassel-eared squirrel was practically begging on his knees. "Not only is Conor Lewis innocent of perpetrating that cyberattack…I think he's the one that stopped it!"

THAT finally did it; the big Cape buffalo fell back in his chair, staring wide-eyed at Albert Tufts. So did Judy.

"And you know this…how?" Bogo eventually asked him, quietly and thoroughly perplexed.

Tufts flexed his paws and then clenched them, as if he was preparing to enter a boxing ring in a championship bout. "I know because he's the one who tipped me off about the cyberattack; called me on my cell phone last night to tell me about it."

"So he knew about it while it was happening," the big Chief snorted and then offered an icy glare. "Well then, doesn't that prove he was responsible for the attack?"

Whoa, even Judy had to admit he had a point there. With Precinct-1 locked down and rendered virtually incommunicado by the hack, how had Conor come to be aware that it was happening?

Bogo let out another snort; "And why didn't you tell me about this earlier?"

"I tried!" Tuft retorted, at last showing a little fire. "You've been blocking my phone calls, don't you remember?"

"Ahhh yes…uh, so I have," Bogo looked away, patting his hooves together and tempting Judy to pull out her cell-phone camera; you saw this animal looking embarrassed about as often as you saw a green sunset. She wouldn't have had time anyway; the Chief's discomfort lasted for only for about a second before it was gone. "But that wasn't the only reason for his call, I take it?" He was raising an eyebrow.

"No sir, it wasn't," Tufts responded in a near rush. "He called me because he thought I might have the kill codes for the servers, which I did, by the way." His whiskers twitched and tail flipped. "But I couldn't upload them remotely—not in the middle of a cyberattack—and I couldn't get into the precinct to try and upload them man…"

"You tried to get into Precinct-1…last NIGHT?" Judy spoke up for the first time since the squirrel's appearance, staring incredulously. "You're lucky you didn't end up in the ER, Lieutenant."

He only favored her with a toothy smirk.

"Well you know how it is, Hopps; when you're cute, it's pretty hard to be pegged for either a cop or a rioter." He was talking about his own species, not hers, and she took no offense; squirrels get that label at least as often as bunnies. It was one of the few things they had in common. "Anyway," he shrugged, "I just told anybody who asked that I was a dad, out looking for my kid. That pretty much did the trick."

"Huh, that was clever," Chief Bogo conceded from behind his desk. "But if YOU were unable to upload the kill codes remotely, how d'you know the Lewis boy did it, then?"

"Because when I got home this morning, I found out my home computer was in sleep mode." Tufts folded his arms and flipped his tail, "I was sure I turned it off before I left. So I checked and found out someone else had accessed the kill-codes after I was gone."

"Hmmm," Judy muttered stroking her chin, "Doesn't sound like the Conor Lewis I know; he'd never be that sloppy." She was playing the Devil's advocate. Tufts' computer had been hacked mere moments after he'd finished talking on his phone to the fugitive young silver fox. It was Conor all right, who else?

"Unless he wasn't being careless," the squirrel counted, cocking a finger, "Unless he left my computer that way on purpose. And that's exactly what I think he did; his way of making sure we'd know that he was the one who uploaded those kill-codes." He looked up at Bogo, "and to make sure that HE wouldn't be blamed for last night's cyberattack." His tail flipped a third time. "You won't know for certain whether it or not was him until the servers are back online, but facts are facts. That fox-kid had both the kill codes and the will to upload them; you should have heard him on the phone last night. " He spoke without either malice or self-importance…but Bogo winced as if he'd accidentally sat on a wasp.

"Mmmnnnggh…I s'pose I'll have to issue a retraction then," he grumbled, tossing a pen onto his desktop. He sounded not unlike a kid who knows it's his turn to take out the garbage.

Judy, however, had not yet come around, not completely.

"Why would he want to steal those codes; why didn't he just ask you for them?"

For the first time since he'd entered the office, Tufts assumed his familiar, arrogant appearance. His eyes narrowed and his lip curled into a superior smirk. And then he turned and looked upwards at Bogo. "I'll let the Chief answer that. Sir, if I'd come in here and told you that I'd voluntarily given those kill-codes to the Lewis boy—where would I be right now?"

"In a holding cell downstairs," Bogo snorted, regarding him with a frosty smile, "awaiting your arraignment."

"Ohhhh, right." Judy had never wanted so badly to give herself a face-pawlm. If Tufts hadn't been here, she would have. Hand over the kill codes to a wanted fugitive—yeah, riiiight. "And of course, Conor would have known that too," she said, hoping to pre-empt any further condescension on the Kaibab squirrel's part.

In another time and place, that might have been a necessary action. Not today; he simply nodded and looked up at Bogo again.

"That's pretty much all I have, Chief. If you want me to bring in my home computer for analysis, I'll be happy to comply. Errr, Hopps, can you get the door for me?"

"Just a moment there, both of you," Bogo interrupted. He slid open a desk drawer, and extracted a small, rounded object which he flipped through the air like a coin.

Tufts caught it nimbly, and only then was Judy able to make it out for what it was—a police badge. She felt her ears go back but said nothing.

"In light of current events," the big Cape buffalo intoned gravely, "and with the understanding that, at the present time, the ZPD is seriously short-staffed, I have made the decision to temporarily—temporarily—reinstate you as an officer of the Zootopia Police Department." Before either the squirrel or Judy could react, Bogo leaned across his desk, aiming a finger like a thunderbolt. "But hear ME out, Lieutenant; you make another blunder like that last one and I won't just have your badge, I'll have your tail for a dishrag. And no, I'm not canceling your disciplinary hearing, I'm only postponing it—although how well you perform going forward will have a bearing on how it turns out." He withdrew the finger, replacing it with a glowering face, "Am I making myself quite clear?"

"Perfectly sir," the Kaibab squirrel answered. His tail was shivering like a whip-antenna in an earthquake.

"Good," Bogo sat back in his chair and pointed again—first at his workstation, and then at the door. "Priority number one; get that computer back online! I want it up and running yesterday, understand? And yes, I DO want you to bring in your home computer for analysis….no, wait, I need you here. Never mind…leave your keys at the reception desk on your way down to the server room. I'll have Clawhauser send someone to go and fetch it."

"Yes, sir," the squirrel answered quickly, "I'll get on it right away. Errr, Hopps can you get the door now?"

"May I ask you something first?' she said, struggling to keep the tension out of her voice…and her ears from laying back again. "Why, Lieutenant? Why would you, of all mammals, come to Conor Lewis's defense? I thought you couldn't stand that fox-kid."

"That's right, I can't," he admitted with his tail flipping. "It'd make my life to see that little troublemaker put away for the next ten years." His expression muted slightly. "But there's something else I despise even more than him; remember what they taught us, back at the Academy? 'Every time an innocent mammal goes to jail…'"

"'…A guilty one gets away with it.'" Both Judy and Bogo capped the line.

"Right," Tufts chittered, clenching his paws into knots, "And the last thing I want, in this life or the next, is for whoever DID hit us with that cyberattack to take a walk!"

He gestured towards the door again, and this time there were no interruptions.

When Judy turned around after letting it close, she saw Bogo regarding her with a raised eyebrow.

"You don't approve of my action, Hopps?"

She was more than ready for that one. "Yes sir…and no. I don't disapprove of your decision; in your place, I'd have probably done the same thing."

"But…?" his eyebrow arced up even higher.

Now, at last, Judy let her ears pull backwards. "But that doesn't mean I have to like it, sir. If Lieutenant Tufts hadn't tried to coerce the Lewis boy into giving himself up the way he did, my sister Erin would be home in Bunnyburrow right now, celebrating her acceptance into the Performing Arts Academy with her friends." Her foot began to thump; she didn't try to stop it. "And that riot and that cyberattack would probably never have happened."

For a second, she wondered if she'd gone too far…but Bogo only pursed his lips polishing his knuckles with his other hoof. "For what it's worth, Hopps, I don't like it any more than you. Councilmember Nizhang's probably going to have a conniption when she hears about it…and I can hardly blame her." He spread his hooves and fell back in his chair. "But there it is; until we can get that computer back online, we're flying blind, deaf, and dumb. And Lieutenant Tufts is still the best animal we've got for helping to make that happen."

Once again Judy could only nod dumbly…only this time without any feelings of contrition.

Then her cell-phone began to buzz again.

Had the moment not been getting awkward, she probably wouldn't have taken the call…but it was and so she pulled her phone from its holder without thinking—or even looking at the screen.

"This Ju…. Nick? Nick, what are you doing? You know we're not supposed to… Nick, this isn't a good ti…WHAT? You're kidding. You're not kidding… How did you ever find…? Oh, my God, are you sure? Mmmmm…yes…yes. No need; I'm here with Chief Bogo right now. Just a second," She stood up on her chair, holding her cell out in his direction. "Sir…I-I-I think you're going to want to hear this."

Chapter 39: The Cascade Effect, (Continued...Part 2)

Summary:

Meanwhile...on the other end of Judy's phone-call...

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 7—The Cascade Effect
(Cont'd…Part 2)

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Monday. 08:11 EST, Zoo York City, Zoo York

"Aggggh, grrrr….not again!"

"Still can't get through?" Martin Pennanti looked over from the driver's seat with a concerned expression on his face.

"No," Nick waved his cell as if attempting to get the fisher's attention, "Same message as before; 'All circuits are busy, please try your call again later.'" It was a good thing the windows were up, the fox reflected. Otherwise, he'd be tempted to pitch his cell-phone into oblivion.

Being a crepuscular species, he hadn't been bothered when Pennanti had called at 7 that morning, summoning him to a meeting. Or that is, he wouldn't have been bothered if it hadn't been for all the stinking jet lag; for him it was 5 AM right now. And the weather wasn't helping either; it was seriously muggy in Zoo York this morning. By mid-afternoon this place was going to make The Rainforest District seem like Tundratown. Well, at least his guide's car had air conditioning, but uhhh…why had he jumped on this assignment again?

"That's not so good, Nicky," Pennanti was frowning deeply, "Forgive me for stating the obvious, but you got something serious going on over there." He pointed at the car deck, where a song by an Italian rock band the fox had never heard of was playing.

♪ "Senza dirmi una parola
Sei fuggita all'improvviso
Hai capito forse che ti amo?" ♫

"Wanna check and see if there's anything on the news?" the fisher asked him.

Nick almost said yes, but then hesitated…he wouldn't need to report in until after the upcoming meeting.

"Mmmmm, noooo…I need to keep focused on the task ahead, if you know what I mean."

"Good mammal," Pennanti nodded approvingly, "Okay, now here's how this sit-down is going to work. After I introduce you, I'm gonna take off and leave you guys alone. Then you can start asking your questions. When you're done, call me on my cell and I'll come get you, got it?"

"Mmm, yeahhh," Nick answered slowly and dubiously, "Why do you need to leave us alone though?" So far, his companion's thoughts and ideas had been valuable in the extreme; it would have been useful to have him there.

"Coz my guy says so," Pennanti gave him a hard look, and then shrugged. "I dunno why, but if that's how he wants it, that's how he gets it; he's taking a big chance, even agreeing to meet with you." He sighed and rapped the steering wheel. "You may as well know, Nicky; the word's out at One Police Plaza—straight from the Commissioner's office no less—keep the fox in a holding pattern and keep your distance…or else."

It didn't take a great deal of reckoning on Nick's part to figure out which fox Commissioner Waghorn had been referring to. More and more, he was beginning to hope he'd never have to meet that Aurochs bull face to face—although deep down he knew the confrontation was inevitable.

"So, who am I meeting with today," he queried, "another police officer?"

"Yep, that's the deal," the fisher answered, honking his horn at a car that had just cut in front of him—and getting a rude gesture for the effort. "Ahhh, that's one of the things I miss about being a cop, Nicky; if a guy did that back in the day, I could put on the lights and watch 'im melt. Anyway, that's all I'm gonna tell you about my guy for now. I'll give you the full details when I make the intro."

"Okay," the fox replied, and then turned to look out the window at the passing scenery. Whoa, he just felt so out of his depth here. Back in Zootopia, a quick glance at his surroundings was all it took to know exactly where he was. Here in Zoo York; for all he knew, Martin Pennanti might be driving him to…to…

Sayyy, wait a minute! Dumb fox, he should have at least asked….

"Uhhhh say Martin…where are we going anyway?"

"Uptown, to The Cloisters," the fisher replied, and then anticipating Nick's next question, followed up with a brief explanation. "It's an annex of the Metropolitan Museum of Art—big collection of medieval artwork. They got The Hunt of the Unicorn tapestry in there, and a whole bunch of other interesting pieces. It'll just now be getting ready to open up for the day, so there won't be any crowds yet, capisce?"

"Right I got it," the red fox nodded. He might be a newbie to this city, but he was no stranger when it came to meeting someone on the sly—and he knew a thing or two about how to handle himself in that kind of situation.

None of this prepared him for his first look at The Cloisters. Holy Foxtrot, no wonder Pennanti had chosen this location for a meeting place. The fisher's Coltsmobile had pulled away from the curb in Barklyn, Zoo York—and now it was pulling up in front of a Tuskan Monastery. It was all there, the boxy architecture, the stucco exterior, the high, arched windows, a towering, ivy-covered, greystone wall, angular, sloping roofs, topped off with terra cotta tile, and even a squat, square-tipped bell tower.

Getting out of the car, Nick made a beeline for The Cloisters front entrance, only to be halted in his tracks by a two-fingered whistle.

"Not that way Nicky, follow me." Pennanti was beckoning with a sweep of his arm.

"'Kay," the fox replied, performing a puzzled about-face, "but if we're not going in through the front door, why'd you park so close to it?"

Pennanti answered with an exaggerated shrug, "Hey, in this town if you see a parking spot, you grab it, and don't worry if there might be something closer to where you're going. Now, c'mon…my guy gave me till ten minutes from now and if we're not at the meet-point by then, he won't be."

He turned and strode briskly away with the red fox hurrying to catch up.

A moment later they were standing in front of a roll-up service door, around the backside of the museum. There was a bell and an intercom, but Pennanti ignored them both, instead knocking with the flat of his pawlm in an odd pattern: two fast raps, two slow raps, and then three more fast ones.

As the door began to rise, he turned and spoke to Nick.

"This isn't him, paisan; he's just the guy, gonna let us in."

"Right gotcha," the fox answered, hiding his chagrin. That was exactly what he would have thought if he hadn't been informed otherwise; this fisher was one sharp mammal.

Pennanti, meanwhile, was baring his teeth and making lifting gestures at the door. "Cmon….C'mon, you under sedation here or WHAT?"

When it came up all the way, they found themselves in the presence of a slightly grizzled, slightly paunchy cougar in a slate-gray security guard's uniform. Though a relative newcomer to law enforcement, Nick Wilde was a hard-bitten veteran when it came to sizing someone up—and this cat had 'retired cop' practically written all over him.

His manner was half jolly, half sardonic.

"Don't look at me, Marty; I been complaining about that door since the day I started work here."

"Lemme guess," the fisher replied, equally satirical. "Every time you do, they tell you it's in next year's budget, right?"

"You got it," the cougar sniggered, and then became serious, "But never mind; your guy's waiting for you over by the chapel. Better hurry, if you want to catch him."

Pennanti nodded then gestured to Nick. "Thanks Sammy. Okay, let's go, paisan."

"No charge," the cougar replied, hitting the button to close the door.

They found the animal they were looking for standing by the chapel entrance, pretending to read a visitor's guide. There was no need for Pennanti to point him out; Nick recognized him at once—and when he did, his jaw nearly hit the floor.

He was an elk…the SAME elk that had rousted him during his visit to One Police Plaza.

"What the FOX?"

In lieu of a greeting, he folded away the visitor's guide and nodded tersely at Pennanti, ignoring the fox beside him as if he wasn't there.

"You barely made it, Lieutenant; one more minute and I'd have been out of here." He glanced nervously in the direction of the door, "You sure you weren't followed?"

Pennanti spread his arms in a, 'what-are-you-kidding?' gesture.

"Hey Willie-Boy, it's me over here."

The elk lifted his muzzle and stretched his neck downward, as if preparing to bugle.

"Yeah, yeah…easy for you to say, bub; if Chief Anthill finds out I so much as gave you the time of day…" he shuddered slightly, unable to complete the sentence. "All right, let's go upstairs."

He led them to the bell tower and a winding, four-cornered staircase. It only went up to the third floor, but that was as high as they could have gone anyway. There was nothing above the sparsely furnished wooden platform but a triple phalanx of church-bells.

"Oh-kayyy," Penannti put his paws on his hips. "You pretty much know Nick's story, Willie-Boy, but he doesn't know yours, so…" he turned to the fox, gesturing upwards with a paw at the animal they'd come to see. "Nicky, this is Sergeant Bill, 'Willie-Boy', Wapiti. On the day of the Finagles raid, he was one of the guys running crowd control. If anybody coulda got out of there…"

"Hey, I already told you…!" the elk interrupted but was silenced by a wave of the fisher's paw.

"If anyone would know something, it's him. Okay, I'm gonna leave you alone now and head back downstairs."

As he watched his companion descend out of sight, Nick finally understood something; why they were meeting here and why Wapiti wanted to speak with him alone. It wasn't that he didn't trust Martin Pennanti, just the opposite. Those stairs were the only way in or out of this bell-tower, and so narrow that even if he and the fisher had come here alone, they still would have been obliged to make their ascent walking in single file. Yes, this way his companion could keep watch and alert them if the ZYPD showed up. Of course, they'd be trapped up here if that happened…or, would they? He strongly suspected that there was another exit from this place and that it was well-known to both his host and the animal he'd come to meet.

There was, however, something else that he couldn't quite wrap his head around.

He turned and spoke to the elk.

"Before we get started, Willie Boy…"

At once he found himself looking down the barrel of a 'talk-to-the-hoof' gesture.

"Pennanti calls me that, Fox. YOU don't…got that?"

Ohhhh, this was getting off to a great start!

"All right, sorry…Sergeant Wapiti, then," Nick moved on as smoothly as he could. And then he lowered one eyebrow while raising the other, "Why are you doing this? The first time we met, back at One Police Plaza, you were halfway ready to throw me into a holding cell."

Now the elk was showing him both hooves, but this time in a defensive gesture. "That was Anthill's orders, not me okay?" And then, surprisingly, his tone became almost reverential. "And that was before I found out you were hooked up with Martin Pennanti. The brass may hate that fisher's guts…but to the cops on the street he's the GOAT." He looked away, lowering his voice and speaking mostly to himself. "If we had our way, he'd be Commish right now…"

It was an explanation Nick hadn't asked for, but one that he was glad to hear. So the antagonism against his guide wasn't universal; it was a good thing to know.

However, that wasn't what he'd come here to find out. And if he was going to find out anything, he would need to get his diplomat on. He looked up at the elk, allowing his ears to fall backwards.

"I heard what you started to say back there; that no one could have gotten out of Finagles on the day of that raid without the ZYPD spotting them. All right, I accept that, but indulge me, please; I'm new around here. How do you know this?"

Wapiti cracked his knuckles, looking thoughtful for a second, "Ahhh, where to begin? Okay, first of all, we had Finagles under surveillance for more than five days before we went in. Nobody was seen leaving that place who didn't return on the day of that raid…uh, for that meeting the Company was having. Every service vehicle seen making a stop at Finagles—and there were only three of 'em—was searched, top to bottom, after it left the premises. Trust me, if during that time period your diamond guy had passed in or out of that joint we'd have known about it. We had every street covered for two whole blocks; we had drones, remote cameras, aerial surveillance, even satellite imaging. That club was on our scopes like you wouldn't believe."

Nick felt his ears rising and had to force them to stay down; that sounded like a few too many resources for even the ZYPD to possess. He wanted very much to pursue the subject, but had a feeling that if he did, Wapiti would summarily end the interview.

In any case it wasn't relevant, and so he kept his mouth shut and just listened.

"The area where Finagles used to be is all built up now," the elk was saying, "but back in the day, it pretty much sat out by itself with a big parking lot on one side. That's where we set up our police cordon; on the edge of that lot. There was nothing between us and that club but a big stretch of open ground with nowhere to hide except a few light poles. Nobody was getting across No Mammal's Land—that's what we called it—without us making him, not even the littlest rodent." He paused and folded his arms, "and your diamond mule had to be bigger than rodent size anyway."

"And…was the front door the only way in or out of that club…on that side I mean…was there any other exit?" Even to Nick, it sounded weak, but it was the only thing he could think of.

Wapiti's answering head shake, however, was as firm as a marble column.

"Even if there was, it wouldn't have done any good; you'd still have had to get from there to the other side of the police line without being seen. And anyway, there wasn't; I'm telling you, Wilde, we had that place owned. We had schematics, blueprints—even the original plans from more than 175 years ago, when the place was built as an icehouse. We knew every possible way in or out of Finagles, and we had every single one of 'em clocked."

"Oh-kayyy," Nick puffed out his cheeks, sorely tempted to pose his second question. Instead he skipped to the third one. "But that only covers the front side, what about the back side?"

To his immediate surprise, the elk responded with a big, broad grin.

"Hey, if anybody could of gotten out that way, Pennanti would have already told you."

"Wha…What?" This time Nick allowed his ears to rise.

"That's the side where Full House went in," Wapiti pointed as if the door was right in front of them …while the ears of the fox he was addressing commenced to working back and forth in even more confusion.

"The Full…WHO?"

"The team of detectives Pennanti headed up, before he pulled the pin." The elk rolled his hoof in the air as he spoke, "Yeah, they managed to get into the club ahead of everybody else…"

Nick hastily raised a paw. He would have loved to know more about this…but a promise is a promise. "Okay, I have to stop you right there. I said when I got here that I didn't come to Zoo York to make trouble over the Finagles raid—and that sounds an awful lot like trouble to me. Unless what you're about to tell me has any bearing on the identity of that diamond courier, you probably shouldn't be talking about it."

"Ohhhh, right, right, right;" Wapiti lowered his gaze, shuffling his hooves like a school-calf called before the teacher. "Noooo, it doesn't…but you get the idea. If anyone had tried to get out that way, he'd have known it for sure. I will say this though. The Full House didn't make it into Finagles without being spotted themselves; they were seen, but they got away with it coz they made their move AFTER the balloon went up. Everyone thought at first it was part of the Op…and you better believe they didn't get out again without being noticed."

A deep frown began to crease its way around Nick's muzzle. There was something important in the elk's words, a clue. But for the life of him, he couldn't get a grip on it.

Sooo, he figured he might as well go back to the question he'd bypassed earlier.

"Mmmmm, all right, I get it. But none of this is anything Martin Pennanti couldn't have told me—so, why'd he want me to meet with you in the first place?"

"Beats me," the elk admitted, honestly, "you're right, there's nothing I told you here that he doesn't know himself."

Okay, yes, the red fox mused; but Pennanti wouldn't have set up this meeting in the first place if he didn't think there was information to be had. Hmmmm, perhaps a change of gears was in order.

"All right…is there anything you can tell me that he wouldn't know?"

Nick had no idea where that question had come from, but knew at once it was the right one to ask.

Wapiti angled his head and pulled at his chin.

"Not much that I can think of, to tell you the truth. Hmmmm, well him and his crew couldn't see what was happening over on my side of the club…but it was pretty much the same thing that always goes down when the ZYPD sets up a police cordon; a zillion gawkers, trying to sneak past the barricades for a closer look at the action."

Nick folded his arms and nodded knowingly. That was one thing their respective police departments had in common.

"Yeah, we get the same thing in Zootopia," he said…and immediately wished he hadn't. His last experience with a crowd of rubberneckers had been during the Flora and Fauna fire.

"Pred and prey…keep away!"

"Not like before the Finagles raid, I bet," the elk was grinning again, and warming to his subject, "Craziest scene ever; I even had these two slacker kids show up and try to pass themselves off as a news team."

"What, really?" Nick was staring in amazement. Okay-y-y. Zoo York City had Zootopia beat in that department, at least.

"Yep, swear to God," Wapiti raised hoof while putting the other one over his heart. "I'll never forget 'em. A guy sable and a chinchilla girl, both of 'em looking like they were dressed for a swap meet…had this old, old camcorder with them, the kind that used VHS tapes, still had the yard-sale tag on it." He lifted his head and blew a note at the ceiling. "Whoo and you should have seen that van they were driving; rolling junkyard. Bald tires, dents all over it, no front grill, and all done up in primer. To this day, I still can't figure how that rig was even still running—or how the heck they were able to drive it; way too big for either of their species."

"Mmmmm," Nick just nodded, trying not to think about Finnick and HIS van, now in little better shape than that one, thanks to…noooo, don't go there.

"Oh and get this,'' the elk was saying, "On the side it said 'Free Net News Serfice'—that's 'service' spelled with an 'F'—put on with stencils and day-glo spray paint."

All right, that was too much for even a hustling fox to take. Nick threw back his head in a hearty laugh, joined by the elk he had come to meet.

After what seemed like a good ten minutes he was finally able to speak again.

"Don't tell me, let me guess; when you told them to clear out, they started yapping about freedom of speech and the rights of the press."

Wapiti cocked a finger and winked. "You got it Wilde, the whole nine yards." His hooves went to his hips and his lip curled up in a cervine sneer, "I swear, if there hadn't been a crowd watching…I would have picked those idiots up and thrown them back over the barricades."

Nick felt his head tilting sideways. Even for Zoo York City that sounded a little excessive. But then, Wapiti hadn't actually done it, and so...

"So, did they finally take the hint or did you have to get the cuffs out?"

"Nah, they took off on their own, thank God," the elk answered him, fanning a hoof and then shaking his head—a wee bit exasperated, even three years after the event, "But then no sooner were they gone, then along comes this silver fox kid, trying to…huh? Wilde what is it?"

Nick didn't hear the question; only the same three words that kept repeating in his head like a drumbeat.

"Silver fox kid; silver…fox…kid."

No way…it couldn't be.

Could it?

"Ummm. can you hold on for just a second?" He made a fast draw for his cell phone, hoping he'd brought it with him. He had, but dangit, he'd left it turned off. He pressed the power button and waited…and noticed that Sergeant Wapiti was giving him a VERY evil eye. "I'm just looking for a picture," he told the elk, fighting off a rising panic. Aggghh, grrrr…okay, his phone was powered up but where was that icon for the photo album? Okay, there it was but where was that…? He began to scroll rapidly. "Just bear with me for a second, please. I promise I won't use the camera or make any ca…"

Success…there it was. He turned the phone around and showed it to the elk.

"This is probably a goose-chase but take a look please. That silver fox kid you just mentioned…is this him?"

Wapiti took the phone and looked at it—and then immediately held it away as if it was giving off radiation.

"Yeah, that looks like him…sorta." He scrutinized the screen more closely for a second and then looked down at Nick again. "Who is he?"

Ohhhh, there were so many answers to that question…but only one that would bring in the desired response.

Nick pointed to his arm—where the bite marks had long since faded, but the fur had not yet grown back all the way.

"He's the kid who gave me this," he told the elk, sounding properly grim. At once Wapiti's ears went back, and his left hoof pawed the floorboards. Nothing, absolutely nothing, gets a police mammal's dander up like an assault on a brother officer…no matter what city they hail from.

"No kidding? Oooo, I hope you nailed that punk good."

Nick sighed and pretended to shrug, reminding himself not to lay it on too thick. "I did; that's the good news. The bad news is, he escaped from custody the day after his arraignment. As far as I know, he's still at large."

"Son of a…" Wapiti pounded at an invisible wall and studied the picture a second time, frowning and scratching behind an ear, seemingly trying to remember something. Then he stopped and snapped his fingers. "I can't see his eyes in this photo, Wilde….but are they like a glowing amber in color, kinda like…mmmm, burning coals?"

Jackpot! Nick was barely able to contain his elation. Yes…just as he'd suspected all along, but never dared to suggest to anyone else…

…Until now!

No wait, scratch that; not now. To Martin Pennanti maybe, but not to this individual; he had already revealed himself as a careless talker—nearly bringing up the sordid side of the Finagles raid without any kind of prompting.

"Yep that's him," he said, shaking his head as if in disbelief. "And talk about Karma—part of the reason I was sent here is because my Chief wanted to get me as far away from that kid as possible."

Wapiti folded his arms again, nodding like a wise, old shaman. "'Fraid you might take that bite fursonally, huh? Yeah, I can relate. What's the kid's name anyway?"

"Conor Lewis," Nick told him, tacking on a hopeful note. "I uh, don't suppose that name rings a bell?" He was sure it wouldn't, but you never knew.

Sure enough, it didn't

"Nope, never heard of him,"

Nick flipped a paw back and forth, in a 'no big deal' gesture

"Didn't think you would; that's not his real name anyway…but, uh…by any chance did you see which way he went."

"Sorry," Wapiti shrugged, eyes darting in the direction of the stairs, "once he was back behind the police line, he wasn't my problem anymore." He sounded more than a shade defensive and Nick thought he knew why; the elk was just now beginning to realize something. Three years previously, however unwittingly, he had aided a felon in making his escape from the law.

And that called for a little quick reassurance.

"Yeah, right…you had to be on the lookout for the next line jumper…and who'd a thunk back then that the kid would end up being wanted by the ZPD someday?"

"Yeah, right!" Wapiti echoed rapidly, all but pouncing on the opening Nick had given him; no that fox-kid hadn't been the diamond courier; of course he hadn't…and so there'd been no valid reason to detain him.

Nick believed otherwise, but wasn't about to say so…not merely to offer the elk some peace of mind but again because he didn't want his theory to go any further up the ZYPD chain of command. What he'd just learned wasn't gold, it was solid platinum.

"I've got you punk…I've got you! If you were The Company's diamond mule, no WAY can Bogo not let me go after you. And grrrrr, when I get my paws on you, you're going to fox-scream every time you even THINK about what you did to Judy."

But then Wapiti looked hastily at his watch; sheesh what a nervous Nellie.

Or…were the Zoo York PD brass hats really that fearsome?

"Ummm, listen Wilde…" he started to say, but Nick was already raising a paw.

"Okay-y-y, I think I've heard enough." He pulled out his cell-phone and hit 'speed dial'. "Marty, we're done up here; we're coming back down."

"Uh, negative Nick; send Willie Boy down, but you stay up there for a few, okay?"

"No problem," the red fox replied, with an air of self-reproach. Right, right; they shouldn't be seen leaving together. He was about to disconnect, when Wapiti held out a hoof in his direction. "Lemme talk to him for a sec, okay?"

Nick obligingly passed him the phone; it looked like a toy in the elk's big hoof.

"Okay Pennanti, I did what you asked…so we're even now, right?"

As he listened to the reply, Wapiti's ears laid back and his nose wrinkled as if he'd just caught a whiff of a particularly foul odor. For perhaps a second or two, Nick was afraid that his phone was going to break; the elk was clutching it in practically a death-grip.

"It helps? It HELPS! That's all you got to say?" He blew an angry bugle from the depths of his throat. "Mooeeeeee-AH! I should have known better; stinkin' member of the weasel family. Just get out of my life for a while, okay?"

He tossed the phone back to Nick—almost threw it really—and then went stomping off in the direction of the stairs without even so much as a farewell glance.

Nick watched him go with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. What the heck could Pennanti have done to put him that deep into his debt?

He gave it a minute or two, and was just about to make his own exit when the fisher surprised him by appearing at the head of the stairs. He took an immediate step backwards…and then another one. The look on his guide's face was somber in the extreme.

"Better siddown Nicky," he said, waving his paw in the direction of a dirt-smeared workbench, parked against a wall. "I got news, and it's gonna sting."

Seating himself so skittishly that he forgot to wipe off the bench first, Nick looked up with a trembling tail. "Um…all right, what?"

The fisher's jaw—and his fists—all clenched simultaneously.

"It just came over the wires, Nicky; Sammy Miklos told me about it. Your ZPD got hit by a cyberattack last night."

Nick was back on his feet in a nanosecond. "No!"

"Yep, 'fraid so," Pennati replied, pursing his lips into a thin flat line. "That's why you couldn't get through on your cell."

For what seemed like an eternity, the fox was unable to speak. The ZPD…a cyberattack? That wasn't just impossible, it was unthinkable. How? Who? And WHY? When he finally found his voice again, the best he could manage was two short words.

"How bad?"

"Really bad, Nick," Pennanti told him, laying a paw on the fox's shoulder, "There was a crowd of kids, protesting outside ZPD HQ when the attack went down. They rioted when they saw, and then the whole thing just snowballed. Long story short, your Savanna Central Plaza's a total wreck; che infame, you should have seen that helicopter footage!"

No, Nick silently disagreed—no, he shouldn't.

And he didn't want to see it, although he knew that sooner or later, he'd have to.

The fisher, meanwhile, had plenty more to tell him.

"Their main target was Juvenile Detention…the hackers I mean. They let all the kids out of their cells and then opened the doors leading out to the street. There's no details yet on how many got away, but it was a lot."

For the second time in less than half a minute, Nick was dumbstruck. Protesters…what protesters? Chief Bogo hadn't said anything about protesters the last time they'd talked. And what the heck had they been protesting?

And another riot…ANOTHER one? Oh Lord, he hoped Judy had been home at the time.

And why had the hackers targeted the youth jail? Wait, hold it…Pennanti had called the protesters 'kids'. Could there be some kind of connection? Heck yes, there was; he knew it in the core of his bones.

But…did that mean…could Conor possibly have had anything to do with that cyberattack?

"Wake up Nick, and do your job!"

THAT brought him right back down to mother earth.

"About TIME you showed up," the red fox snarled at his inner voice. To Martin Pennanti he said, "What about casualties? Did they say?"

"At least a couple dozen," the fisher replied, angrily slapping his paws together, "Didn't say how bad, or how many were cops." He took in a short, sharp breath. "And at least one killed…one of the kids in Juvie Detention. Can't say I'm surprised; there's nothing like a jailhouse rumble for settling old scores."

Nick could only nod in agreement—before shaking himself and trying to shake off his fury.

"Come on Slick, keep it together. You know what you need to do."

"Except I CAN'T!" he lamented, realizing only too late that he'd said the words out loud.

"Huh, what's that, Nicky?" Pennanti was peering at him with a tilted head and a raised eyebrow.

Nick responded by pulling out his cell again, holding it up like Exhibit 'A'.

"I picked up some very valuable information from Sergeant Wapiti upstairs," he said, "the kind that needs to be relayed right now!" He waggled the phone and repeated himself, "Except I CAN'T!"

"Aw, cripe!" The fisher grimaced as if he'd just come upon a particularly grisly crime scene. "Okay then Nicky…only one thing to do. You got your chief's fursonal cell number in there…or anyone else in your department?"

As a matter of fact, the fox did…but he was loathe to make use of it, especially after his trip down the dark side of Memory Lane only a few short moments ago.

Ahhh heck…who was he kidding? He was really afraid of hearing that she'd been hurt again.

He turned the phone over and pressed the button for his contacts list…scrolling quickly to the letter 'C'.

As the call began to buzz, he found himself half-hoping that she wouldn't pick up.

But of course she did. "This is Ju..."

Nick brought the phone in close to his ear, and began to talk rapidly.

"Carrots, it's Nick. Don't hang up, this is…Sorry but …Yes, I know, but I can't…Will you please listen for just a…? CARROTS, CONOR WAS THE DIAMOND COURIER!"

That did the trick…in more ways than one. All around him animals were staring, goggle-eyed. At least two were putting fingers to their lips, and one old muskrat was wagging her finger. "Quiet there, who do you think you are?"

As for Martin Pennanti, his arms were crossed and he was patting his elbows, gazing upwards at the ceiling as if to say, 'I have NO idea who this fox is.'

Nick couldn't have cared less…about any of it. At last Judy was listening to him.

"Come on Carrots, you know I'd never kid about a thing like that." He chewed on his lip and then sucked on it. "Uhhh, that's kind of a long story. Uh, noooo, I'm not entirely sure. But he was definitely seen outside of Finagles on the day of the raid—on the wrong side of the police line."

"What's this?" Now Martin Pennanti was the animal raising his voice. Nick ignored him for the moment, continuing to speak to his former partner.

"One of the officers working crowd control identified him. Look, I'll give you the full story later. Right now, I need you to get hold of either Lieutenant Saw or Big Chief Buffalo Nickel. Can you…Oh really? Great, that's perfect."

Judy's next few words were almost background noise, "Sir…I-I-I think you're going to want to hear this."

A half-moment of silence followed and then Bogo's gruff voice came on the line. It seemed to echo slightly…as if he was speaking from inside of a tiled bathroom. That told Nick his call had been transferred to a speaker-phone, hardly a surprising turn of events given the relative sizes of his chief's hoof and Judy Hopps's cell. "Right, what's all this then, Wilde?" he snorted, adding in a low menacing tone, "It had better be very important."

"I wouldn't have called Detective Hopps directly if it wasn't sir," Nick swiftly decided that he'd better tone it down a little. "It looks like Conor Lewis may be our diamond courier. I just now learned that he was spotted outside Finagles on the morning of the police raid…on the wrong side of the barricades."

He was answered by more silence, and for one, dreadful moment he thought the Chief had hung up on him.

But then Bogo's voice came back again, speaking slowly and deliberately.

"Right then…scale of one to ten, how certain are you of this?"

"Eight-and-a-half sir," the fox replied, trying not to sound overconfident. "The animal who identified him was one of the officers in charge of crowd control, and he was able to describe the Lewis kid's eyes without being prompted; thought he was a thrill-seeker trying to get close to the action and ordered him back behind the police line."

"That could have been exactly what Mr. Lewis was doing there," the big Cape buffalo cautioned.

And that was exactly what Nick had expected him to say—which was why he was unable to keep from smirking.

"With all due respect sir, if that's true it's the biggest coincidence since forever." He said this knowing perfectly well that Bogo didn't believe in that kind of happenstance any more than he did…and so his words had exactly the desired effect.

"Mmmm, true that, Wilde." It was a grudging admission, but an admission nonetheless. "Doesn't prove our young silver fox was The Company's diamond courier, but it's certainly enough to make him our prime suspect."

"Yes, sir," the fox responded soberly, and for once it wasn't an act. In the wake of that riot and cyberattack, this was no time to play the 'clever fox'.

What Bogo had to say next came as an immediate, if not complete, surprise.

"And on a related subject, we've managed to confirm that there WAS a late-arriving flight from Zoo York to Zootopia on the day in question." A rustling of papers followed, with the Big Chief mumbling in the background. "Ahhh, where did I…? …be here somewhere. Blasted computer…blasted hackers! Ah, here 'tis." His voice disappeared for a second, and then came back at normal volume. Nick could almost picture him—holding the documents in one hoof, while steadying his glasses with the other.

"Furgin Airways, Flight FG311, s'posed to depart from Idlewilde at 9:15 PM, Sunday Night. Instead it didn't get off the ground until nearly 4 AM the following morning."

"Whoa!" the red fox almost gasped…he'd been hoping for a delayed flight, but by THAT much?

"Got in at Zootopia International at 7:33 AM." the Chief was saying.

A slow frown creased Nick Wilde's face. That was a couple of hours earlier than the time frame he had specified, but still well within the realm of possibility.

D'ohhh, wait a minute…dumb fox. In his earlier calculations he'd forgotten to factor in the different time zones.

And as if that wasn't bad enough, now it was time for a stupid question, the kind where you already know the answer, but have to ask it anyway.

Well, at least he could hedge his bets.

"I suppose it's too much to hope that Conor Lewis's name showed up on the passenger list." Of course it wouldn't; even a rank-amateur smuggler knows better than to travel under their own identity.

"No such luck, I'm afraid, Detective," Bogo sounded almost sympathetic, "However…" More seconds of rustling papers followed. "However…we've got the name and home address of one of the attendants who worked that flight. Name's Kurusu, Tshonga Kurusu, caracal; lives right there in Zoo York City. His address is…"

"Hold on Chief, I don't have a pen," Nick hastily patted his pockets, more than a little dubious. After three long years, it was highly unlikely that the Afurican lynx would remember one, single passenger out of the thousands he must have serviced over the course of his career.

On the other paw, he just might remember that particular flight, given how long it had been delayed. In any event, it was a lead he couldn't ignore.

"Ahhhh maybe you better just text it to me, Chief. Oh…and can you shoot me a picture of the Lewis kid where the color of his eyes is visible?"

"Can do," Bogo told him. "I'll send the address now and the photo in just a few minutes." After another second or two, Nick heard the stuttering click of a telegraph key, coming from his cell-phone, informing him that the address had arrived. Ohhh-kay, and with that out of the way, it was time to move on to a more brutal subject.

"Chief, I just now heard about the cyberattack and the riot…but I don't know any details; how bad are things back there?"

For the next few minutes, he listened quietly while Bogo gave him the short version of the previous night's events…that is until he heard…

"Wait, what? Lieutenant Tufts thinks the Lewis kid stopped it?"

"Yes, I know." Bogo sounded almost a little bit amused. "Could've knocked me over with a feather when I heard it—but everything he said made perfect sense."

"Mmmm, right." the red fox answered, still trying to comprehend what he'd just heard. Albert Tufts…defending Conor Lewis? That was like the Sheriff of Nottingham pleading Robin Hood's case. "And uh, Ju…Detective Hopps, is she all right?"

"She's here in my office instead of hospital isn't she?" his Chief responded testily, before relenting and softening his tone. "She's fine herself Wilde…but she's had some bad news. Her younger sister, Erin Hopps was one of the detainees who escaped from the Youth Jail last night. So far, we've not been able to locate her."

It was another one of those revelations guaranteed to launch a thousand brand-new questions.

Erin Hopps…in jail? That was another thing Bogo hadn't told him the last time they'd talked; all he'd said was that a group of Conor's friends had been arrested for aiding and abetting his escape from the ZAPA Auditions. He'd mentioned none of them by name; much less that one of them had been Judy's younger sister. Nick remembered her now, the pretty, young, white-furred bunny; her performance with Conor at the Carrot Days Talent Show, and the Hopps family bonfire later that evening. What the heck had SHE done to get herself locked up? Did it have anything to do with that other riot, the one where Judy had been hurt? Wait, yes….how could he forget? She'd participated in the Academy tryouts. Had she been one of the kids who'd helped Conor to get away? But why the heck had she joined that jail-break? Pardoning the stereotype, Nick was beginning to feel as if he'd been sucked down the proverbial rabbit hole.

Sensing the fox's bewilderment, Bogo moved quickly to steady him—in his usual, tactful manner. "Snap out of it, Wilde! Y' can ask Detective Hopps about it later. Right now, you've got work to do!"

"Yes sir," Nick replied, straightening up and hardly realizing what he was doing. What he did realize was that after the events of the last 24 hours, his Chief was in the middle stages of burnout; why else would he have unknowingly given permission for him and Judy to start speaking again?

His phone was almost back in its holster, when an impatient voice intervened.

"Well…what's going on, Nicky?" Martin Pennanti was practically thumping his foot like a rabbit.

Whoops, he'd forgotten all about the fisher…but then he could hardly blame himself, given everything he'd learned in the past couple of minutes.

He pulled out his phone again, scrolling quickly to the Chief's text message and holding it up for his guide to see.

"Do you know where this is?"

Pennanti peered closer for a second and then nodded. "Yeah, that's down in The Village. But wha…?"

"I'll explain on the way," Nick told him, already making for the door.

…Or trying to.

"Uh, it's that way paisan," the fisher informed him, pointing in the opposite direction.

"Ohhh, uh…right."

There were gaps in Nick's story; Chief Bogo had given him only a barebones account of the cyberattack and riot. It was enough for Martin Pennanti, though. And when Nick related the information he'd gleaned from Willie Boy Wapiti, the fisher was able to offer some insights of his own.

"Ahhhh, hate to admit it Nicky, but Claudia and I got it dead-bang wrong; your Conor Lewis and that other fox, Sean McLeod are the same animal after all. The Mister would absolutely have paid to get his face fixed and then head-faked his death, if he was gonna start using the kid; that's exactly how he used to roll." He rapped his paw on the steering wheel, "And that explains a lot of other things. One of the guys who used to mentor that…"

"Mentor…?" Nick's ears were almost sticking through the roof of the car

"Ah, poor choice of words, but the best thing I can…hold on, I gotta make a turn here. Okay, as I was gonna say, the McLeod kid learned his computer skills from no less a mammal than Kieran McCrodon. Did Claudia ever mention him by any chance?"

"She did, remember?" the fox replied, laying on the tact. "She thought one of the mammals from his hacker crew might be the diamond mule—but she also thought one of them might be The Phantom." That last bit was something he hadn't mentioned before.

"Ye-a-a-ah!" the fisher was grimacing again, "And now that I know those two fox kids are the same animal, I gotta agree with her. If Kieran McC had him under his wing, the kid would for sure have been in contact with at least one of that crew. And they were good Nicky, really good; not a single one 'em's ever been caught….they all made a clean getaway."

"Except for Kieran himself," the red fox reminded him—almost blurting out the words and having no idea why.

Pennanti gave him that same look Judy did sometimes. "Don't kid yourself paisan, if he hadn't been inside of Finagles when the flag dropped, you could color that sea-mink gone for good. He was the best of the best…and if he's the guy, taught your fox-kid how to hack a computer, good luck trying to track him down online; the ONLY way you're getting to him is the hard way."

Less than a month ago, that assertion would have had Nick Wilde rolling on the floor; now he just nodded quietly.

"Claudia can give you the full run-down the next time you talk to her." Pennanti gave him a sideways look, "You uh, are planning to talk to her again?"

"Absolutely," Nick had made up his mind to call her, the moment Sergeant Wapiti had correctly described Conor's eyes.

And speaking of that elk…

"Uh, say Martin…not to change the subject, and I'll drop it if you want; but what the heck does Wapiti owe you for anyway?"

Pennanti waved a paw, looking mildly disgusted. "He got taken hostage in the middle of a standoff some years back. I managed to talk the perps into letting him go…barely."

"Really?" Nick's ears were standing even taller than before. Yeah, that was worth a little bit more than just some info about a diamond smuggler.

"Yep," the fisher nodded, rapping the steering wheel again. "That's why he's still a sergeant, and why he's gonna retire as a sergeant. He went in strictly against orders, after being told to stay put—and those punks who grabbed him were all hopped up on something; ready to blow him away just for kicks. As it is, they nearly escaped coz of that idiot elk deciding to play supercop."

"Whoa" Nick marveled, "he's lucky they didn't bust him all the way down to street patrol."

"And now you know what an officer of his rank was doing, working crowd control on the day of the Finagles raid." Pennanti winked, slowing down and easing his car to the left. "Okay, here we are."

Nick peered out the window…and then blinked and reeled back.

"Wha…? This is a rental car agency."

"Yeah, I know," the fisher replied, checking his mirror to make sure no one was coming.

As they pulled in through the entrance, a river hog in a sharp blue blazer came trotting out to greet them with a smile on his face—and then stopped in his tracks when he recognized the animal sitting behind the wheel. He immediately commenced to wave his hooves as though attempting to ward off a curse.

Pennanti merely rolled down his window and waited. The stalemate lasted for perhaps another minute before the pig came stalking over.

"Take a walk, P-Mammal; you ain't a cop no more!"

The fisher corked a thumb at the animal sitting next to him.

"No, but he is; show him your badge, Nicky."

Nick leaned across the fisher's lap and flashed it…quickly, so the hog wouldn't notice that it was a Zootopia PD badge.

He didn't, but he was still far from ready to cooperate.

"Since when do the po-lice want nothin' to do wit' YOU, huh?"

"Hey, even they get desperate once in a while, Freddy," Pennanti shrugged, smiling. And then he turned dead-on serious. "I can sit here all day, can you?"

Freddy snorted, snorted again, and then squealed.

"All right, second floor, space number Seven F…and if you come back and find the boss had this mutha towed, DON'T come cryin' to me!"

"Sure, Freddy," Pennanti put the car in gear and began to roll away.

"And if I lose my job coz of this, Ima come, lookin' for your tail!" The pig shouted after him, offering a clenched fist.

The fisher just waved a paw backwards, out through the window. "Yeah, yeah, yeah…"

Nick waited until they were out of the car before asking.

"How come we're…"

And, as usual, his guide was one jump ahead of him.

"Be grateful Nicky; you know what they charge for parking in The Village? 20 smackers…and that's just for the first hour."

"Wow," Nick was almost floored. Even in Zootopia's downtown district, parking fees didn't even come close to that. However, there was still one tiny detail, waiting to be addressed. "Uhhh, okay, but why should I be gratef…? Oh, riiight, you would have made me pay for it."

The fisher cocked another finger.

"I'm happy to help you out over here, Nicky…but that doesn't extend to my wallet, capisce? And by the way, you're buying me lunch today."

"Yeah, all right." the red fox nodded. It was only fair; Pennanti had treated him to breakfast the other day. "Just don't take me anywhere too expensive."

"Wouldn't dream of it; now c'mon, let's go."

He led Nick on a meandering, angular path for several blocks, ending up in front of a row of brownstones that might have been litter-mates. By the time they arrived, the fox would have been willing to treat him to lunch at the Fur Seasons, if that was what he wanted. This animal was godsend; he could never have found his way to the Kurusu flat without Pennanti help.

Of course, there was every chance the caracal wouldn't be home right now…but sometimes it's better not to give a witness fair warning. And this, the red fox judged, was one of those times.

Entering the building, he and Pennanti found themselves in the hallway of a three story walk-up of middling quality. Not a dump, but nothing posh either.

Tshonga Kurusu's flat turned out to be on the second floor. The voice that answered when the rapped on the door wasn't his, however. Nick knew that even though he'd never met the caracal. The speaker was decidedly female, her voice rich with the lilt of East Afurica.

She was not in a pleasant frame of mind.

"Yes, who theah?"

Nick immediately assumed his most deferential manner.

"Good morning, ma'am, my name is Detective Nicholas Wilde of the Zootopia Police Depart…"

"Step beck from the door; show me your badge!"

Nick took it out and held it in front of the peephole.

"Too close, I cen't see! Move it beck!"

Grumbling silently, the fox did as he was commanded. Well, it wasn't as if he hadn't been warned that Zoo Yorkers were suspicious by nature.

"All right, what you want? You got warrant?"

"No ma'am." Nick sighed, knowing exactly where this was going, "I'm looking for a Mr. Tshonga Kuru…"

"He not here; go away!"

Yep, just as he'd expected; beside him, Martin Pennanti was shaking a knowing head. He too had seen it coming.

But then another voice spoke from the opposite side of the door.

"Cherished, what's going on?"

"Nothing; go back to bed!" Her voice had dropped to a near-whisper.

There; there it was. Nick saw his opportunity and he pounced on it.

"Sir, if you're Tshonga Kurusu, I need to talk to you. I'm a detective with the Zootopia Police Department."

A moment of confused silence followed before the second voice, clearly male, answered him.

"Zootopia? I don't know enyone in Zootopia; why you want to talk to me?" In the background, Nick could hear the first voice telling him to shut up.

"It's about a flight you worked as an attendant," the fox explained. "We're trying to locate one of the passengers. You're not in any trouble, sir. You have my word."

"What, then? I heven't worked as flight attendant almost two years now; going to Zoo York University." Kurusu, Nick assumed it was Kurusu, sounded even more confused than before. But then, finally, he spoke the magic words. "Cherish, move away end let me open the door."

"NO! Tshonga, they could be…."

"I tell you again, Cherish, this is not Angoatla. Now let me…"

"Fine! On your own head, then!"

The exchange ended to the tune of angrily retreating footsteps. It was followed by the noise of a deadbolt being thrown and a lock turning.

Tshonga Kurusu was of medium height for a caracal, dressed in a dark-blue batik shirt with a white-lace collar. His nose was pierced by a gold ring and, as was fashionable among members of his species, he had waxed his ear tufts into needle points.

"Good morning!" Nick greeted the feline with his most glittering smile, "Thank you for agreeing to talk to us, Mr. Kurusu."

"Ahhh, welcome," the caracal responded guardedly, "May I see your bedge please?" Nick handed it over. After a quick inspection, Tshonga returned it.

"Very well, come in."

On their way inside, they heard a yowling voice from down the hall. "Don't bring them IN here!"

A short while later, they were arrayed around a glass-topped coffee table, with Tshonga seated in a lounger, while Nick and Martin Pennanti occupied a mismatched sofa on the opposite side.

"Very, well…how may I help you?" the caracal asked, leaning forward and clasping his paws. Like all felines, he seemed much more at ease on his home turf.

"Well, as I said before, Mr. Kurusu…we want to inquire regarding a flight you worked, three years ago…"

"I-I-I don't know how I could help you," the cat interrupted, spreading his paws. "I attended on so many flights, and thet was years ago…"

"Well yes," the fox admitted, laying down his trump card. "But please indulge me; it was a flight on Furgin airways from Zoo York City direct to Zootopia. We were hoping you might recall because the departure was delayed for almost seven hours."

"Ohhhh," Tshonga's brows were up and his mouth had formed an almost perfect circle, "Ah yes Detective Wilde, THET one I remember all right. To this day, I'm surprised it evah got off the ground."

"Okay, good," Nick flashed 'the smile' again and then pulled out his cell phone.

"All right, now this is probably a bit of a long-shot," he said, laying it on the tabletop and sliding it in the cat's direction, "But was this young silver fox on that flight by any chance?"

Kurusu picked up the phone and frowned, rolling his ears the way caracals do when trying to concentrate.

"Mmmm yes, there was a young silver fox on thet flight; I attended on him… but he was younger than this, and…I'm…I'm sorry, I cen't be sure."

"Try scrolling to the next pic." The fox suggested—the one that Bogo had sent him—and this time, one look was all it took.

"Ohhhh yes, THET'S him." Tshonga laid the phone on the table and slid it back across to Nick, "Never seen a fox with eyes like thet, before…or since."

Nick left the phone where it was for the moment.

"Did he happen to mention his name?"

The caracal's ears were rolling again. It reminded Nick of somebody rowing a boat.

"Um, yes, but I cen't quite…Ahhh, what was it again? Ahhhh, Lewis I think…Col…no, Conah…Conah Lewis."

"That's him," Nick answered, nodding, first at the Tshonga and then at Martin Pennanti. "Did he say anything else?"

"Only thet he was flying out to Zootopia to visit his grendparents." The feline replied—and then, without warning, his look became abruptly penetrating. "Why are you trying to find him enyway, Detective?

That told Nick it was time to get his hustle on. Luckily, Tshonga had just given him everything he needed. Instead of addressing him directly, he turned to the fisher sitting next to him, "Hmmmm; sounds like he didn't know himself…at least not then." And then back to the feline, "Actually sir, it wasn't a visit. He was flying to Zootopia to live with his grandparents; they'd been awarded custody of him by the courts."

"What's this, now?" Kurusu's eyes were wide and his ears had risen halfway to the ceiling.

"Yes, we're afraid so," Pennanti leaned forward, joining the conversation for the first time since they sat down. "His mother's boyfriend was…mmm, not a nice animal, if you know what I mean."

Nick glanced sideways at the fisher and then back at Tshonga. "Perhaps you noticed that the Lewis boy had a couple of gold teeth? That's because of something HE did."

"Oh my God," Tshonga's whiskers were twitching like divining rods, "Yes, I did notice, but I hed no idea. Do you…think his mum may hev taken him?"

"That's what we hope to find out." The fox told him, tapping at the table with a finger claw. "Needless to say, his grandparents are extremely worried; the mother seems to have disappeared too."

"Oh no," the caracal was trembling as if preparing to fly for his life. "This is so?"

It was Martin Pennanti who answered him. "I'm afraid it is, sir. She moved out of her apartment in Lynxhurst Zoo Jersey last month, and no one's seen her since; the forwarding address she left turned out to be a fake."

It was a good hustle, Nick thought, but Tshonga's next question turned out to be a hard curveball.

"Oh dear…hev' you picture of her, then?"

Nick froze in place. Dumb fox—he couldn't say he didn't have one; it would set off every alarm bell in the caracal's head. "You came looking for the son she may have kitnapped…and you didn't even bring a picture of HER?"

But wait…hold everything.

"Yes, just a second," he said, picking up his cell phone and scrolling hastily through the photo album. Come on, come on…it must be here some…wait yes, okay. Now, right click, hit the 'edit' button; hit the 'crop' button, hit 'save as', and save it under a different name. Okay…good to go.

"This is her," he said, passing the phone to Tshonga.

The caracal studied it briefly and then shook his head. "No, don't know her. I do see the resemblance though. She's uh…what they call it…a cross fox?"

"Yes, that's right," Nick answered, hastily taking the phone back, "Her name's Peggy, Peggy Lewis. I, uh, don't suppose you'd recognize that name?" He had assumed his deferential fursona again.

"Nope, sorry, cen't help you there," Tshonga answered with another head shake. "Hev you a picture of thet boyfriend, though?"

Before Nick could respond to this, Pennanti intervened.

"Nope, he's gone. Got sent up to Danneroara for armed robbery last year and picked a fight with the wrong inmate."

"Ah good riddance," the caracal growled, but then gave the fisher a tilted look. "I-I-I don't believe I got your name. You are with the ZYPD?"

"No sir," Pennanti responded smoothly, pulling out his ID badge. "I'm Martin Pennanti with the Minkerton Detective Agency. We were hired by the Lewis boy's grandparents to try and help locate him." He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial purr. "Being foxes, they're not especially trusting of law enforcement."

"It's true," Nick threw up his paws in a frustrated shrug. "They only agreed to co-operate with the ZPD after I was assigned to the case."

"Yes, of course." The caracal nodded, as if such a thing should be obvious. But then his expression turned leery again. "Only, how do you expect to find this boy by talking to me—about an airline flight from three years ago?"

Nick allowed himself to sag and look partially defeated. "Frankly sir…at this point we're checking out every lead we can find…even the shaky ones."

"Ah yes, I see." The caracal replied, this time with an air of sympathy. In so many words, Nick had just told him that the investigation was stalled.

"Ahhhh, you know how it is." Martin Pennanti put in, flipping a paw. "Lotta times it'll be some tiny, little detail, doesn't sound important, that'll lead you to your missing mammal."

"Exactly," Nick concurred and then turned to speak to their witness again. "And with that in mind, is there anything else you can remember about that boy…anything at all?"

Tshonga frowned and huddled into himself for a moment, lost in his own thoughts.

Finally he looked up. "Only thing I can remembah, is there was another passenger, didn't wish to sit next him…I moved him to a different seat. He was a…groundchuck, woodhog, whatevah you call it. Oh…end yes, I thought it rather odd, a boy that age, trevelling by himself in First Class."

Once again, Nick's mind was in a whirl. A woodchuck…who didn't want to sit with a fox; could it possibly have been…?

Noooo….otherwise, Judge Schatten would have recognized Conor when the young fox was brought before him in court…and in any case, it wouldn't help find the kid now.

But sending him to Zootopia on a first class ticket…that didn't sound like something a mob boss would have done at all.

Well maybe so, but this marked the second time that Conor had been identified by a Zoo York witness—and it left Nick Wilde without a single shred of doubt. That fox-kid HAD been The Company's diamond mule…period.

"All right," he said, getting up and exchanging his cell-phone for a business-card. "I think we're about done here…unless you have anything else, Detective?" He was speaking to Martin Pennanti.

"No, I think we got everything covered," the fisher said, getting up and offering a paw to their host. "If you think of anything else, you have Detective Wilde's card there."

When they were back inside the car, a short while later, the first thing he said was, "Hey, hey Nicky, take it easy, that's my dashboard over there. What the heck's eating you anyway?"

"Sorry, sorry," the red fox replied, unclenching his fist and putting it back where it belonged, "It's just that…" He looked earnestly at the older mammal, "I almost blew up everything back there, Martin….I should have known Kurusu would have wanted to see a pic of the Lewis kid's mother. And there's no way I wouldn't have had one if that's why we were looking for him."

Pennanti leaned in the fox's direction, laying an elbow on his knee.

"Yeah? Well, you didn't blow it Nicky, and the last time I looked—fuggedaboutit. Closeness only counts in pitching pennies, bocce ball, and paw grenades, capisce?"

"All right yeah," the fox replied, offering up a rueful smile.

"And that was still a great line you spun there, Nicky." The fisher was nodding his appreciation. "There's nothing, makes John Q. Citizen want to cooperate with the law like a story about a kid in danger and some worried parents."

Nick couldn't help grinning, in spite of himself. "Yeah well you did pretty darn good yourself, Marty. His mother, having an abusive boyfriend; I never would have thought of that."

Pennanti threw up a paw and waved it. "Ehhhh, what can I say? I been around, I seen a few things." He sat back again and fastened his seatbelt. "Now, let's go grab some lunch and try to figure out our next move."

"Works for me," the fox replied, also fastening his belt.

Notes:

Much thanks to Eric Costello and RT Pilon for their invaluable assistance in the writing of this episode.

Chapter 40: The Cascade Effect, (Continued...Part 3)

Summary:

At various locations, things are happening

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 7—The Cascade Effect
(Cont'd…Part 3)

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City of Zootopia
1 Savanna Central Plaza ¨ Zootopia

Citycouncil Zootopia. gov - Emergency Executive Order Declaring an Emergency and Implementing a Temporary Nighttime Curfew and Travel Restrictions in the City of Zootopia

We, the Council of the City of Zootopia, by the authority vested in us by the Charter of the City of Zootopia and applicable code and statutes, issue the following Executive Order: On Monday evening last, Precinct 1 of the Zootopia Police Department was subjected to a cyberattack, carried out by perpetrators unknown. The incident occurred at a time when a large number of young Zootopians were expressing their frustration in a peaceful and constructive manner. The demonstrators were gathered in front of ZPD Precinct 1 to express their opposition to the arrest of four young mammals at Zootopia Academy of the Performing Arts the previous day, an event that led many of the young mammals in the audience to unleash their outrage in a dangerous and unlawful manner; ie., damage to property, and physical violence. Likewise, in response to the cyberattack on ZPD Precinct 1, some individuals chose to engage in further unlawful and dangerous activity, including arson, rioting, looting, and damaging public and private property. These activities threaten the safety of lawful demonstrators, the surrounding communities, peace officers, and first responders. For these reasons, we order as follows:

1. A State of Emergency exists within the City of Zootopia under Zootopia City Code Section 15.04.

2. Nighttime Curfew. A curfew is imposed in all public places within the City of Zootopia during the following times:

· a. Immediately until 6:00 am on Sunday.

· b. From 8:00 this evening, until 6:00 am on Sunday, one week from the incidents described above.

3. Travel Prohibited. During the curfew, all animals must not travel on any public street or in any public place. No privately owned drone aircraft may be operated within the city limits of Zootopia during this time.

4. No unauthorized fursonell will be permitted to enter Savanna Central Plaza, at any hour, during this time. This area to include, City Hall, The Zootopia Museum of Natural History, ZPD Precinct 1, and all businesses fronting directly onto Savanna Central Plaza. Savanna Central Train Station to remain open, but no one will be permitted to exit the facility, except for authorized fursonell.

5. All homeless individuals residing within one-half mile of Savanna Central Plaza will be required to relocate to an area outside of the perimeter. Those animals physically incapable of making such a move may ask for assistance via the City of Zootopia Emergency Help-line

6. Exemptions. All law enforcement, fire, medical personnel, and members of the news media are exempt from the curfew and travel restrictions. Individuals traveling directly to and from work, seeking emergency care, fleeing dangerous circumstances are also exempt.

7. Definitions.

· a. For the purposes of this Executive Order, "travel" includes, without limitation, travel on foot, wing, bicycle, watercraft, skateboard, scooter, motorcycle, automobile, public transit, or any other mode of transporting a mammal from one location to another.

· b. For the purposes of this Executive Order, a "public place" is any place, whether on privately or publicly owned property, accessible to the general public, including but not limited to public streets and roads, alleys, highways, driveways, sidewalks, parks, vacant lots, and unsupervised property.

1 Savanna Central Plaza, Zootopia, Zootopia, Citycouncil

8. Enforcement. We urge all citizens to voluntarily comply with this Executive Order. Pursuant to Zootopia City Code Section 16.03.010, enforcement of this Chapter may be by civil action as provided in ZRS 30.305, or by criminal prosecution. In addition to any other penalty provided by law, refusal to obey an order issued under the authority of ZCC 15.08.020 shall be punishable upon conviction by a fine of not more than $500 per occurrence. Any peace officer may issue a citation for violation of this Section.

Signed, Jacob J. Marahute
Claudia Nizhang
Sven Kristofferson
G. Herbert Sabor
Hillary G. Block
Jose M. De Lampara
Joseph Kiboko
J. Claude Charognard
Ibrahim al-Agrabah
Wayne Pipistrel
Joao Campeiro

Representing the City Council, City of Zootopia

---

Private Office of Jack La Peigne, Penthouse Suite, Oswald Tower, Downtown Zootopia, Monday, 10:47 AM, ZST

"I assume that wasn't the only piece of business to come out of that meeting?"

The big bunny steepled his fingers as he asked the question, sitting back in his chair and allowing himself a moment to luxuriate in its embrace.

It was the newest piece of furniture in his office, installed only two days previously and only just now being taken for a shake-down cruise. It was a high-tech contrivance, to say the least; featuring a built-in Alpaxa module, a built-in holographic VR display, and an instantly deployable bullet-proof shield—not that such a thing would be necessary, not while he had a certain wolverine seated in front of his desk,

With its tall back and oversize wings, the chair was a mite too big, even for a rabbit of Jack's size. He didn't care; the black-chrome frame and deep-black cushions gave the chair an almost palpable aura of power; it might almost have been a throne.

It was an effect not lost on the opossum sitting next to Seth Whitepaugh.

"N-No sir," Polly Walters hastily scrolled through her tablet. When she finally looked up, she was barely able to make eye contact with her boss.

"Th-They also came to a number of decisions that haven't been made public…at least as of yet. First of all, they're going to activate the ZPD Police Reserves…"

"Oh, the Police Union's going to love THAT," The wolverine beside her interjected—without so much as a trace of mirth. It was a surprising outburst even for him; but then he'd been even more moody than usual of late.

And that was something not lost on Jack LaPeigne, who immediately waved him to silence before gesturing for Polly to get on with it.

She glanced nervously in Whitepaugh's direction before continuing. It was never a good idea to upstage this wolverine—especially in the presence of their employer.

"As a matter of fact, sir, the Police Union has already agreed to the deployment. Errr, their biggest concern right now is the safety of their officers, and so they're willing to make the concession." She said this as tactfully as possible, but it still drew a baleful glance from the Aker Senior Field Operative.

"What about the City Militia?" It was Jack La Peigne again, "any plans to call them up?"

Polly consulted her tablet again.

"Not at the present time sir, although they have been ordered to stand by in case it becomes necessary." She looked up, once again barely able to make eye contact with the big bunny, an occurrence that had become more and more frequent of late. "The City Council's overall attitude right now seems to be, 'hope for the best; prepare for the worst.'"

"Ah yes," La Peigne nodded, taking note of the venomous look Seth Whitepaugh was sending her way. He could almost imagine the wolverine's thoughts, 'You were called in to deliver that report, not to ANALYZE it.'

Well that was his opinion, and he wasn't the one in charge here. For his part, Jack agreed with Polly's assessment, wholeheartedly.

But now, here was the most difficult part of the conversation. He formed a steeple with his fingers again, allowing his voice to become velvety.

"And…what about us; was there any mention made of bringing Aker Security on board, to help keep order in the wake of the riot?"

For perhaps a third of a second, Polly's eyes glazed over, and she began to fall sideways.

"That's her self-defense mechanism kicking in," Jack smirked at the realization, "she's trying to play dead, and she doesn't even realize it." But then as quickly as it had come, his grin was gone and amusement was giving way to puzzlement. What the heck was going on with Polly these days? She'd had worse news than this to deliver in times past…and with the exception of Seth Whitepaugh, no one had seen him lose it more times than her. Yet never before had she reacted to him this anxiously. What, what was different this time? He hadn't so much as raised his voice since her arrival, not even by little bit.

"Uhm…" Polly was scrolling hurriedly through the tablet again. Jack saw her stop suddenly and go back again—as if she'd missed something.

And there was something else you didn't see every day. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time she'd made that kind of mistake.

"Uhhhh, yes Mr. La Peigne," she said at last. "Councilmember Kiboko was the mammal that made the proposition, suggesting that the City should make a temporary arrangement, asking for our assistance in the event of any further… um, unrest on the part of Zootopia's delinquent youth."

"Don't tell me, let me guess." Seth Whitepaugh was waving his namesake paw as if it had fallen asleep. "Before he could even get started, Claudia Nizhang was up on her feet and raising an objection."

"Uh, that's right sir," Polly pointed at her tablet, "and surprisingly, this time some of the other council members supported her. Mr. Campiero for example was completely against the idea. Quote, 'These are not terrorists, not gangsters, only some angry kids…and you want to call The Aker Security on them?' To which Ms. Block replied, 'Have you looked outside the window recently? If I didn't know better I'd swear that what happened to Savanna Central Plaza WAS the work of a terrorist cell.' And then she said, 'and that's not even mentioning the cyberattack on the ZP…'"

"Yes, yes…I get the picture," Now Jack was the one waving a paw, "Just give me the short version, Polly. What was the council's final decision?"

"A compromise, Mr. La Peigne," she said, scrolling hastily to another page. "They punted on the idea of bringing us in to quell any further street unrest. However," She seemed to be forcing herself not to rush, "They approved the proposal to ask for our help in tracking down the mammals responsible for the cyberattack."

"Right," La Peigne swung his chair to the right, pointing with a pair of fingers in his senior operative's direction, "Let's not wait for their formal request Whitepaugh; get Cyber Security on it now. Every second we wait gives those hackers more time to cover their tracks."

"Right away, sir," the wolverine replied with a brisk, sharp nod. "I'll put every extra mammal we have on it." For the first time in nearly two weeks, he and the big bunny were operating on the same wavelength.

But then La Peigne heard him sniggering, "I'd love to have heard Nizhang try to argue that one down."

Jack moved his paws apart, turning them pawlms up. "I'll bet she didn't…am I right, Walters?"

Polly glanced at the door before answering, as if considering whether or not to make a run for it.

"Uh, th-that's correct, sir. She never objected once."

"Didn't think so," the big rabbit nodded, trying not to look smug. "She knew she couldn't win that point, so she made a tactical retreat. And now, Whitepaugh, I need you to get our mammals cracking on locating those hackers ASAP."

While the wolverine issued the orders via his own tablet—all the while muttering under his breath—Jack turned his attention back to his fursonal assistant.

"Now then, Walters… about the other side of that compromise, the decision not to ask for our help in dealing with the, er…street unrest I believe you called it. How did the council come to that decision? Tell me how it played out; the short version again, if you please."

This time she only almost scrolled past the spot she was looking for.

"Yes Mr. La Peigne. Well after a great deal of discussion, Councilmember Kristofferson rose and said…" The tablet began to tremble in her paws. ""he said…"

"Go on Polly," The big bunny's voice was almost soothing.

She cleared her throat and tried again. "He…suggested that perhaps Councilmember Nizhang had a point, saying…" Her volume went down a tick as she continued. "After all, the riot's over. If we were to bring in Aker security now, well…let's face it, we'd be closing the cage door after the bird has already flown." She coughed and cleared her throat a second time, "He then moved that the proposal to request our help in keeping order in the streets should be tabled for later consideration, citing the fact that the Council had too much else on their plate at the moment to waste time arguing over one, single point. Councilmember al-Agrabah seconded the motion, and it passed without dissent."

She stopped, pushing herself against the back of her chair, as if bracing for impact.

Jack La Peigne only regarded her with a Sphinx-like expression. "Very well Walters, you can go." he said, and then watched as she forced herself not to scamper for the door.

She might well have been right to do so; no sooner did it close behind her than Seth Whitepaugh all but exploded out of his chair.

"That two-faced quisling reindeer Kristofferson; I'll have his head for a hat-rack for this!" He stood like that for a second and then slammed down into his seat again, snarling and hissing like radiator preparing to blow. "I always knew he wasn't an honest politician."

"Meaning the kind that STAYS bought," La Peigne chortled to himself. And then to his senior operative he said, "Actually Whitepaugh—he is. That was exactly what I told him to say."

"Wait, what?" The wolverine was staring in confusion.

By way of response, Jack got up from his desk and went to his private juice bar. It was only after the first two sips of his favorite triple veggie blend that he finally saw fit to explain.

"Nizhang's not the only one who knows how to make a strategic withdrawal," he said, raising his glass as if offering a toast. "I can play that game too. In case you didn't notice, there was no way she could have disputed that motion to table the discussion…not without looking like a spoiler, and she's far too clever for that." He took another sip and raised the glass even higher, "And now she's trapped. The rationale for not bringing Aker on board remains valid only so long as those junior Bullsheviks choose NOT to make any more trouble." A brief smirk crossed his features, "If they do, Kristofferson will be perfectly justified in pulling a 180…and who then will dare to oppose Councilmember Kiboko's proposition; that the city ask for our help in quelling any further street violence?"

For a long moment, Whitepaugh just looked at him. He did not stare, or let his jaw drop open, and his eyes retained their normal size.

At last, he said. "You aren't…planning for us to facilitate any of that violence, I hope."

The answer La Peigne gave him was anything but alarming—but it was also anything but reassuring.

"Mmmm, not at the present time, Whitepaugh; I might consider it as a last resort…but for the moment, no." He folded his paws and leaned forward, with his elbows on the desktop. "But I doubt it will come to that. If there's one thing a budding anarchist can never get enough of, it's attention." He gestured towards the window, as if the Oswald Tower was situated at the edge of Savanna Central Plaza, and the room in which they were seated was located at ground level. "There's more of what happened last night coming—I can feel it in the pit of my gut—and when it does, we'll be ready to capitalize."

"Yes sir," the wolverine answered; his face as blank as an empty sheet of paper.

---

Lion's Gate Docks, Savanna Central, Zootopia, Monday, 11:25 Hours, ZST

The rain was back with a vengeance, but nobody was complaining. They'd made it safely inside the tunnel ahead before the worst of the deluge struck, and besides…it was providing some well-needed cover. Visibility was practically nil out there and as for trying to track someone by way of their scent right now—what, are you kidding me?

They'd made good time in getting here—aided, ironically enough, by last night's riot. The construction site next door, which would normally have been a beehive of activity, was instead completely deserted. Oh sure, there'd been security cameras, but most of them were focused on the interior of the site and the rest were an easy dodge. Best of all they'd been only a few yards from the viaduct when the first raindrops hit.

There was, however, a flip side to all this.

Conor's ride should have been here by now; in fact it should have been here more than an hour ago. That was understandable, given the weather conditions…but what if the rain had prompted whoever he'd called to shine on coming to help him, period? Try as she might, Erin couldn't get the thought to leave her alone. It was especially maddening considering that the fugitive young silver fox's condition seemed to be getting worse by the minute. Every little movement he made caused him to whimper with pain and his forehead felt like a heating pad that someone had just now remembered to turn off.

"Come on," Erin silently beseeched, gazing hard in the direction of the tunnel entrance, "Please…GET here!" She had never been so frustrated. Only a short while ago, she had 'borrowed' Conor's cell-phone to try and get hold of…Stripes, was that what Charcoal-Boy had called him? Anyway, it had been an exercise in futility; the phone had turned out to be encrypted, and she could forget about trying to get the password. The only thing this fox was going to give her was moans, whimpers, and gibberish; he was a blind step away from delirium.

"Oh please, GET here!" It had become a prayer by this time. And the answer was nothing—nothing but a rain-drenched void.

For the hundred and zillionth time, the young white-furred bunny considered giving up…borrowing a cell-phone from one of the other kids and dialing 9-1-1. The HECK with all of this sneaking around, Conor might die if he didn't get help soon.

Yeah, fine…except try telling that to any of the others. When they realized who she was calling, they'd snatch away the phone before she could say more than two or three words. And then what might happen next was something Erin didn't want to think about. She didn't know a single one of these kids, but she knew the type—especially that young deer-buck, the one who called himself Eez. His eyes held almost the same kind of polished-steel gleam she'd seen when she'd faced down Craig Guilford—and all of the other young mammals here seemed to be following his lead with the slavish devotion of…of…

Ahhh, what was the word she was looking for? Well, whatever it was, the only member of the group who seemed to be acting with even a smidgen of independence was the young black bear named Root. And even HE didn't seem inclined to stand up to that strutting young deer buck.

With nothing to do but wait, the three of them had at first attempted to distract themselves by recounting their respective experiences from the previous night. Root, it turned out, had been one of the protesters assembled out in front of Precinct-1 when the cyberattack went down; one of the few who'd managed to get away clean when the ZPD closed the ring. Eez had an even more distinguished record—if you could call it that. He'd been busted at the ZAPA auditions the same as Erin…and had been one of the first detainees to make it outside when the doors opened. He seemed especially proud of that fact—and had been equally impressed by the young doe bunny's account of her escape from jail, making it through the door by the skin of her teeth. In recalling that episode, Erin had said nothing about Craig Guilford; she had no idea why, except that it had seemed like an especially unwise move.

But now she could feel an ear sticking up; somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard the faint, whispering rumble of a boat motor. It was hard to be certain over the noise of all that pelting rain, but it wasn't just her. Toby Webb, the marsh rabbit, had both of his ears up. Someone was definitely coming.

Slowly, with what seemed like maddening sluggishness, the sound began to creep closer until, at last, it was recognizable as definitely belonging to a boat engine…a very LARGE boat engine. And then a shape began to materialize within the curtain of falling water. At once Erin felt her nose begin to twitch and her haunches trying to tighten up, as if she was preparing her to flee. Hazy or not, there was something ominous about that silhouette; she would not have been surprised to see it coalesce into the form of a hellish gondola, complete with a shrouded, skeletal boatmammal at the tiller.

But then, all at once the vessel was out of the rain and inside the tunnel…and it was a speedboat, not the gondola of Hades, albeit a rather curious looking one—to say the least!

At first glance, it appeared to be a sawed-off, slightly scaled-down ski-boat, in dark wasp-blue with a light-gray trim. But any pretense of normalcy ended then and there. The craft had a short, stout, double roll-bar arcing over the pilot's compartment and a pair of fins sprouting from the back that might have been transplanted from a 50's-vintage muscle-car. There was no lettering on the side, no numbers or even a registration decal.

But the real jaw-dropper was the engine.

"Sweet cheez n' crackers, how did they ever manage to FIT that thing in there—with a  shoehorn?"

Erin Hopps was nobody's mechanic but she knew a V-8 when she saw one…and a blown V-8 is hard for anyone to miss. It looked at least two sizes too large for the vessel in which it had been installed, giving the craft the appearance of something out of a cartoon, or maybe an amusement park.

And she was supposed to ride in that thing? It looked like it would go into a death-spin the first time the driver so much as hiccupped.

Yes, and speaking of that driver, he was the one thing about this machine that jived with her initial impression. His face might be hidden by oilskins rather than a coal-black cloak, but it still remained unseen. Not only that; under all those dark layers it was impossible to determine his species.

He said nothing as he eased the craft up to what passed for a quayside, merely flung a rope onto the shore where it was seized and held fast by the young black-bear, Root.

Only then did he peel back his hood.

At once Erin felt her ears standing up again, and this time, her foot joined in with a fast staccato thump.

"Oh my GOD!"

"Well hullo again…er, it's Erin, right?" The Tasmanian tiger from the night before cocked a finger, favoring her with a wide, mischievous grin, "We meet again, eh?"

If she hadn't been so stunned, the young doe-bunny might have been able to offer a response—before Eez stepped forward with his hooves on his hips.

"Where've you been dude?" he demanded, lowering his head to display his antlers, the way deer do when challenging an opponent. "You're like two hours late!"

Erin wanted to scream at him to shut up, but the mammal he was talking to merely took it in stride, leaping from the boat and onto the concrete apron in a single bound.

"Sorry," he said, shaking the water from his coat…and all over Eez; deliberately, the young doe-bunny thought, "Barely able to see where I was goin' out there," By way of explanation the young striped marsupial pointed to the downpour beyond the tunnel entrance, "Oh and the ZPD's been running extra harbor patrols too; lucky I made it a-tall, I reckon."

It was spoken congenially enough, but then he let his jaw fall open…wide open, impossibly wide; his species' threat-gesture of choice.

Erin wanted to jump in between him and Eez, but before she could make a move, the deer-buck laid down his trump card.

"Hey, I'm sorry to be a jerk about this," he said, pointing to the crumpled form parked against the wall beneath a dirty blanket, "But we've got a seriously sick fox over here, 'kay?"

Okay, that worked; the aggression drained from the newcomer's face, as if sucked away by a vacuum. "Cor…I'd no idea…!"

He went rushing over to where the injured young silver fox lay.

"Conor…Conor, I'm here, mate."

Erin expected a response that was nothing but babble. But then, to her considerable surprise—and mild annoyance—his eyes cracked open and he managed a feeble smile. "Billy…knew…you'd make it…Billy."

He reached up with a shaky arm and the two of them clasped paws.

And then the Tasmanian tiger spun rapidly on his heel.

"Right, let's get 'im in the boat. Wait, hold it."

He bounded back into it again, returning with a sheet of tarpaulin. "Here, let's use this as a stretcher. Like this, pair of paws at each corner. Good, right, let's go."

They eased Conor into the boat, while the others watched from above. Glancing upwards for a second, Erin noticed a disapproving frown on Eez's face. She wondered why for a second…until she heard Conor let out a painful whimper, the loudest one yet.

"Can't…can't."

She turned, and saw him propped up in the passenger seat with his arms wide open, vainly trying to stretch out his legs.

She knew instantly what was wrong.

"He can't sit up, is there somewhere else…?"

"Y' can lay 'im out behind the engine there," Billy responded, pointing. "That's right…and put the tarp over 'im to keep the rai—Oi…an' where d'yer think YOU'RE goin', mate?

The young marsh rabbit was also trying to climb into the speedboat.

"There's no room in 'ere for another," the Tasmanian Tiger informed him coldly, "We've got space for Conor in the back and the Sheila-bunny up front, and that's all.

"You're gonna need him dude," It was Eez, speaking from the quay up above. "Toby's the only one who knows how to get where you're headed."

"Ay-rrggggh." Billy, let out an odd, guttural growl and then waved Erin out of the passenger seat. "Sorry Missy, yer'll have to make way." To everyone's amazement, she vacated the position without any sort of fuss. As the other bunny took her place he received a cautionary note from the animal in the driver's seat.. "Sorry, mate…you'll have to tough it out in the rain. I don't have another slicker and the tarp's busy keeping Conor dry."

"I-I'll be okay," Toby answered skittishly, trying to cinch down a safety harness that was way too large for him. "I'm a marsh rabbit, I'm used to water."

"Ohhh-kay." Billy glanced behind the seats to make sure Conor was properly covered and then up at young mammals on makeshift dock again, "Right then…cast off."

---

Zoo York City, 13:21 Hours, EST.

There had to be any number of eateries closer to Tshonga Kurusu's flat than this one; Nick Wilde reflected upon the fact as he took another bite. Certainly The Village had plenty of home-grown pizza joints.

This one, however, had its own unique charm…for Martin Pennanti at least.

"Back in the day Nicky, Patsy's Pizzeria used to be one of the biggest mob hangouts in the Five Burrows. There've been more deals cut in this joint than at your average Atlambtic City blackjack table." He paused to take a bite from his own slice. "'Bout a dozen or so years ago I busted a hitter who used to pick up his contracts here; he's doin' twenty-five to life, up in Cattica right now."

Nick could only nod over his own pizza. Whatever attraction Patsy's held for the animal sharing his table, he'd at least been as good as his word about not taking them to a spendy spot for lunch.

Besides, the pizza here was pretty darn good, too.

And while they were on that subject, he had a tale of his own to relate.

"Yeah, you know…some of the most popular pizzerias back in Zootopia are owned by a mob boss, Rocco Peccari, aka The Red Pig."

"That guy!" Pennanti spat out the word like a cherry pit. "Whoa, there's a piece of work for ya. Is it true he almost got into a gang war with Mr. Big a little while ago?"

At the mention of the Arctic shrew's name, Nick shifted uneasily in his chair. Was his guide aware that he had once done work for the Tundratown mob? It was entirely possible; this fisher was one perceptive individual.

"Well, yeah," he said, "For the moment, they're cooling their jets, but we're still on alert—at least we were before that riot last night. You know how it is with La Cosa Nostra."

"Tell me about it," Pennanti smirked cynically, "Just when you think everything's hunky-dory, somebody gets their honor insulted and out come the guns again." He popped the last bite of his pizza into his mouth and then rolled his napkin into a ball. "But that's neither here nor there for us, Nicky. We know your fox kid was Company's diamond mule; what we got so far wouldn't hold up in court, but WE know it. What we don't know—and what we need to know—is where he is right now."

Once again, Nick's only viable response was a silent nod. His idea for their next move had been to determine how The Mister had managed to fake Conor's death. In so many words, his guide had just told him that such a course of action would be a waste of time.

And he was right; it wouldn't bring them any closer to finding out where that silver-fox kid had gone to ground, much less help lead them to his invisible partner.

That was when Nick realized something else; there was an issue of even more immediate concern they needed to discuss. He leaned forward across the table.

"Before we can even begin to go there, Martin…there's something else we have to talk about."

The fisher leaned in from his side.

"Okay…what you got?"

"Let's look at the facts for a minute," the red fox told him, "and try to connect the dots, Three years ago, James 'The Mister' McCrodon sent a shipment of blood diamonds to a jeweler in Zootopia, a jeweler that just happened to be in hock to Rocco,' the Red Pig' Peccari."

"Awrite, go on," the fisher nodded. From the tilt of his head Nick was able to discern that he had no idea where this conversation was going.

It didn't matter; the fox knew where he was headed

"Now, it goes without saying that if the Red Pig had found out that diamond exchange was happening, he would have sent the Rafaj Brothers to sleep with the sandworms right then and there."

"Yeah, yeah…what's the point here?" Pennanti was waving an impatient paw.

"The point, Martin," Nick answered him, tapping the table for emphasis as he spoke, "is that if the Lewis kid had been in town when Peccari found out what was happening, he would have sent the Razorbacks after him, too. We, I mean the ZPD, we never thought about it much because, up until now, the possibility that the Company's diamond runner was a kid was vanishingly remote." He tapped the table a second time. "But even then we never imagined that he might be the Lewis kid. Only, what do you know, it WAS him…and that changes everything. Conor Lewis is a tough young fox, and he has the smarts to go with it—nobody knows that better than I do—but he wouldn't last five minutes against the Razorbacks…unless…!" His arm shot up as if spring-loaded, two fingers pointing at the ceiling, "Unless he had some back-up available, and a way to stay safe until it could get to him."

For a moment Pennanti just continued to scrutinize him…but then his eyebrows rose up slowly with what seemed to be the dawning of an understanding.

"Wait a minute, waaaiiit a minute…" He snapped his fingers and pointed. "You're talking about a hideout over here."

"Right, exactly," Nick nodded, "Look, you know the Company better than I do, but everything I've heard about them says they never left anything to chance; there was always a fallback plan."

Pennanti folded his arms and sat back in his chair, pursing his lips and nodding back at the fox.

"Once again, mia volpe rossa, you're saying more than you know. Remember back some years ago, when The Mister thought he was gonna be put away for good—and went running to Mr. Big and The Red Pig looking for help?"

"Oh yeah, I know about that," Nick answered, feeling the corners of his mouth flatten, "and they both turned him down. According to what Mr. Big said to Car…er, my former partner, letting The Mister into your territory was like inviting a vampire into your house."

The fisher laughed and clapped his paws. "Heh, heh…ahhh, don't that little guy have a way with the words? Almost a shame that he works on the wrong side of the fence."

"Yeah really," the fox replied, trying not to sound uncomfortable. Once again, they were veering dangerously close to the subject of his own association with the arctic shrew. "But then Vern Rodenberg showed up to defend him, and he managed to beat the rap."

"Yeah…HIM!" Pennanti snarled, showing both his fangs. It was clear he didn't like the rat attorney any more than Chief Bogo. But then, surprisingly, his expression turned almost sardonic. "I could tell ya a few things about that case Nicky, but that's for another time. What's here and now is that up until that grey rat blew into town, the word on the street was that McCrodon was planning to go on the lam if it looked like he was gonna get convicted—and that he had a hideout all prepared for just such a contingency."

"In…Zootopia?" Nick's ears were up and his tail was twitching…but the fisher only sighed and waved a paw.

"Yeah…and also Pawston, Los Antelopes, Miceami, Las Vegoats, Bearbados, even Ireland; a zillion possibilities and we could never pin it down." He shook his head in frustration, consumed by the memory. "The DA must have tried a thousand times to get that sea-jerk's bail revoked…and the judge always refused to budge; said he wasn't declaring anybody a flight risk on the basis of a rumor."

"Well, it hardly matters anyway, since he ended up walking," the fox replied, hoping to put the conversation back on track. "Look, I hate to make assumptions, but suppose The Mister did have a hideout prepared and it was in Zootopia; WHERE in Zootopia would it have been, do you think?"

Pennanti threw up his paws in a 'W' pattern.

"You tell me, Nicky; it's your town."

"Yes, but The Mister was your guy." the red fox countered, "Would he have had the nerve to set up a hideout in either Tundratown or Sahara Square, even after those other two bosses told him ,'sorry, can't help you'?" It was a fair question, he thought. Mr. Big would never in a million years make a move like that…but the Red Pig? In a mouse's heartbeat!

"Ohhhh," Pennanti was tapping his fingers together, "Ohhhh, I see what you're getting at, paisan, and the answer is no…no, he wouldn't have. Not with the cops already on his tail; that'd be trouble enough for him without bringing La Cosa Nostra into it."

"Right," Nick answered, "so we can eliminate Tundratown and Sahara Square; what does that leave us?"

"Ahhh, McCrodon wouldn't have hid out in Sahara Square anyway, Red Pig or no Red Pig; way too hot for his species." So saying, the fisher spread out a napkin on the table and extracted a pen from his pocket. "But I think the question we aughta be asking here is, if you were The Mister, what would you look for in a hideout, aside from which district you'd choose?"

Nick thought about that for a second.

"Well, first of all, it'd need to be somewhere that doesn't stand out. It would have to look just like any regular place, no different from anything else in the neighborhood."

"A regular place in an area that's popular with newcomers," the fisher amended, "Where new faces don't get a lot of attention…but at the same time, it's not so popular that it gets crowded a lot," He jotted a note and looked up again. "What else?"

This time, Nick didn't hesitate. "You'd need to be able to get in and out without being seen from the street. If it were me, I'd want a place you entered by way of another location; the further away, the better. And you'd also want an emergency exit, just in case."

"Yep," Pennanti made another note, "and as many as possible; mink are like that." He tapped the pen against his teeth for a second, "And with that in mind, he'd also want somewhere close by the waterfront."

"Right, right," Nick nodded; that one was practically a no brainer, "Semi aquatic species and all."

"Well yes, that too," the fisher looked mildly disappointed, "But what I'm thinking here is he'd want that in case he needed to get out of Zootopia pronto."

"Oh, right," Nick gave himself a face pawlm, but not a hard one. In the event that the sea-mink's presence in Zootopia had become known to the ZPD, Chief Bogo would have instantly swung into action. And the first thing he'd have done was assign every officer he could lay his hooves on to watching the airport and the railway station.

But even with their best efforts, there was no way the Department could cover the whole of the city's waterfront. Zootopia Sound was simply way too big and extensive for that. "And he'd also need access to all the basic necessities, Water, sewage, and electricity."

"Especially that last one," Pennanti was pointing with his pen. "Wherever McCrodon decided to hide, he'd have wanted plenty of computing power available…and that takes juice, a lot of it."

"But at the same time, he wouldn't want anyone to know he was using that much electricity," Nick reminded him, pointing back with a finger, "and the only way to pull that off is to steal it from a place that uses so much power anyway, a few extra kilowatts won't be noticed."

"Heyyy, now you're thinkin' Nicky!" the fisher was almost beaming it as he wrote it down.

Over the course of the next hour, a portrait began to emerge of the hidden lair The Mister had possibly built for himself in Zootopia. At one point Martin Pennanti suggested Happytown as the most likely location.

Nick had promptly dropped a downpour on that parade.

"I don't think so, Marty. I grew up in that neighborhood and believe me; nobody's more suspicious of a new face than those folks. Not only that; if they'd thought there was any kind of reward for giving up The Mister to The Law, they'd have been lining up around the block to turn him in."

"Seriously?" Pennanti's eyebrows were crawling up his scalp. "From what I've heard of that place, I'd think the folks who live there would be the last animals to sell a guy out to the cops."

"They are," the fox corrected him, "if you're talking about one of their own. But not an outsider; you'll never visit a neighborhood with more of an 'us-against-the-world attitude' than Happytown." He paused, wagging a finger, "Now, if the Mister had roots there, it'd be a different story—but he doesn't, am I right?"

"That's a big yes, Nicky," the fisher was nodding gravely. "The McCrodons came to Zoo York straight out of New Bedfurred, MA. That's where I always thought The Mister had his hideout; it's one seriously mean community, and they don't like strangers any more than your Happytown homies. Okay, scratch that place."

The next suggestion was the Canal District. At first glance it seemed like the obvious hiding place for a semi-aquatic species.

Beneath the surface however…

"Sea mink are a cold weather species, Nicky," Pennanti reminded him with a frown, "and I visited your canal district once; the water there's about like your average bathtub."

"Well yes," the fox agreed—up to a point, "but the only coldwater neighborhoods in Zootopia are up around the Polar Strait…and that's part of Tundratown, so it'd be warm water or nothing for The Mister if he came to Zootopia. BUT…" he raised a cautionary finger, "There's another reason why he might have wanted to stay away from the Canal District; the Privateers."

"The…WHO?" Pennatni's brows were doing push-ups.

"Biker-gangs…except with speedboats instead of motorcycles. There's at least three of them operating out of the Canal District and the Marshlands. A lot of them work as bounty hunters on the side…when they're not beating up on each other, that is." He stopped, figuring the fisher would be able to figure out the rest for himself.

He was, but he wasn't ready to concede the point.

"I dunno Nicky…this isn't some small-time bank-robber we're talking over here, only the head of the most feared crime family on the east coast. Your…." he looked up, past Nick's shoulder, to where a porcupine waiter was hovering with a frown on his face. "We'll be done in just a few, here. Meantime, can you bring us some coffee?"

"Coming right up," the waiter said, and then shuffled away with an even deeper scowl.

Pennanti watched him go and then picked up where he'd left off. "As I was saying, your privateers would have to be either super desperate of completely nuts to take on a guy like McCrodon."

"A lot of them are," the fox informed him, offering a toothy grimace, "They'd go after The Devil himself if the price was right." The corners of his mouth turned even further downward, "But the point is, a reputation like The Mister's is only as good as how far you're willing to put the word out—that you're the animal nobody wants to cross." He tapped the table again, "And if McCrodon had done THAT, how long do you think it would've taken for the ZPD to get wind of it?"

"Fair point, Nicky," the fisher replied, giving the table an answering tap.

At the end of their deliberations, they had the possible location of The Mister's lair whittled down to three-and-a-half districts, Savanna Central, Outback Island, the Nocturnal District, and one that they considered only a remote prospect. Of these, they thought the third option the most likely; mink are a largely nocturnal species, and Zootopia's underground zone had the coolest temps of the three most likely regions. Granted, there was no direct access to Zootopia Sound from there, but neither would it be an arduous journey. The second most likely location was Outback Island—a place with easy access to the water every which way you looked, but also a location where non-native species stuck out like a sore thumb. Savanna Central brought up the rear. Close to the water and new faces everywhere…but also with the biggest crowds, and the largest police presence in Zootopia. Old Growth City they put down as a long-shot, nearly the ideal climate and environment for a sea-mink…but much too far away from Zootopia Sound to allow for an escape via that route.

The next thing they decided was, district of choice notwithstanding, the Mister would have needed his hideaway to be within an easy reach of a place to obtain provisions, food, medicine, etc. "Preferably walking distance," Martin said to Nick who nodded in quick agreement.

As their musings continued, however, Nick found that he was becoming more and more aware of an elephant in the room—and not a real one. Finally, unable to take it anymore, he called a halt, at the same time making a 'T' with his paws.

"Hold it Martin, hold it. This is all very nice, but it's all just pure speculation. Before I can even think about taking any of this to my chief, I need at least some circumstantial evidence that The Mister had a hideout prepared in Zootopia." He clasped and unclasped his paws a couple of times. "As it is, we don't have proof that such a place exists anywhere."

"Mmmm," Pennanti rubbed at his chin with finger, "Yeah, you're right there, Nicky. I met your Chief Bogo a coupla times. Darn good cop, but he's never been one for working on assumptions. 'Gimme hard evidence—or gimme a break!'"

In spite of himself, Nick snickered. "Yep, that's him all over, Marty."

However that didn't help with their immediate problem.

"But now you see what I'm talking about; before I can go to him, I need something solid…even some evidence that The Mister had plans to hide out in Zootopia would be enough." He waved paw and sighed, "But, like I said, right now, we don't even have that much."

"Oh-kay-y-y, then what do you want to do about it?" Pennanti leaned back in his chair and folded his arms; his way of telling the fox that the ball was in his court.

Nick looked away for a second and chewed his lip. In fact, he knew exactly what he needed to do; the idea had been germinating in his mind from the moment he sat down. Had this discussion been taking place in Zootopia, he would have already outlined his plan.

But he wasn't back in Zootopia, he was in an unfamiliar city thousands of miles from home…and a none-too-friendly town to boot, except for the animal sharing his table.

And besides that…

"I've got an idea, Marty…but I need to know a few things first…about The Mister I mean."

"At your service," the fisher replied, rolling his paw in the air.

"All right, well," Nick wasn't quite sure how to put it, "Well, I don't have to tell you that a lot of mob bosses are considered folk heroes on their home turf. Take Mr. Big for example. He may be one of the ZPD's ten most wanted, but the rodents of Little Rodentia would erect a statue to that shrew if they thought they could et away with it. They love him to death in that district."

"Yeah, John Goatti, same thing," Pennanti nodded sagely, "Even today it's not a good idea to bad mouth that guy around Ozone Park," his mouth cracked open in a sardonic grin, "not unless you really didn't want those teeth anyway."

Nick laughed, but on the inside, he could feel his excitement building. The fisher had just steered their conversation in the exact direction where he wanted it to go. For a moment, he wondered if his tablemate was clairvoyant.

"Right, so what I need to know is…is that the way they remember The Mister in HIS old neighborhood."

Pennanti's smirk became even more feral.

"Lemme put it this way Nicky…every year, on the anniversary of his death; his gravesite gets BURIED in flowers. Seriously, there used to be a stinkin' shrine to that sea-jerk's memory on the old Finagles site…before the city ordered it removed. And whoa…the longshore crews over in Sunset Park were none too happy about THAT then they heard. They called a wildcat strike and we almost had a riot."

"Sunset…Park?" Nick's ears were sticking up in confusion. "I thought McCrodon's home territory was the DUMBO district.

"Nahhh," Pennanti, fanned a pawlm. "The Mister had his headquarters there, but most of The Company's actual business took place in Bay Ridge and around the Sunset Park docks. The guy was a gunrunner, don't forget."

"Right," the red fox nodded.

"Awright, so what do you have in mind, Nicky?" The fisher was leaning across the table regarding him intently. Whoa, he really wouldn't have liked to be questioned by this animal back in his hustling days. Thank God they were on the same side now.

He held up his paws. "Before I can say Martin, I need to know just one more thing. Finagles was where The Mister ran his business. But was there a place where he used to go, when he wanted to hang out with the regular mammals in the neighborhood?"

It was a good bet that such a spot existed; Mr. Big had once owned a nightclub too, The Thaw. But even today, on any given morning, you could find him holding court at Nonna's Café and Bakery, down in Little Rodentia. And unlike The Thaw, that location was open to all comers—if they were small enough to get through the door, that is.

"Uhhhh, yeah he did, actually," Pennanti seemed surprised by the question, "The Wicked Mink Pub, over in Bay Ridge. Ahhhh, they couldn't get enough of him in that place, Nicky. He used to walk in through the door and order clams and oysters for everybody. I don't think I need to tell you how THAT went over; most of the regulars were mustelids, same as him.

"And you," Nick thought but didn't say. He was beginning to grasp the root of his guide's animosity towards the late James 'The Mister' McCrodon. That sea-mink had been the kind of mammal that gave every member of the weasel family a bad name. "And is it still there?" he asked.

Pennanti narrowed his eyes and hissed. "Yeah it's still there, and yeah they still got good memories of him….and yeah, I'm getting irritated over here. So will you please basta con tutta questa confusion, and get to the stinkin' POINT?

Nick puffed out his cheeks before answering. All right, no more stalling; we who are about to suggest something that could end up getting us turned into a throw rug salute you.

"All right Marty, here's my idea…"

For the next few minutes, Pennanti listened patiently as the red fox outlined his plan. When he finished, the fisher had only one small suggestion.

"Got your will made out, paisan? You're gonna need it." And then, seeming to know instinctively that there was no way the fox was going to be talked out of it, he sighed and lifted a pair of fingers. "Okay, there's two things you're gonna want in order to pull this off over here. The first one's gonna be fairly easy to get hold of, the second one—not so much."

Notes:

Author's Note:

 

A brief rundown of the Zootopia City Council as imagined by your humble servant:

Jacob Marahute – Wallaby, Representing Outback island

Claudia Nizhang - Red Panda, Representing Old Growth City

Sven Kristoff - Reindeer. Representing Tundratown

G. Herbert Sabor – Tayra, Representing The Rainforest District

Hillary Block - Chipmunk, Representing Little Rodentia

Jose Lampara - Wild Ass, Representing The Canyonlands

Joe Kiboko – Pygmy Hippopotamus. Representing The Canal District

J. Claude Charognard, Raccoon, Representing The Marshlands

Ibrahim Al Agrabah – Camel, Representing Sahara Square

Wayne Pipistrel – Leaf-Nosed Bat, Representing The Nocturnal District

Joao Campeiro – Pampas Deer, Representing Savanna Central

Chapter 41: The Cascade Effect, (Continued...Part 4)

Summary:

Hospital Games

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 7—The Cascade Effect
(Cont'd…Part 4)

St. Bartholomeow's Hospital, Savanna Central, Zootopia –Monday. 11:37 Hours, ZST

Once again, Judy should have seen it coming.

She had expected it to be a simple errand; one-and-done. She would go to St. Bartholomeow's Hospital, have a talk with Max March, find out what the young buck rabbit knew about her sister's disappearance—and then back to Precinct-1.

No soap; almost at once, the best laid plans of bunnies and rabbits had gone completely haywire.

First up, Chief Bogo had informed her that there'd be no one available to drive her for at least another hour.. That was no great revelation, but it was still a disappointment—especially since it was useless to argue. As important as finding Erin was to her, the ZPD had only about a gajillion other things on their plate at the moment.

And then, no sooner did Judy get that news, than her cell began to buzz. It was her mother, wanting to know if she had any news about Erin.

Ohhhh boy, did she ever…and it was a task she relished about as much as getting a root canal. Luckily for the doe-bunny, mom had long since regained her composure. She accepted the news that her daughter was missing and unaccounted for with the matter-of-fact stoicism for which she had long been noted. The next thing she'd done was ask if there was anything she could do to help.

Judy had nearly said no, when a thought occurred to her. Maybe her mother could assist her—that is, if….

"Mom, hold on a second." she'd said…and then gone back in to speak to Chief Bogo. To her surprise—and relief—he had immediately given permission for her mother to serve as her driver. And so, half an hour later, mom had arrived at one of the Savanna Central Plaza checkpoints, seated at the wheel of a rental car.

She'd been devastated at the scene before her.

"Sweet cheez n' crackers, Jude…this is worse than what would have happened if the Guilfords had managed to drop that load of defoliant on the Carrot Days Dance.

Judy—who had never thought of it that way—had agreed with her mother completely.

Bonnie Hopps had never spent all that much time in Zootopia…but she was a good driver, and an even better listener.

And she had Judy for a navigator; they made the drive to St. Bart's in no time flat, and even found a parking space close to the entrance.

Great, the bunny-cop had thought, she'd be out of there before you could say…

"Ah, there you are Detective Hopps; right on time. If you can wait for me in Room D, down the hall I'll be with you in just a few minutes."

Judy's eyes pinched shut and she almost bit her tongue. Dr. Jarabal; she'd completely forgotten about her appointment with him this morning. Fortunately, she had an easy way to get out of it.

"Doctor, I'm sorry, but my appointment will have to wait. After last night's riot, the ZPD needs every paw…"

UNfortunately, she also had her mother with her.

"Judith Laverne Hopps, do you have an appointment with this doctor today?"

"Well…yes, mom…" she admitted uncomfortably, "But you saw…"

"Then you go wait for him in Room D like he said."

"Mom, please…"

But she already knew it was no use; Bonnie Hopps with her paws on her hips and that expression on her face was the proverbial irresistible force.

"Don't make me thump my foot…"

All right, fine…but Judy was not going to go quietly into that limbo. Turning to Dr. Jarabal, she quickly explained to him her other reason for being here. The cuscus nodded his understanding at once.

"You needn't worry Detective Hopps; Max…errr, March isn't scheduled to be discharged until tomorrow morning."

"See, dear? Nothing to worry about," her mother chimed in, "He'll still be here when you're done."

And so Judy ended up spending the next few minutes having her vitals checked by a marmot; temperature, blood pressure, blood/oxygen level, etc. That being done, the nurse subjected her to the usual round of questions. Have you had any falls? How would you rate your mood? Are you experiencing any bouts of dizziness, any feelings of lightheadedness, have you had any falls, headaches, shortness of breath? She answered no to all these inquiries except for the last one.

"But I'm a lot better than yesterday," she insisted.

The nurse-marmot only grunted as if she heard that line a thousand times before—which she probably had—and then informed her, "The doctor will be with you shortly," before departing.

…which of course, he wasn't; no sooner did the door close, than time began to move at a sloth's pace. Looking at her watch, Judy saw that it was 11:42. When she looked again, two hours later, it was 11:45. At one point, she thought she found a distraction to help her pass the time; a rack full of magazines pegged to the wall. That is…until she grabbed the top one and saw the broadly smiling face of Leodore Lionheart on the cover. The caption read, "Is This Our Next Mayor?'

She immediately put the magazine back where she got it.

When Dr. Jarabal finally knocked on the door, he entered to find her hunched in a chair with her fists clenched and a mile-deep frown on her face.

He then proceeded to make the same inquiries the nurse had made, although when it came to the subject of Judy's breathing issues, his questions were considerably more pointed. Next he proceeded to go over her with a stethoscope…again with more detail than in a standard examination.

However, it quickly turned out to be worth it.

"Well…I must say, Detective Hopps, there has indeed been a great deal of improvement in your breathing since yesterday. Just the same," he raised a finger in a tut-tut gesture, "I think it would be wise to have you wear an abdominal brace for the coming week."

"Sure, okay," Judy answered, in no mood to argue after having gotten off this lightly. She'd been assuming, up to now, that she was probably going to be admitted—and that this time her doctor would refuse to take no for an answer. "Uh, where would I go to pick it up?"

"McCatt's Medical," the cuscus answered. "Have you got your phone handy? I will text you the address."

She did, and was more than happy to comply. At last; maybe now, she could finally…

"Excuse me, Detective; we're not done yet. Sit down again, would you please?"

"AAAAAAGGGGGH!"

If Judy's scream hadn't been of the silent variety, it would have shattered all the porcelain in the sink. NOW, what? It was no good asking Dr. Jarabal, he was already on his cell phone.

"Eleanor, hello…is Dr. Matorkin available at the moment? Oh? Very good….could you have him meet me in the East Pavilion, Exam Room D? Yes, yes, thank you."

"Who's Dr. Matorkin?" Judy asked, trying and failing to keep the irritation out of her voice. ANOTHER long wait, just what she needed!

"Ophthalmic specialist," The cuscus answered, pointing to the left side of the doe-bunny's face.

"Oh…" she answered, reaching up to touch her bandaged eye and feeling suddenly very small—while a mantra commenced to repeat inside of her head. "Dumb bunny…Dumb bunny…Dumb bunny…Dumb bunny." How the heck could she have forgotten about that?

She expected another interminable wait…but this time the knock on the door came after only a minute for two. It was puzzling rather than reassuring; the noise came from somewhere down around floor level and was barely audible.

"Come in," Dr. Jarabal said, and a tiny door set into the main one opened and a Siberian Hamster in a lab coat entered.

"Ahhh, thank you for coming so promptly, Doctor," the cuscus smiled in greeting.

"Lucky, I happened to be on this floor, eh?" Dr. Matorkin replied, returning the smile. He had a curious accent, half Slavic and half Asiatic.

"This is the patient whose chart I sent you," Dr. Jarabal told him, indicating Judy with a wave of his paw. There was an apprehensive note in his voice—as if he was hoping his colleague had taken time to actually read the thing.

Apparently, he had.

"Yes, yes," he peered up at Judy, "Officer…excuse me please. Detective Hopps, is correct?"

"Yes, that's me," the doe bunny smiled. For some reason, she couldn't help liking this hamster.

"Good, good," he was clasping his paws like a maître d' greeting a favored guest. "Dr. Jarabal has familiarized me with your case, SO…" he waved upwards at the cuscus. "Doctor, if you would be so kind as to remove her bandages, I will climb up…and we shall see what we can see."

"Certainly Doctor," his colleague replied, extracting a pair of blunt scissors from a drawer.

Judy should have been glad to get the bandages off, but instead…

"Is something wrong, Detective?" It was Dr. Matorkin.

"I…" she shook her head and blinked, "I…I'm kind of seeing double."

"That's normal," the hamster told her, fanning a paw. "Your eye will adjust momentarily. Dr. Jarabal, if you would be so kind again…?"

Laying a paw on the floor, the cuscus lifted his colleague up and deposited him on Judy's cheek, where he donned a pair of Nitrile gloves and—much to the doe-bunny's puzzlement—slipped a pair of Nitrile booties onto his feet.

"All right, Detective. Now I am going to push your eye open and see how you're doing. Please keep still and do not blink."

So saying, he took hold of her upper eyelid, raising it up like a window shade. A second later, she felt his feet pressing down on the lower one; hmmmm, so that's what the booties were for.

The sensation was only mildly uncomfortable—although it was a bit disconcerting to have a hamster as big as a minivan right in her face…or that was how it looked anyway.

"Hmmmm," he mused, working his incisors as he studied Judy's eye. "No damage to the eyeball that I can see; no excess blood, the capillaries all appear to be intact. So far, so good…Ah, please do not move Detective." She had been trying to heave a sigh of relief. "Now, let's seeee," he went on. "Iris is fine, cornea looks good. Let's check pupillary dilation." She felt his right paw let go of her eyelid. "You're going to feel a very strong urge to blink now, Detective. Please do not."

Before Judy could ask what he meant, a pinpoint of light shot into her eye—and seemingly straight into her brain. She almost blinked, but managed to hold it.

"All right…and again," the hamster said, and flashed the penlight a second time, this time holding it a bit longer. Once more the doe-bunny was able to keep her eye open, but this time just barely.

"Annnd…just one more," This time Dr. Matorkin held the beam for a full two seconds…and this time, Judy was unable to hold her eye open for the duration. It didn't matter; the hamster seemed to sense what was coming and pulled back just in time.

"Okay, okay-y-y," she whimpered, "I'll tell you where the money's hidden," Lame joke, but the best she could manage on short notice. Forcing a smile, she also had to force herself not to rub her newly un-bandaged eye

"We're almost done," Dr. Matorkin told her, making a small adjustment to his penlight. "I just need to take a look at the retina. This won't be quite so uncomfortable, but it will take a bit longer."

It seemed to take hours, but when at last the Siberian hamster put the penlight away, he was all smiles.

"Well Detective," he said, hopping down to sit on her knee, "Everything's looking fine; no damage to your eye that I can see." A quick frown crossed his features and he pointed to the claw marks just above, where Conor had tagged her. "But about this wound; is it better from when she was admitted?" He was speaking to Dr. Jarabal.

"Much better," the cuscus assured him, "When she was brought in the night before last, it was almost swollen shut."

Judy, who had been unconscious at the time, could only nod in silent agreement.

"Very well," Dr. Matorkin replied, tapping the penlight against his teeth. "Then I believe we can leave the eye uncovered…and I see no need for suturing or staples. Butterfly bandages will suffice, I think. Howww-ever, I would also recommend putting this bunny on a course of antibiotics; fights are dirty things, you know."

…As if Judy needed to be reminded of that.

By now she knew better than to get her hopes up that she'd be out of here any time soon. Sure enough; she had to wait for another nurse. And then, before the bandages could be applied, the fur had to be shaved from around the souvenir Conor had left her.

But then, finally, prescription in paw, Judy was given her leave to depart…and it was all she could do not to bolt for the door before either of those two mad doctors could change their minds about admitting her.

But when she returned to the reception area…oh joy, there was no sign of her mother anywhere. Well, that was hardly a surprise, but still… Oh wait, she could just call mom on her cell-phone.

Extracting it from the holster Judy thumbed up her favorites list. But before she could even begin to scroll through it, a voice called out from over on her left.

"Excuse me…Miss? MISS!"

It was not spoken in a friendly tone. And when the doe bunny looked, she saw that it had come from the reception desk…where a portly armadillo was pointing to a sign mounted above and behind her.

No Cell-Phone Usage In The Hospital Reception Area

Judy sighed and put the phone away. She could probably have forced the issue by pulling out her badge, but after everything that had already happened today—the heck with it.

Instead, she went hopping over to the desk where the sign was hanging.

"Excuse me?"

No response; she tried again.

"Um, excuse me…"

Still nothing; she might as well have been addressing a fence post.

"Excuse me!"

Okay, that did it. The armadillo leaned over the top of her private castle with an expression that fairly screamed, 'How dare you talk to ME that way?'

Judy ignored it.

"Was there another bunny in here a while ago, older than me, dressed in…"

"No, I didn't see any other rabbits," the receptionist interrupted, turning to go back to her work.

Judy almost asked her if she was sure…but again; the heck with it.

"All right then, can you tell me which room Max March is in?"

"Are you…a relative?" the armadillo demanded, leaning over the transom again, this time with a raised eyebrow and a barely suppressed sneer.

Ohhh-kay that did it; no more Ms. NICE bunny-cop; now Judy did pull out her badge, thrusting it directly under the receptionist's snout.

"No…I'm a police detective, here on police business. So, if you DON'T mind…"

"All right, all right," the armadillo responded, turning hastily to her workstation…in a voice the doe-bunny had heard only a thousand times before; the wheedling whine of the poor, put-upon, victim of police harassment. "He's in room 477 of B-wing, the pediatric section."

As anyone could have predicted, no assistance was forthcoming; Judy had to figure out how to get there, all by herself.

But when she exited the elevator, things at last began to look up. Room 477 was practically right in front of her.

And also right in front of it was her mother—along with two other rabbits, a tall, rangy, slate-gray buck, and a dun-colored doe, about the same proportion as her mom, except with slightly longer ears.

"There she is," Bonnie waved as she saw her daughter approaching. "Judy, you know Harry and Ida March."

"Oh yes," she answered, coming forward with an outstretched paw, "Nice to see you again." In truth, she barely remembered either of the Marches—if that much. But since these were the parents of the rabbit she'd come to see, it was time to smile and play nice.

Ida's shake was warm enough, but her husband's paw might as well have been pulled straight out of a beverage cooler. It was no great mystery; all the while his eyes kept darting to the badge now clipped to Judy's belt.

Whoa, you didn't need to be a police detective to figure that one out. Harry March was angry over his son's arrest and she was the only cop in the vicinity. It would be necessary to alleviate that situation and pronto before she asked if she could speak to his son.

And so the first thing Judy said was, "How's your boy doing?"

It was Ida who answered her.

"Oh, quite well; the doctors say it was a clean break and he'll be as good as new in six weeks or so."

"Which means he'll miss the start of the soccer season," her husband chimed in, thrusting out his jaw as inviting Judy to put up her dukes. Before she could answer, Ida spoke up again, attempting to pacify her husband.

"Now dear, you heard what the doctor said; no permanent damage. Our Max will be back on the field again before…"

"He shouldn't have to come back at all!" the larger bunny snapped. "And he wouldn't if the ZPD hadn't dragged him off to jail like a…a common criminal." He raised a finger, a gesture clearly meant for Judy's benefit. "And don't think for a minute I'm going to…to just let things slide."

Judy expected a meek response to this from Ida, but instead her paws went straight to her hips and her mouth became a hard, flat line.

"Harry March, we already discussed this—and we are NOT calling a lawyer!"

"So what do we do, then?" He was waving a paw as if attempting to flag down a cab, "Just let the ZPD get away with persecuting our son—over what, over digging a few holes?"

"Oh, and I suppose we should just let him dig holes wherever he WANTS." His wife shot back, "Maybe next time he can dig up the Burrow County Courthouse lawn." She was thumping her foot at full tilt.

Judy watched the exchange with a mixture of fascination and dismay. Her first instinct was to rush to the ZPD's defense. However, again, she had to remind herself of something. With one word, either one these two bunnies could deny her access to their son…or at least make it that much more difficult to get in to see him.

But then, she had an idea.

"If it's any consolation Mr. March, you should know that the officer responsible for your son's arrest was suspended from duty the day before yesterday." She would not, of course, mention the fact that Albert Tufts had since been reinstated…especially since her words seemed to be having exactly the desired effect.

"He WAS?" Harry March was staring at her wide-eyed and his ears were reaching for the ceiling.

"Yes, that's right," Judy told him, glancing sideways at her mother…who was also aware of the full story. Not to worry, Bonnie had on her best stone face. "Mind you," the bunny-cop went on, "he wasn't suspended only for arresting your son, but that was certainly part of it."

…A very SMALL part, but there was something else she was keeping to herself.

That was when her mother finally joined the conversion.

"I know how you feel, Harry…Ida. My Erin was arrested at the Academy Auditions too."

She sniffed and flicked a finger at the corner of her eye…and it might or might not have been an act.

Harry March, for his part, seemed to shrink a little at the news. That told Judy that this was something he'd already heard—and then forgotten.

But how much had he heard about her sister, the doe-bunny wondered. Well, it'd be easy enough to find out.

"Speaking of Erin…Mom, did you tell them why I'm here?"

Bonnie immediately shook her head.

"No Dear, I thought it might be best to let you tell them."

"Okay," Judy nodded and then turned to speak to the Marches again. "When they did the head count at the City Youth Jail this morning, my sister Erin turned up missing and unaccounted for."

"Oh!" Ida's paws had flown up to her mouth, while her husband was looking away, shamefaced. It was easy to imagine his thoughts. 'My son may have a broken ankle, but at least I know where he IS right now.'

"Oh Judy, Bonnie, I'm so sorry," Ida told them, reaching out to clasp their paws.

"Thanks, Mrs. March," the younger bunny told her, and then delivered the punch line. "But the reason I'm here is that we have reason to believe your son may have seen what happened to her and…"

"Oh, in that case, of course you should talk to him," Ida interrupted, patting Judy's paw.

"Absolutely," he husband added; he sounded almost insistent. No more angry rabbit; he was now in total sympathy with her cause.

She found Max sitting up in bed, with his leg elevated in a sling. At the moment, he was occupied with watching an episode of The Howl Mouse on the hospital room TV. Or perhaps not; he seemed to be preoccupied with something else at the moment…barely able to keep his eyes on the screen.

She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her.

"Hello Max, how are you doing?"

He stiffened for a second before turning to face her. At once, recognition dawned in his bright, dark eyes.

"I-I'm doing okay, I guess. Uhm, you're Judy, right…Erin's older sister?"

"Yes," She informed him drily, "except right now it's Detective Judy Hopps. Mmmm…may I sit down?"

"Yeah sure," the young buck-rabbit answered, reaching for the remote with a stuttering paw. He seemed resigned to her presence rather than put off by it.

"He knows why I'm here," Judy thought, as she took her chair…one that was, for once, the perfect size for her species. With that in mind, she got right to the point as soon as the TV winked out.

"Max, Erin's missing; did you know that?"

His ears went up like a pair of skyrockets. "She…didn't come back?"

"No," the doe-bunny answered, feeling her own ears rising; so he didn't know the exact reason for her presence here. "But does that mean…you knew she left the jail?" There was an accusatory note in her voice; she couldn't help it.

Max hunched forward slightly as if he'd taken a soccer ball to the gut, "Uh…not really. I mean…that's where she was headed the last time I saw her…but I didn't, you know, see what finally happened to her."

Judy closed her eyes and counted to three.

"Easy, Jude…he's at least TRYING to cooperate. I know you're worried about Erin, but give this bunny-kid a break."

"Uhm, maybe you'd better just tell me what happened from the beginning," she said, as lightly as she could.

"Yeah, sure," Max answered her, straightening up as if someone had lifted a roof-beam off his shoulders. "Well, when the cell doors all opened, I decided to go looking for my cousin Zack…"

"You…what?" Judy interrupted, thumping her foot, "That was a big mistake right there, Max."

"Uhmmm, actually no, it wasn't," he rejoined with a twitching nose. His voice was a curious mixture of defiance and contrition, "when I looked back up at my cell again, I saw Craig Guilford poking around inside. If I'd stayed put, he'd have had me trapped."

At the mention of the renegade young coyote's name, Judy's ears shot backwards and stayed that way. Ohhhh, if that canine jerk harmed so much as a hair on her kid sister's tail…!

"You know about him, huh?" Max's ears were aimed at the ceiling again.

"I ought to," the doe-bunny responded with a wry expression, "I'm the officer who arrested him…and I was also there when his dad tried to spray-bomb the Carrot Days Festival with weed-killer." Max started to raise a finger, but she beat him to it. "But what the heck is that coyote's problem with you, kid?"

The young buck-rabbit let out a sound that was either a groan or a whimper.

"Craig thinks I snitched on him over a farm-stand he burned down." His eyes were big and plaintive, "I didn't do it…but he thinks I did and he won't believe different, no matter what anyone tells him. He must of swore a hundred times to get back at me for turning him in…but I swear, I DIDN'T do it."

Max's final declaration was just a mite too loud and ended a mite too abruptly…as if he had more to say, but was holding out on her.

It didn't matter; Judy already knew the rest of the story and she wasn't going to press him; he looked miserable enough as it was.

Besides, they had other things to discuss.

"Okay, so after you saw Craig, what did you do?"

What he'd done was something that made Judy want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until his teeth rattled. Of all the spots he could have chosen for a hiding place, he'd had to pick on ERIN'S cell. She was none too thrilled about what her sister had done next either, putting on Max's shirt to try and lead his pursuer astray. Dumb little bunny, didn't she realize that if Craig had caught her, he might have hurt her anyway? Maybe she hadn't snitched on him—but she was still the younger sister of the cop that had put him in jail.

Before she could give voice to any of these thoughts, Max made it a moot point by admitting to having had a panic attack at that moment…bolting down the walkway with Craig in hot pursuit.

"I tried to lose him in the crowd," he explained, "You know, weaving my way through the spaces too small for him to follow."

"Right," Judy nodded, knowingly. That was an old, established tactic among rabbits attempting to evade an enemy.

In Max March's case, however, it hadn't been particularly effective.

"…And then Zack yelled for me to look out and I felt someone grab me by the ears."

Judy winced and almost groaned. That had only happened to her twice in her lifetime—but it was an experience she'd never forgotten; no bunny ever forgets the first time someone grabs them by the ears.

"But then the cat my cousin was hanging with jumped on Craig's head and started growling for him to let me go. He threw me against the wall and…" he looked away with a pained expression, "...and that's all I remember; when I woke up again, my ankle was broke and everything looked all fuzzy."

He stopped again, once more seeming to be holding something back.

…but this time, he let it come out.

"But then it got clear and the first thing I saw was Erin…kind of balancing on the top rail of the…balcony, I guess you'd call it. Then she started to fall and I reached out and grabbed her and pulled her back onto the walkway."

"You did WHAT?" Judy's eyes were wide and her jaw was hanging just above the floor. The young buck bunny tried to reply, but before he could manage even a single word, he was wrapped in her arms and she was hugging him tight.

"Thank you, Max. Thank you for saving my sister."

"Ummm…welcome," he answered, sounding completely baffled, as if he couldn't understand why it was such a big deal. Judy would have loved to explain it to him, but first thing's first.

"And what happened next?"

Once again, Max looked slightly embarrassed.

"We…heard Craig growling somewhere behind us and I told Erin to get the heck out of there; it was me he was after, not her. She took off down the walkway, and that's the last I saw of her."

"Did you see which way she went?" Judy asked him; probably he hadn't, but you never knew.

"Uh, no," the young bunny admitted unsurprisingly, "But there was a rumor going around that the freight door out back was open. She prolly went that way."

"D'ohhh right, the cyberattack," Judy grimaced at the thought; she had almost forgotten about that little component of the previous night's events.

But now Max was looking at her as if he had something he couldn't wait to share with her.

"What is it?" she asked him.

"When…When Craig finally showed up, he…just kind of looked at me and then booked it on down the catwalk, the same way Erin went."

Judy reeled back in surprise. That sure as heck didn't sound like the coyote-kid she'd busted.

"Maybe…he didn't recognize you?" She offered, tentatively.

Max looked at her with mild disgust. And why not; it was a 'dumb-bunny' question if ever there was such a thing.

"Nope, he knew it was me. Even if I'd looked different I still would've smelled the same; Craig's a coyote, don't forget. I think maybe what happened was he decided that getting back at me wasn't worth missing out on a chance to escape from jail."

It was a plausible enough scenario—but from the tenor of the young rabbit's voice, Judy could tell that he didn't believe it for a nanosecond.

Neither did she, for that matter. Ahhh, and there it was, another piece of the puzzle yet to be uncovered. What made it doubly frustrating was that she was equally certain that Max didn't have it; she was going to have to look elsewhere for that all-important clue.

Rising from her seat, she extended a paw to the injured young buck-rabbit. "All right Max, that's all for now. Thanks for your help…and thanks again for what you did for Erin."

"Y-You're welcome," he said looking shyly away as he took hold of her; his grip was like a mushy banana.

That was when Judy realized something. She knew she shouldn't, but resistance was futile.

"You have a crush on my sister, don't you?"

Max said nothing to this, but he didn't need to. The flush of his ears, the bob of his throat, and the way he averted his gaze told the doe bunny everything she needed to know.

But then he found his voice.

"Yea-a-ah, but I don't think she likes me very much. I think she's got a thing for that Conor Lewis kid."

Judy's ears snapped backwards as if they were spring-loaded.

"NOT funny, Max!"

His ears shot upwards in confusion.

"Wha…? I wasn't making…"

But she was already reaching for the door.

"I could have KEPT my mouth shut, but nooooooooo….!"

When Judy exited the hospital room, she found that her mother and the Marches had been joined by a fourth animal, a white-tailed deer. It was Doctor Robert Hind, the ZPD's consulting psychologist and she was in no way puzzled to find him here. There were at least three injured officers in residence at St. Bart's right now, and after being swept up in the events of last night, which of them wouldn't be in need of a little counseling? Come to think of it, she could use some of that herself.

At the moment, Mr. March was speaking to the deer-buck.

"…so serious all of a sudden; honestly Doctor, I've never seen my boy like this. I mean…I know he's been through a lot in the past couple of days, but he's like a completely different rabbit."

"It's true," His wife Ida put in with a sniffle, "I feel as if I hardly know him."

"All right," Dr. Hind's tone was light but also authoritative. "Is your son keeping completely to himself...or is he at least communicating with you?"

"Oh he still talks to us," Mr. March replied, glancing for a second in the direction of the room where his son lay, "But when he does, he hardly ever looks at us. And I haven't heard him laugh, not even once, since we got here."

"Well," the deer psychologist responded, putting on a tactful half-smile. "It's only been one day—and your son is on painkillers, don't forget, and hospitalized in an unfamiliar city. I think you'll see a marked improvement in his mood once you've had him home for a week. If not, give me a call and I'll recommend someone locally."

"Bless you Doctor," Ida March said, hopping up to clasp his hooves. Her husband, meanwhile, remained hovering in the background, still unsatisfied but not willing to push things any further.

That was when Judy's mother finally noticed her and waved.

"Judy, Judy, over here. Have you met Doctor Hind?"

"I have," the doe-bunny answered, reaching out to offer him a paw of her own, "Nice to see you again, Doctor."

"Likewise," the deer-buck answered, taking it. "How are you holding up, Detective?"

"I…" she started to say, but then realized he wasn't referring to her physical state.

"I'm hanging in there," she finally answered. There was a lot more she'd like to have said—but not in front of mom.

However, no rule said she couldn't take a rain check.

"Doc, I know you're busy right now, but when you have a moment…I'd like to talk to you privately."

"Yes, of course," he replied, not at all startled by the request. "Do you still have my card? Good, call my office tomorrow and we'll set up an appointment."

"Um….do you think you could also see Max?" his father Harry asked—suddenly, as if he'd been mulling the idea for some time and had only just now made a decision.

By way of response, the deer buck checked his phone messages.

"I can visit with him later this afternoon, but right now I'm supposed to see Mrs. Mary Cannon, downstairs on floor three.

At the mention of Mac Cannon's wife, all four bunnies gasped and Judy wanted to reward herself with a face-pawlm. Not just the cyberattack, she'd also forgotten about the injured bobcat-deputy. Yes, she'd been through a lot herself recently and yes her sister was missing, but still…her head was like a sieve today, and this time she couldn't blame it on any tranq-dart.

"Ohhhh, Poor Mac." Ada March was clasping her paws as if preparing to pray.

It was Judy's mother who asked the obvious question.

"How is he?"

In response Dr. Hind assumed a professional tone

"They've moved him out of the ICU and upgraded his condition to guarded. He's got a badly broken arm and a collapsed lung, plus some pretty extensive bruising. The good news is that there seems to be no evidence of head trauma."

Everyone heaved a sigh of relief. Bobcats have relatively thin skulls and are notably vulnerable to cranial injuries.

"Has he regained consciousness yet?" Judy asked him.

"Not yet," the deer-buck told her. "His wife and daughter arrived just a little while ago and as you can imagine, they're both pretty distraught. Chief Bogo asked me to go and see them."

"Well then, go…go!" Ida March was making shooing motions with her paws..

"Yes, absolutely," her husband agreed. For once the two bunnies were on the same wavelength.

"May I come with you?" It was Judy's mother. "I know Mary Cannon quite well; it might do her some good to see a familiar face."

"Excellent thought," Doctor Hind nodded in approval.

So what could Judy do but tag along as well? She didn't know Mary Cannon, but you better believe she knew Mac. And while she was in no mood to see what those detainees had done to him she felt that she owed it to the bobcat-deputy. Luckily she had some business to distract her until their arrival.

Even so, it wasn't until they were safely inside the elevator that she was able to bring it up.

"I didn't want to say this in front of Max's parents, Doctor. But there may be another reason why he's in such a serious mood; I…think he's on a guilt trip right now."

"Oh?" The deer-buck was raising both an ear and an eyebrow.

"What for?" her mother queried, nose twitching in curiosity.

Judy had to brace herself a little before answering. "You know those three kids who were arrested at the ZAPA auditions? Yeah, well…he's the animal who fingered them."

The reactions to this could not have been more divergent. Dr. Hind only nodded sagely, but Bonnie Hopp's ears were lying flat against the back of her neck. If that was true, it meant that Max was also responsible for the arrest of her daughter, Erin—indirectly to be sure, but he had still been the animal that started the ball rolling.

"Hmmmm, no wonder that young rabbit buck's in such a somber state," Dr. Hind was stroking his chin, "About the worst sin a kid can commit these days is to snitch out another kid; I swear, they're almost like a junior Cosa Nostra in that regard."

"Yep…I know." Judy nodded. Her mother said nothing, but her ears were staying locked in place. That told the bunny cop needed to soften things up and quickly. Otherwise, the next time her mom had an encounter with the Marches…

"Max didn't plan on fingering those other kids, Doctor…only Conor Lewis. But his plan backfired; he couldn't tell Lieutenant Tufts which way that fox kid went, and so…"

"…and so Tufts thought those other three young mammals could?" The white-tailed deer finished the sentence for her.

"Right," Judy nodded, "He more or less blackmailed that bunny-kid into pointing them out; it was either that or get the book thrown at both him and his cousin. Max didn't care about himself all that much, but he felt really bad about getting Zack in trouble too…and so he finally agreed to finger those other kids."

"Sweet cheez n' crackers…of all the dirty tricks!" Bonnie's response was as close to snarl as was possible for a bunny. She was still angry—but no longer at Max March, Judy was pleased to note.

And then the elevator door opened and they all got off.

They still had a ways to go; Mac Cannon's room was not only on another floor but also in a different wing. It gave Dr. Hind the opportunity to ask a few questions of his own.

"So, as I understand it Detective Hopps, there've been some new developments in the Conor Lewis investigation. Is it true…he was The Company's diamond courier after all?"

"Yep," Judy answered, fazed not at all by the inquiry. You could hack into the ZPD Database, turn off the police band, and shut down every officer's cell phone from here to Burrow County—and the word would still get around. Nothing short of The Apocalypse can put a police grapevine out of action. "You sound as if you've taken an interest in the case," she told him

"I'm intrigued, I admit it," the deer buck answered, offering a throwaway shrug. "But what I wanted to say is that if the Lewis boy was running with the likes of The Company, it goes a long way towards explaining why he attacked you first."

"It does; how Doctor?" Judy's mother asked with her nose twitching.

The deer-buck's mood became instantly sober.

"Everything I've heard about The Company says that they were one vicious bunch of animals, the meanest of the mean. You don't live with THAT kind of violence, day after day, year after year, without a little of it rubbing off on you."

Judy felt her own nose twitching—and her right foot wanting to thump.

"With all due respect, Doctor Hind…I-I don't think that's entirely true."

"I never said it was." He answered, raising a defensive hoof. "But it's certainly a factor…and what it says is that our fugitive young silver fox is more than capable of lashing out with violence, if he finds himself cornered again."

His assessment nearly provoked another disagreement from Judy. But on reflection, yes; when she'd gotten between Conor and his precious backpack, she had, in a sense, cornered him. It was something she was going to have to keep in mind if they ever crossed swords again.

Any further thoughts on the matter were cut off when her mother spoke up again—in what sounded like a heavily-starched voice.

"I really don't like to say this, Doctor, but it almost sounds as if you're defending that boy."

"Not at all, Mrs. Hopps," the deer-buck assured her, this time showing both of his hooves. "While I believe that his association with The Company may help to explain Mr. Lewis's actions…in no way do I think that it EXCUSES them."

"All right, then." Judy's mother replied, apparently satisfied with the answer.

Not so her daughter; for her, it only brought up another question.

"Tell me Doctor, do you think that's why he loses it if somebody grabs him from behind?"

"I think it's certainly a factor," he told her, glancing sideways for a moment. "And now I'm almost completely convinced that it's a PTSD reaction."

"Land sakes...a reaction to what?" Judy's mother asked, looking over at her daughter with a worried expression. The younger bunny's breathing was starting to become labored, courtesy of the long walk they were taking.

Or rather, courtesy of Conor Lewis, the fox kid who had given her that injury.

"Well," Dr. Hind speculated, scratching at a velvet-sheathed antler, "According to his medical records, Mr. Lewis suffered some pretty serious facial trauma at some point in his life. I'd say it's not outside the realm of possibility that someone grabbed him from behind and shoved him face-first into a wall…hard enough to leave him disfigured."

"Wha…disfigured?" Bonnie's ears were aimed upwards at the ceiling, "But…I met that boy, when he came to The Burrow for the Carrot Days Festival. He looked just fine to me."

"That's because he had corrective surgery, Mom," her daughter Judy pointed out. And then she decided that now was as good a time as any to point out something else; there was no point in keeping it a secret any longer. "And…you may as well know this. Conor Lewis was a big help in stopping that spray-bomb attack on the Carrot Days Festival, too."

Both Bonnie and Dr. Hind halted dead in their tracks.

"He did WHAT?"

Judy gave them the condensed version; explaining how the young silver fox had been hanging with her former partner when they'd come across Craig Guilford on that hillside overlooking the Carrot Days Festival—while he'd been pulling lookout duty for his father's planned attack on the Big Dance.

"It was Ni…Officer Wilde's idea to trick the Guilford brothers into bringing their crop-duster planes in over that fireworks display—but it was Conor who pulled it off. He called up Jerry Guilford on his cell phone, and pretended to be his son. I don't know what he said to that coyote-jerk; all I know is, it worked."

"Sweet….cheez n'…crackers." Her mother's voice was so breathless she might have just run a rabbithon. "How come you never mentioned any of this before Judy?"

"Because Conor swore…eh, my former partner to secrecy…and then HE made me swear." She swallowed and steeled herself, "And Erin too."

At once, she felt herself seized by the arm. "Erin knew?" The insides of Bonnie's ears had gone white as a chalk cliff.

"Yes mom," Judy answered her, carefully disengaging from the older bunny's grip, "She helped him, in fact." She was about to suggest that they save this discussion for later when Dr. Hind intervened.

"Given what we know now about that young silver fox, I'd say it's not too surprising that he wanted what he did to be kept secret," he said. And that was the last word out of any one of them for a while. They completed the rest of their trek in an awkward silence.

Enquiring at the nurse's station, they were told that Mac Cannon was in room 320, just around the corner. "But only one of you can go in," the goral on duty explained to the trio, "His wife and daughter are with him now, and our patients are only allowed three visitors at a time."

When they got to Mac's room, they were startled to find Kii Catano standing sentry outside the door.

"Kii?" Judy asked, ears up and nose twitching, "Kii, what are you doing here?"

Before answering her, the cheetah-cop looked nervously over her shoulder and motioned the others away from the door. And then, hunkering down into a crouch, she lowered her voice to front-pew level.

"For God's sake, don't say anything to Mrs. Cannon about this, but her husband's been getting death threats."

"Death threats?" Judy and her mother gasped in unison, paws flying up to their faces.

"Are you serious?" It was Dr. Hind.

"Wish I wasn't but yeah," Kii answered, shaking her head, "a whole bunch of them…or that's what Chief Bogo says anyway."

"What the…?" Judy couldn't believe what she was hearing. "What the heck FOR?"

"I have no idea," the cheetah cop answered with a frustrated shrug. "The Chief never said. All I know is that he wants Deputy Cannon kept under guard, 24/7." Her jaw set hard and her back straightened up as she said this; the ironwood determination of a police-mammal, called on to protect an injured brother officer.

"But what are you doing here, Judy?" she finally asked.

"I'm here with Dr. Hind," the doe bunny explained, nodding upwards at the white-tailed deer standing next to her, "He was asked by Chief Bogo to come and talk to Mrs. Cannon."

It was an inadequate explanation at best, but Kii seemed to find it satisfactory.

"Oh, I see," she said, and then stood up to address the deer-psychologist. "Honestly Doctor, I'm not so sure it was a good idea for Mrs. Cannon to bring her daughter along." Her manner was stiff…oddly stiff.

"Well-l-l-ll, that may be so, Officer Catano," he replied in an equally rigid tone of voice, "But there's not much we can do about it now; it's a done deal, as they say."

"Ah, maybe you should go in and see Mrs. Cannon now?" Judy's mom suggested, hesitantly. She too had noticed the tension in the air.

Dr. Hind promptly surprised her by suggesting that she go in ahead of him. "You were right Mrs. Hopps; it would do your friend some good to see a familiar face, right about now."

When Bonnie knocked on the door, the response was so muted she would have missed it entirely had she not been a rabbit. "C-Come in…"

Opening the door, she saw…Oh, sweet cheez n' crackers, distraught didn't even begin to describe Mary Cannon's current state of mind. Her dress was disheveled, her fur was going in every which direction, and her eyes were so puffed and swollen she looked almost as if she was suffering from an allergic reaction. Not only her cheeks but her shoulders were stained with tears.

Mary's daughter Susan didn't look much better, sitting motionless, seemingly frozen in time, staring towards the hospital bed with wide, unblinking eyes. She could almost have passed for a doll—or an animatronic figure that had broken down.

Following the bobcat girl's gaze, Bonnie laid her eyes on Mac for the first time. Oh Lordy, what had they done to him? She was nearly ready to start crying herself.

Most of Mac Cannon was invisible beneath the bed sheets, but what the bunny matron was able to see more than made up for it. His broken arm, encased in plaster, was hanging suspended in a sling. Even though Bonnie knew that the break had been set, it still seemed to her that the angle was all wrong. The upper part of his chest appeared covered by what looked to be a carbon fiber breast plate. And if his head had emerged unscathed from that jailhouse melee, the same could not be said for his face, swathed in so many bandages they could have served as protection in a sparring match.

But the worst thing was the corrugated plastic tube, protruding from a corner of his mouth behind a broken tooth…and the steady, rhythmic, hiss-and-sigh coming from the thingamajig-machine connected to it. Above this a quartet of jumpy multicolored lines were scrolling across a monitor-screen.

Sweet mother of mercy, no wonder Mary and her daughter were in such a state.

Mary…

The recollection made Judy's mother straighten up and take a breath. Never mind about Mac for now, her friend needed her.

"Mary? Mary, it's me. Bonnie."

"Bonnie?" Her head came around like a rusty valve, eyes blinking as if they might be deceiving her. "Bonnie…Hopps?"

"Yes, Mary…I…"

That was all she managed before the bobcat flung herself into her arms…nearly smothering to the doe-bunny matron, who was perhaps a third of her size.

"Oh Bonnie….th-thank you…for…" She began to sob uncontrollably all over again.

"There, there Mary." Bonnie stroked her back as best she could. "It's okay….just let it out.

Her daughter Sue was meanwhile just continuing to stare blankly at her father—as if nothing else was happening in the room.

"Mary," Bonnie spoke to her as soothingly as she could. "There's a police counselor outside who's willing to see you. Will you talk to him?"

After thinking for a moment, the bobcat nodded her agreement. Susan just sat there as if she hadn't heard a thing and had to be led from the room by her paw. Bonnie would later tell her daughter Violet. "That cheetah was right, Vi… Mary should never have brought her daughter Susan along. Good Lordy, she was almost like a little wind-up toy, that girl."

No one had any idea whether Mary would be willing to unburden herself to an animal she didn't know, much less a city deer—or how much she'd be willing to tell him.

Instead, when she opened up, she opened like a floodgate.

"I knew Mac was going into a dangerous occupation when he joined the Sheriff's Department. I didn't like it, Doctor—but accepted it. I loved him and I knew he'd make a great deputy; I never tried to talk him out of it, not even once." She sniffed back a tear and went on. "I must have given myself a thousand pep-talks—braced myself a hundred times when the phone rang while he was out on patrol. I knew he might get hurt, or even worse, someday."

Her face fell into her paws and she began to sob.

"But nothing can prepare you for when it actually happens…Oh, Mac…Maaaac."

At once, Bonnie's arm was around her shoulder—and at once, Judy was moving away from the scene. There was nothing she could do and besides…although she certainly hadn't meant to, Mary had just reminded everybody that the next peace officer to end up like Mac Cannon might be HER.

And so, with nowhere else to go, she ended up drifting over to Kii Catano.

"Poor thing, she's taking it so hard."

"Who can blame her?" the cheetah cop snarled, "Have you seen what those young punks DID to her husband?" She sounded as if she'd like nothing more right now than to sink her fangs into the animals responsible for Mac Cannon's injuries!

And that was something Judy couldn't fault. For Kii Catano, what had happened to Mac was a double whammy; not only a fellow law enforcement officer, but also a fellow feline. She had every right to be angry.

But then her mood seemed to mellow a little.

"I heard about your sister, Judy," the big cat told her…once again demonstrating the efficacy of the ZPD's bush-telegraph. "Have there been any new developments?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," The doe bunny replied, and then went on to narrate her conversation with Max March a short while earlier. For most of the story, Kii just listened with interest. When Judy finished however, she tilted her head and scratched dubiously behind an ear."

"I-I-I don't know…doesn't sound quite right to me. That Guilford kid's a complete psycho from what I hear, but honestly…I can't see him shining on that Max kid and going after Erin just because she's your sister."

"He…didn't…"

The voice was like a pair of cinder blocks being rubbed against each other—and so faint that Kii Catano missed it completely.

But not Judy; her ears shot up like a pair of antennae, trying hard to pinpoint the sound. Dangit, it could have come from any…

"Judy…" the voice spoke again, "Judy…Hopps…Come here…"

Oh sweet cheez n' crackers, it was coming from the hospital bed in the room directly behind her. Her mom had left the door open when she'd exited a short while earlier.

And this time Kii Catano heard it, too.

"Oh, good God Judy, he's awake!"

"Kii, go get a nurse," Judy told her, assuming her 'Detective Hopps' fursona. And while the cheetah cop went hurrying in the direction of the nurse's station, she slipped into the room and pulled up a chair beside Mac's bed.

She was barely able to look at him. Dear Lord…and she'd thought she was hurting.

"Judy, listen…" the bobcat rasped again. He was barely able to speak, and even then only between heaves of the respirator pump. "Craig…Guilford. He…killed that sand-cat kid. I…" He had to stop and wait for the pump to cycle. "…saw him do it. And then he…blamed…" Another pause, maddening this time, "…it on me; that's why…I was…'tacked."

A paw fell on Judy's shoulder.

"Sorry Detective, you're going to have to leave now," a marbled leopard in scrubs informed her.

"No!" Mac protested attempting to reach out to the doe bunny with his one good arm. "She needs to…hear this…please."

"All right," the other cat replied, backing off a little…and at the same time regarding Judy with an admonishing eye.

She leaned in close to Mac, laying an ear upside his mouth.

"Erin…saw it too," he croaked. "And Craig knows…that she saw. That's why…why…"

His words ended in a coughing jag.

"All right Detective, that's enough." The leopard cat informed Judy pushing past her. "Clear out please…and right now."

Judy didn't need to be told twice. In any event, she'd heard enough. As soon as she left the room she grabbed for her badge, holding it aloft like a talisman

"I need to call my precinct right NOW!" she announced to everyone in the ward.

"Uhhh," one of the nurses, a numbat, was raising a timid paw, "That rule about no cell phones only applies to the reception area."

Judy almost offered her thanks, but then happened to glance sideways at her mother. Whoa, hold it Jude-the-dude…Just! Back! Up! Do you really want mom to know that Erin witnessed a murder…and that the killer might be stalking her even now?

Like HECK she did! And so she quickly redacted her announcement.

"Yes, but I need to talk to them privately."

"Oh," the marsupial nodded and then pointed down the hall. "In that case, you can use one of the restrooms."

Judy started the call even before the door clicked shut. Taking no chances, she punched the icon for the direct line to Chief Bogo.

He answered the call with his usual air of affability.

"Hopps? Where the Devil are you? You should have been back here hours ago!"

That meant she had better cut right to the chase and right now!

"Sorry Chief…I'll fill you in later. But listen…Mac Cannon just woke up and told me that Craig Guilford's the animal who killed that sand-cat kid!"

Bogo responded to this by blasting a double-barreled note through his nostrils, one that made Judy yank the phone away from her ear lest she end up deafened on that side. Whoa they probably heard that one all the way down at the reception desk.

She placed the phone back against her cheek.

"That's right sir…and there's more. My sister Erin saw it too…and the Guilford kid saw her and then went after her. That's from the March boy, Max."

"Hopps, stand by," Bogo informed her succinctly and then disappeared. Judy was relieved rather than dismayed. She could guess what he was doing right now.

Sure enough, when he came back, he had some news of his own to relate. "Right…I've just put out a city-wide alert for the immediate apprehension of Craig Guilford; now wanted for murder—and also an alert to keep an extra close eye out for Erin Hopps, whose safety may be in jeopardy."

"In other words, 'whose life may be in danger,'" Judy thought but didn't say it. In any case, she didn't feel the need to correct her Chief. Now that Craig Guilford was a homicide suspect, apprehending him had become a top priority. And since Erin had been witness to his crime, locating her would be high on the ZPD's to-do list as well.

And so, what she said was, "Chief, you make it sound like the communication network's back online."

"Came back up a few minutes ago," the big Cape buffalo grunted. "The database is still down, but at least we've got radio communications." She heard a shuffling of papers, and then he said, "Anything else, Detective?"

"Yes sir," the doe-bunny answered quickly. "Mac also told me that the Guilford boy fingered HIM as the sand-cat kid's killer. That's why those other detainees jumped him."

"And then that's also why he's been getting death threats," Bogo added, with a sulfurous snort. And then he said, "Word to the wise, Hopps; if y'should happen to make a pinch on that young coyote a second time, you'll want to make certain that you don't let him get within fifty feet of me; otherwise, I might not be able to restrain meself."

"No sir!" Judy answered, in wholehearted agreement with her Chief. In the event she found herself face to face with Craig Guilford again, she might not be able to hold back either.

When she returned to the nurse's station she found that Dr. Hind had departed and that Kii Catano's relief, Officer Spottiswoode, had arrived; Yes-s-s, it figured that Bogo would give the assignment of guarding Mac Cannon exclusively to members of the feline order—in this case a leopard.

The good news was that Mary Cannon was looking worlds better from her conversation with the deer-psychologist. That should have been reassuring to the doe-bunny, except…

"Ohhh Mary…if you only knew what I know," she thought to herself, trying not to shake her head.

Mary's daughter, meanwhile, was still in what appeared to be—for lack of a better term—a catatonic state, the same frozen expression, the same unblinking eyes.

That was when Judy's mother raised a paw.

"Jude…how did your call go?"

Ohhhhh, and there was so much she couldn't tell mom either.

"About like I expected," she said, going over and sitting down next to her mother. "How are you doing, Mary?"

"Oh much better," she said. There were tears in her eyes, but she was smiling.

"Tell her, Mare." Bonnie prompted, nudging her in the arm.

"A-All right," the bobcat sniffed, "The doctors have upgraded Mac's condition to stable. He's officially out of danger."

"Oh Mary, that's wonderful," Judy responded, reaching out to give her a hug. His arm was still going to need a lot of work, but he was going to survive his attack.

Ye-s-s-s….he was going to survive and be able to testify against that no-good dirtbag Craig Guilford! Judy was unable to keep the dark thought out of her head…not as long as that rogue coyote-kid was still a threat to Erin. Oooo, he had better keep away from her, if he…

"Hey, wake up dumb bunny; someone's trying to talk you!"

Oops it was Mary Cannon.

"Were you hurt in the riot, too?" She was pointing to the bandages above Judy's left eye.

"Uhhhh, no," the doe bunny answered, trying to collect her thoughts. How much did Mary know about the ZAPA riot? She'd be aware of Erin's arrest and the melee that followed certainly—but how much did she know about the role that a certain young silver fox had played in those proceedings?

No idea; she'd just have to wing it.

"Noooo, I got this from my fight with Conor Lewis."

"With…who?" Mary's ears were up and her whiskers were bobbing.

"Oh, great!" Judy sighed inwardly, drumming her fingers on her knee. She was in no mood to tell THAT story again, and now she'd have no choice.

In the end she gave Mary a stripped-down account of her battle with Conor, offering only the briefest description of the fugitive young silver fox and leaving out entirely what had happened when she'd grabbed him from behind.

When she finished, Mary appeared satisfied with the story, but Judy's mother seemed to feel that it needed an epilogue.

"For what it's worth Mary, my daughter gave up as good as she got in that fight—no, BETTER than she got. The Lewis boy ended up in another ER with much more serious injuries than her."

"Good; I hope he dies!"

Every head the waiting area turned…to see that Sue Cannon had come out of her trance-like state and into a state of high fury. There she was, standing rigidly with her paws jammed downward and her claws and fangs unsheathed. Her ears were lying so flat against her scalp that they seemed to have vanished into thin air.

"It's all that stupid fox-kid's fault!" She snarled, in a voice that made Judy want to back away and take up a defensive posture, "If he'd stayed away from those auditions, Erin and those other kids would never have been arrested—and Daddy wouldn't have ever gotten hurt."

It was the skewed logic of a young adolescent—and yet there was truth to it. Even Judy had to admit that much.

"Sue…hon…" Bonnie started to get up, but the bobcat girl was in no mood to be placated.

"I HOPE HE DIES!" she shrilled again…and this time it was a full-throated scream.

Chapter 42: The Cascade Effect, (Continued...Part 5)

Summary:

Conor at the nurse's office

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 7—The Cascade Effect
(Cont'd…Part 5)

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1549 Skippingstone Wharf, Canal District, Zootopia, 16:20 Hrs, ZST

"Conor can't die…he can't!"

"Don't worry Missy, he'll pull it on through; he's a right little battler, that fox."

Erin said nothing, but continued to pace the floor, eliciting a chorus of creaks and groans from the floorboard underneath; par the course in the Canal District.

The ride to get here had seemed to take longer than an Atlantic crossing; something the young, white-furred bunny wouldn't have experienced if she hadn't chosen to stowaway on Billy Mackenna's speedboat. Even now, she couldn't understand why she'd done it—and when the Tasmanian Tiger had pulled back the tarp to find her crouching beside the injured young silver fox, she'd expected him to blow a gasket. Instead, he'd only sighed and shaken his head.

"Lucky f' you, I didn't have to hit the throttles." he'd said, putting his paws on his hips, "Y'd have flown right off the stern, wouldn't yer?" And then, shrugging it off as if it were no big deal, he'd told her, "Well, s'long as yer here, y' might as well come and give us a paw with 'im."

Once again they'd used the tarp as a makeshift stretcher. That was when Toby Webb, the marsh rabbit who'd brought them here admitted that he didn't know if his sister was working today. She was, but what he'd also neglected to mention was that she was his semi-estranged sister. When she'd opened the door and seen who was there, she'd come that close to slamming it in his face. It was only after Erin had practically got down on her knees and begged her to help that she finally agreed to at least take a look at Conor.

That one look was all it took; she had immediately ushered the quartet of young animals into her office, instructing Erin and Billy to wait in the foyer and telling Toby to get his tail home right now. "You've got one hour, kid…and then I'm calling Mom."

The young marsh bunny had promptly bolted for the door, so fast he might have been fleeing from a burning building.

Toby's sister, whose name was Jeanne, had mellowed a little upon his departure—but only a little. Turning to speak to Erin and Billy she'd demanded to know exactly how Conor had come by his injuries. The younger bunny had responded perhaps a little too quickly. "He slipped and fell down some stairs in the rain,"

At this, Jeanne had just rolled her eyes; "Yeahhh, right!" Obviously this wasn't the first time her brother had fobbed off an injured young miscreant on her.

Now Erin glanced at the door to the examination room for the umpty-eighth time. What the heck was going on in there? Oh, she had no doubt that Jeanne would do the best she could for Conor…but then what? Would she alert the ZPD? She might be on the phone with them even now.

Dangit, the young doe-bunny chided herself, she had to stop fretting—and there was only one sure cure for that ailment. She needed a distraction, any distraction to take her mind off of Conor.

Well…how about the animal sharing the waiting room with her? He ought to be good for at least a little diversion.

"Billy…can I ask you something?"

"Ehh, you can ask," he answered lazily. He had shed his oilskins and was stretched out on a chair as if it was a lounger. He was a hard-muscled young marsupial, this Tasmanian tiger. Not the heavy build of a weightlifter, but the lean, rangy frame of a triathlete. In that regard he was not unlike a certain silver fox of her acquaintance.

"How is that you know Conor?"

Billy sat up and stretched his paws out in front of him, cracking his knuckles like a pawful of walnuts. Okay…he seemed to be saying, this was a question he could answer.

"Right…welllll, y'know 'bout him carryin' money for the Phantom, I reckon?"

Erin only nodded…although, whoa, did she EVER know about that!

In response, Billy returned the nod and then got up and turned around. On the back of his jacket was the embroidered image of a speedboat throwing up a gigantic plume of water.

Stitched above this were the words 'Roostertail Marine.'

"Family business," he explained, turning to face her once again, "Kind of odd for a species that's not anywhere close to being aquatic, in' it? But that's us. We've got our boatyard over on Outback Island—which isn't so strange, eh?"

"Nope," Erin answered, with a grin peeking through her otherwise worried face. She was seriously beginning to like this Tasmanian tiger.

"So," he went on, pointing to the door by which they'd entered, "That V-8 Superboat we came here in's a custom job—that the bloke who ordered it never picked up; tell y' bout that some other time. But we've also got a production line, several of 'em in fact. And how d'yer think we build the hulls, eh?" He capped the query with a wink and a grin.

"I don't know…how?" Erin answered him tiredly. She was in no mood to play guessing games at a time like this.

Billy winked again, "We print 'em."

Oh-kay-y-y, that got the doe-bunny's attention; all at once, her ears were standing up straight and so was she.

"Wha…print? Ohhh," she snapped her fingers as the realization hit her, "You're talking about a 3-D printer right?"

"You're got it, bunny!" Billy cocked a finger, "We've got three of 'em, small medium, and jumbo; we can build a boat for almost any species y' care to name—from a mouse, all the way up to a polar bear."

"No elephants?" Erin was unable to resist the tease. There was something infectious about Billy Mackenna's sense of humor.

"Oi, we're boat builders, not miracle workers," he was making a face and raising his paws defensively. "There's only so much y' can do with a printed hull, y'know. But whatever kind of boat you want, ski boat, fishing boat, pleasure boat, we're your blokes."

"I see," Erin answered, biting her lip to keep from laughing. Sweet cheez n' crackers, he sounded almost like a walking TV commercial.

But then he got serious…very serious.

"Ahhh, but if it hadn't been for Conor and his mate The Phantom, we could have lost it all, couldn't we?" He was folding his arms and working his fists into mauls.

"What…how?" Erin had to swallow before asking it; Billy looked like he was ready to take a bite out of the first animal that got too close.

He inhaled deeply and let it out slowly.

"When we bought those printers, we financed 'em direct through the bloke who sold 'em to us. For the first couple of years, everything went fine. Da paid what he owed, like he was supposed to, and our business kept on growing; word was getting 'round about us, and things was looking better and better—but then whoooosh!" He made a zooming motion with a flattened paw; "3-D printing took off like a blinkin' bottle rocket…and those machines of ours were suddenly worth more'n twice what we bought 'em for." His face turned halfway ferocious again. "And that was when the trouble came knocking."

"Wh-What happened?" Erin stammered, blinking. She had no idea, but a sour feeling in her stomach was telling her that whatever was coming, it wasn't going to be anything good.

Once again, Billy had to take a breath before speaking.

"It happened on a Saturday afternoon; start of a three-day holiday weekend. Bloke we bought the printers from rings us up and demands the entire balance, paid in full, by Tuesday morning or else he'll repossess 'em. We found out later that the sod already had a buyer lined up."

"But…But how could he DO that?" Erin was staring, slack jawed and wide eyed. "Isn't that…illegal?"

"That's what me Da thought, too." Billy's mouth had set into a long, flat line. "But it turned out there was a clause in our contract we hadn't noticed before; gave him the right to demand full payment at any time, and to reclaim the printers on 48 hours' notice if he didn't get it."

"But how…?" the young doe-bunny started to say, and then stopped when the Tasmanian tiger raised a paw.

"Yeah…and you're right, we could have taken that 'roo to court….but even then, we couldn't have stopped him from ripping out the printers. He had a crew hired and waiting already, didn' 'e? Nope…by the time our case made the docket, those machines would have been long gone…and then we'd have had deal not only with him, but also wi' the new owners."

"So…" Erin hesitated, making sure that Billy was finished before asking it, "So, what did you do?"

"The only thing we could do," the Tasmanian tiger answered her, settling back in his chair with his fingers hooked into talons, "Somehow try t' raise the money before the deadline. Ma called every friend we had; while Da called in every favour he was owed. I even gave a bell to a few of my mates; see if maybe their parents could help us out. Long story short, by Monday mornin' we were within shouting distance, but that was it; couldn't raise another penny—an' it was the full amount or nothing." He pounded a fist on the chair arm. "Looked like we were cooked—but then one of our customers, Asian Black Rat, mentioned The Phantom. We'd never heard that name before, and what he said next wasn't all that encouraging. 'I can't make any promises, Colin,' he said to Da. 'The rule with The Phantom is you don't find him, he finds you.' Well, by that time we had nothing more to lose, so Da told him to go ahead an' try to make contact wi' the bloke." His face broke out in a wide, unexpected grim, "and then imagine our surprise when right before suppertime, this silver fox kid turns up on our doorstep with a bag full of cash. It was all we needed to make the payoff and then some."

Erin wanted to whoop, but then remembered that the fox who'd delivered that money was badly injured, maybe even waiting on death's doorstep.

"And YOU put him there," her inner voice reminded her darkly.

Billy MacKenna, meanwhile, was rubbing his paws as if in anticipation of a feast.

"Oi, an' yer should've seen that 'roo's face, when Da came across with the money. Y' never saw anyone look so UNhappy 'bout getting paid…heh, heh, heh! Anyways, now those printers were ours, free an' clear, we could put em' up as collateral for a bank loan. We got it in three days, paid back the Phantom and everyone else who'd lent us the money…and everyone was happy, except the bloke that tried to rip us off."

"Yay!" Now Erin did allow herself a cheer.

But Billy had his paws up once again.

"Hold on there, bunny…as they say in the infomercials, but wait, that's not all. Because those printers were worth more than what we paid for 'em, we were even able to expand our business a bit. The 'roo we'd bought 'em from tried to take us to court—some blokes just never learn—but Da found someone to represent us who was a real ace of a lawyer; rat who did…ahhhh, what d'yer call it again? Pro…pro…ahhh, who did work for no charge on the side; he made that 'roo pay all our court costs, and then some. The bludger practically slunk out of court when the shoutin' was done, and that was the last we ever saw of him."

That might have been the end of it but for a chance encounter between Conor and Billy at the Meerkat Market later that month. They'd hit it off immediately, and in spite of their age difference—he was three years older than the silver fox—they'd become fast friends. 'Right cobbers,' as the thylacine put it.

"But then, when he went off to that school of his, I started to see less and less of him…until finally he wasn't coming round at all. Mum sent him an invite to my birthday party last year, but I never expected him to show up. Only, what do yer know then, he not only came, he brought me a real nice present. Pair o' VIP Passes to see Acca-Dacca, live at Animalia."

"Acca…who?" Erin's ears were pointing at the ceiling and her nose was twitching up a storm.

Billy bit his lip and, for the first time since they'd met, looked slightly embarrassed. "Oops, that's what we call 'em Down Under. AC/DC's who I mean."

"Ohhh," Erin nodded her understanding. Oh yeah, she knew that band all right; she had the bass-line to Thunderstruck dialed in and could kill it on the vocals.

"Conor was just all full of apologies," the Tasmanian tiger was telling her, "Saying how sorry he was for shining me on and promising he'd never do it again. I told him there was nothing to forgive and we've been mates again ever sin…"

That was when the door to the examining room opened and Jeanne Webb came back into the waiting area.

The expression on her face was not an augury of good news.

"I've done as much as I can," the marsh rabbit told them, wiping her paws on a little towel, "I gave him some antibiotics, and something for the fever, drained the edema in his knee as best I could, and got a good wrap around it." She puffed out her cheeks and shook her head. "But it's not enough; only a temporary fix. Your friend needs X-Rays…and probably needs surgery too. I think he's got an abscess…a deep one. And if I'm right—and if it ruptures…"

She left the rest of it mercifully unsaid.

For a long moment, nobody spoke…and then Erin raised a tentative paw.

"Soooo, uhhhh…what should we do?"

"Hrm? I thought I told you that already." Jeanne was giving her the 'dumb bunny' look, a rebuke made all the more stinging by the fact that it was coming from another rabbit. "He needs to get to a hospital—the sooner, the better."

"But he CAN'T," the younger bunny pleaded, "If we take him to the ER…" She stopped suddenly, wondering if she'd said too much already.

As things turned out, it didn't matter; her appeal had fallen on deaf ears.

"…he'll be arrested, yes, I know." the marsh rabbit responded in an ice-chilled voice, "and that's your problem."

"Now look 'ere, Sheila…" Billy Mackenna was halfway out of his seat.

"No, don't!" Erin got quickly in between them.

"Count yourself lucky that I haven't called the police already!" Jeanne told them, daunted not in the slightest by the Tasmanian tiger's implied threat; she reminded the younger bunny of Judy in that regard.

But Billy wasn't ready to back off either, letting his jaw fall open to show every single one of his teeth.

"Don't even think about it," the marsh-rabbit nurse shot back, nodding in the direction of a squat, black, LED-lit cylinder on a nearby table. "This office is alarmed…and I can trip it with a single word."

"Billy? Billy, come on, cool your jets already…"

The voice had come from somewhere over Jeanne's shoulder…

No, wait…from the open door behind her.

It was the voice of Conor Lewis.

"Come on, back off." He sounded weak…but still a lot better than when they'd shoved off from that tunnel, down by the Lion's Tail Wharf.

"Ohhh-kay." Billy did as the silver fox instructed, but it was obvious that he didn't like it.

"Yeah, that's better. Now c'mon in guys, we need to talk."

They filed into the exam room with Erin bringing up the rear.

Conor was laid out on an examination table, covered over by a thin sheet, and with his head propped under a pillow. None of it looked all that comfortable, but it was the only game in town. There was nothing else in the room even close to resembling a bed.

He spoke first to Jeanne.

"Thanks for taking care of me, Doc…I-I mean Nurse Webb. I know you did the best you could…and I know you took a risk in helping me."

She only pursed her lips and nodded. In the background, meanwhile, Billy was starting to fume, apparently none too happy that the fox was taking her side. Conor saw it and gave him a 'we'll talk later' look. Then he resumed speaking to Jeanne.

"So…how soon do you want me outta here?"

The marsh-bunny folded her arms and raised a sardonic eyebrow.

"Right NOW would be nice," she said, and the silver fox reluctantly shook his head.

"Sorry…no can do; not until…"

"That wasn't a request!" she interrupted, barging forward with her paws on her hips.

Slowly, deliberately, Conor pulled himself up on his elbows. His expression remained as it was, but his eyes were blazing like the coals in a blacksmith's forge.

"And if I don't leave right now, you'll call the cops, right? Or maybe set off that alarm you were talking about—yeah, I heard what you said in there." His lip pulled upwards, exposing a fang. "Before you make that kinda move lady, you need to think about it real hard. You seen what Savanna Central looks like today, huh? Well, if the kids who did that find out YOU gave me up to The Mammal, I don't think they're gonna like ya very much; you follow what I'm bringing out?"

Jeanne said nothing to this, but Erin could see that her ears and tail had dropped downwards and that the white of her eye was showing. At the same time her haunches were all bunched up and tensed.

Oooo, she knew what that meant; that was probably how she looked right now, like a thoroughly frightened rabbit. Sweet cheez n' crackers, she'd never dreamed that Conor was capable of being so ruthless.

But then he raised his paws and sheathed his fang.

"Please understand, I'm not threatening you here. I'd never do that, not somebody that helped me…even if they didn't really want to." He let out a small, frustrated growl. "But if you turn me in to the ZPD, then that is what's gonna go down…and it'll be something I can't stop, no matter how hard I might try."

He paused to let her think about it, and then raised a paw with a pair of fingers extended.

"I promise I'll be out of here as quick as I can. I need to do that anyway; I heard the other thing you said in there, about that abscess and whatever. But before I can boogie, I need to try and make some arrangements. Eh, Erin…can you go get my cell phone?"

Oops, she didn't need to go get it; it was still in her pocket. She had forgotten to put it back after she 'borrowed' it. With a rueful expression, she retrieved the phone and gave it to Conor—who appeared not at all bothered that she had it.

Following a quick check to see that the battery was charged, he made a flipping motion with his paw. "Okay, this is a private call I gotta make, so I need you to leave me alone here. Ahhhh, not you, Erin; you can stay."

Waiting until the door closed, he called up his contacts list. But instead of punching in a number, he focused his attention on the doe-bunny sharing the room with him.

"All right…what?"

"Wha…what are you talking about?" she demanded, paws planted firmly on her hips.

Conor angled his chin downwards. "You're thumping your foot is what." He concluded the observation with a raised eyebrow. "So…?"

Erin ceased the impromptu percussion solo, vexed, but also a little embarrassed—as if she hadn't realized what her foot had been up to until the silver fox pointed it out.

"I…I can't believe you did that, Conor." Every cord on her face was as tight as a bow string.

"Did what, bunny-girl?" His face was a portrait etched in innocence. He knew but was going to make her say it.

"You know what I mean." Her foot was thumping again, "Bullying poor Jeanie, or whatever her name is, after she helped you like that. You ought to be ashamed, Conor Lewis."

"Oh that," he said, waving a paw, "That was just to give her an escape hatch."

"An…escape hatch?" Erin said it slowly, as if she hadn't quite heard him. Her foot was still thumping, but now in confusion rather than outrage.

"Yeah, that's right," the young fox told her. His strength seemed to be increasing with every word. "Look, you know why she wants my bushy tail outta here right now?" He paused, waiting for the inevitable inquiry. None was forthcoming and he continued. "She's afraid that if the cops find me here, they might bust HER for aiding and abetting."

"Unless she calls them," the young doe bunny pointed out, "'Cept now she won't," She looked even more affronted than a second ago.

But Conor only shook his head. "Naaaah, if she was gonna drop a dime on me, she'd have done it already; given me something to knock me out and then made the call while I was unconscious." Another head shake; "Didn't happen, I was awake the whole time she was treating me. Just barely, but I was still awake. As for that intimidation thing, I didn't say anything to her that she didn't already know."

"Then WHY…?" Erin almost screamed, but then caught herself and toned it down. "Why even say it?"

"Because," the silver fox told her, speaking with what could have passed for infinite patience, "Now, if the ZPD tries to turn the screws on her, she can say that I threatened her—and then they'll have to cut her some slack; get the idea?"

Erin did but she didn't seem to like it; her ears appeared to have no idea which way to go. "I swear Charcoal Boy, I'll never understand you."

"Hey Snowdrop, I told you before that you don't know what kind of kid I am," he said and then held up his phone showing her the screen. "Now look…I heard what Nurse Webb said about those shots, and whatever she gave me, having only like a temporary effect…so if I go down again, you're the one's gonna have to keep in touch with this guy. Think you can do that?"

"I-I'll need the encryption code," she said, peering closely at the highlighted number on the silver fox's contact list, "but who are you calling?"

Conor blew a silent whistle, letting his eyes drift upwards to the ceiling. "Someone who's prolly gonna drop the call when he hears that it's me…but he's all I got right now."

"But…"

"If he doesn't blow me off, I'll give you the code," he told her, and then thumbed the appropriate icon.

473 Skinner Street, Little Rodentia, Zootopia, 18:03 ZST.

"Uncle Vernon…phone!"

"Always when I'm eating or in the shower!" the grey rat squeaked in frustration, slapping down his knife and fork on the TV tray. And right when So You Think You Can Prance was starting too!

"Oy…that better not be Mandy calling. If she chewed off her tracking anklet again, I don't care HOW tight she is with the Big Shrew's kid!"

"Tell them I'll call back after dinner." He answered her through a pair of cupped paws, and then picked up his eating utensils again.

"I-I-I think you're going to want to take this now, Uncle," His niece Missy Van Ratten answered. She came into the living room holding a cell-phone out in front of her, like a cross against a vampire.

"What the heck is THIS?" the grey rat wondered, and then sighed, dropped his fork and held out his paw. He'd seen Missy pull this shtick plenty of times before—and knew she wouldn't back off until he agreed to take the call. She was going to make a great attorney in her own right someday…but for now, let's get this business over with.

"All right, who is this?" he demanded, slapping the phone against his cheek, now all but certain that it was Mandy on the other end.

He should have been so lucky...

"Counselor…this is Conor Lewis."

The voice was raspy and maybe a little tired, but the rat attorney didn't notice; he was too busy trying to restrain himself from throwing the phone across the room. Ohhhh, why had he EVER offered to take back that meshuggeneh little silber-fuchs as a client?

"Why'd I ever offer to take his case in the first place?" he asked himself rhetorically, "Because I had no idea he was gonna turn out to be a junior shtarke, that's why."

"What do you want, kid?" he asked, in a voice like a chilled sheet of steel.

If Conor was put off by the rat's response, he didn't show it. His reply was both calm and matter-of-fact.

"Judy Hopps told me you were still willing to represent me as a client…that so?"

Rodenberg wanted to scream 'NO!' except…when the heck had that krolik poltisay had the chance to relay his message?

"When did she tell you this, booby?" he asked, in a voice oozing with sarcasm, "while you were trying to beat her brains out?"

Once again, the young fox answered him calmly.

"Ahhh, I wouldn't put it quite like that, but yeah…that's pretty much how it went down." And then, before the grey rat had time to react, he added, "except she hurt me worse than I hurt her. And right now I'm in a world of hurt. I need a doctor, a good one—one that won't turn me over to the ZPD."

Now Rodenberg wanted to BITE his phone. Of all the stinkin' chutzpah! Of course this was hardly the first time a client had ditched him, only to come crawling back for assistance when he ran out of options; but still…

"Sorry kid; can't help you."

"Mr. Rodenberg." Finally, at last, a thread of entreaty could be heard in the fugitive young silver fox's voice. "They tell me I could die if I don't get treatment…"

"Then call 9-1-1…"

"And I'd rather die than go back to The Point."

Vern Rodenberg would later remember that moment as the closest he came to hanging up on the kid. The only reason he didn't was…wait a minute. The Point…could he possibly be referring to…?

"Kid…are you talking about…Granite Point Youth Correctional Center?"

"That's the place," Conor told him—and then added quickly, "Oh and by the way…you were absolutely right to shine on taking Crazy Wez as your client. That sea-mink wasn't just a loose cannon, he was a loose, stinkin' nuke. No kidding, he'd have torn Junior's head off his shoulders the first time that punk started giving him grief."

Now the grey rat nearly dropped his phone. How the heck did this fox-kid know that The Mister had tried to recruit him to get his nephew out of Granite Point? Nobody outside of The Company knew about that…and every single one of them was either dead or locked up for good.

Or…were they? Was it possible…?

Before he could finish gathering his thoughts, Conor threw another wrench into his brain-works. "In case you're wondering how I ended up there…it happened after the first time I got told that I didn't need a lawyer."

"SQUEEEEEEEE!"

"Uncle Vernon!"

His niece Missy came scurrying into the living room, with a worried look on her face. He immediately waved her off, speaking into the phone with all four of his incisors showing

"Oy, you blackmailing little shmendrik—and I suppose you'll only tell me the rest of it if I agree to help you, huh?"

"I don't wanna die OR go back to Granite Point," Conor informed him, unflinchingly, "You follow what I'm bringing out?"

"Yeah, yeah…I get you, booby." Rodenberg was out of his chair and holding his phone in a death grip. But then he remembered. "Wai-i-it a minute; 'follow what you're bringing out'… that's what the Danaconda always used to say. Is that where you got it from, kid?"

"Mr. Rodenberg…are you still there?" The voice was slurred and airy, "I can't hardly hear you and the room is getting all fuzzy."

Yet again, the grey rat had to resist the urge to destroy his cell-phone.

"Ha, ha, ha…yer a comedian, kid. Okay, you win…but if I'm able to help you, then you're gonna tell me everything, deal?"

"Deal," Conor answered him—in a clear voice and without hesitation.

"Okay," Rodenberg took a breath and then several more, "okay." It was only when he felt his heart rate slowing down that he finally spoke again. "All right kid….I know somebody. What I don't know is if they're available right now. So I'm gonna disconnect and then you call me back in twenty minutes."

"Wouldn't it be easier…?" the young fox started to say, before the rodent attorney cut him off at the pass.

"No…you call ME kid. If I haven't heard a yes by then, I'm not going to, period." His whiskers crinkled slightly. "I'm taking you back as a client, Conor. But that doesn't mean I want the world to know about it—which means I don't want any outgoing calls from me to you showing on my phone records. You follow what I'M bringing out?"

"Five by five," Conor answered, bewildering and gratifying the grey rat all at the same time. It was fine that he got it—but more than a little spooky that a kid his age would understand his reasoning.

Well, maybe when they were able to talk face-to-race. In the meantime…

"Twenty minutes," he said again…and then rang off and began searching through his contacts library.

1549 Skippingstone Wharf, Canal District, Zootopia, 18:14 Hrs, ZST

In another part of the city, Conor Lewis set his phone aside and looked at Erin.

"You don't wanna know."

Her ears shot upwards and her nose began to twitch.

"Huh? I don't want to know…what?"

"What I meant with all that stuff I said about The Point and whatever." The young silver fox replied, waving a paw at the phone he'd set aside on a tray table. "That IS what you were gonna ask me, right?"

Erin's paws jammed downwards and her foot began to thump again. She had nothing to say, but no further answer was necessary.

However that didn't mean she couldn't ask him a different question.

"Okay, fine…but who was that you were talking to?" She seemed to be expecting another stonewall.

Not this time; "That was my attorney, Vern Rodenberg…the only guy I could think of to call for help. He said to call him back in twenty minutes."

"Vern…Rodenberg," Erin spoke the name slowly, as if not quite sure how to pronounce it. "He's the one who used to be a mob lawyer, right?"

Conor had to wonder where she'd heard that, but refused to let it show.

"Still is, as far as I know," he shrugged, and then asked her, "You got a problem with that?"

She responded by plopping herself down onto a nearby stool…set a mite too low for her species.

"Sorry, my problem box is full," she said, "But do you really think he can help you?"

"No idea," Conor told her, stretching his arms above his head, "But if anyone can, it's him. There's nobody who needs doctoring that they don't want the cops to know about more than wiseguys…and please don't ask me how I know that."

"I wasn't going to," the young doe-bunny snapped, immediately giving the lie to her statement by thumping her foot even more loudly.

The rest of the wait passed in a frigid, moody silence.

When Conor called him back, it seemed at first that Mr. Rodenberg wasn't going to pick up. The call only connected after something like a dozen rings.

"Sorry kid, took longer than I thought," the grey rat told him, completely unapologetic, "But I got something. I don't need to know your exact location, but where are you right now?"

"Canal District," the young fox told him, saying nothing more. He wasn't being dodgy; he honestly had no idea where the heck he was beyond that information. It hardly mattered; that was pretty much all the grey rat needed to know—although he hardly found the news to be satisfactory.

"Yeek! Ahhh, yer further away than I thought, kid. Is there any way you can get from there to Outback Island without getting nailed?"

Conor looked towards the door to the waiting room with a slow grin scrolling across his muzzle.

"I-I-I think I can work something out," he said.

"All right kid," the grey rat replied and then an image appeared on the young fox's cell-phone screen, a twin-hulled vessel of some sort, with a hull as white as a glacier. At first Conor didn't have the foggiest notion as to what he was looking at—until his sharp, amber eyes alighted on a tiny red cross emblazoned on the superstructure.

He narrowed his gaze and peered closer.

"Hey, hold up; is that the Mercy Star?"

"You got it kid." Rodenberg informed him, and for the next few seconds the fugitive young silver fox's mind was whirling as he tried to remember what he knew about her.

Originally commissioned as a ferry, she'd been converted into a floating clinic some years earlier, offering free medical care to the poorer neighborhoods of Zootopia, Happytown, the Muddy Swamp, and the like. Their operation was supposed to top notch; they even had their own operating room.

There was just one, itty-bitty little problem…

"Are you nuts or something, Ratso? The minute I set foot on that barge, they'll be on the phone to the cops." The Mercy's Star's crew was known to give up crime suspects to the ZPD. It was such a common occurrence, in fact, that news crews occasionally showed up to film the bust.

Rodenberg bared his incisors at his phone again.

"Don't call me Ratso, kid…and they won't give you up, not when they find out I'm the one sending you."

Conor felt his ears go up.

"Wha…why?"

The reply he got came as a stark reminder that rats can be every bit as sly as foxes when the spirit moves them.

"Ahhh, let's just say we both do work now and then for a guy who doesn't LIKE snitches…and as far as the Mercy Star's crew is gonna know, you're with him. You get the drift, kid?"

The young fox did, although he had to wonder exactly who 'that guy' was; Mr. Big, the Red Pig…or someone else?

Well, he could ask those questions later; right now he needed to get to that boat and the sooner the better.

"Yeah, okay…where, exactly, is she right now?"

"On the back side of the island, in Barramundi Bay; ah, you got any idea where that is?"

No, he didn't…but Billy Mackenna sure as heck would. "I can find it," he told the rat-attorney.

"Okay, they'll be there until 8:30 tomorrow morning. Ehhh, listen kid, you know what's wrong with you, by any chance? It'll help if I can let the docs know what to expect in advance."

Conor reeled off the litany of his injuries and how he'd come by them—drawing a stern look from Erin when he got to the part where she'd kicked him off the fire-escape ladder. He wrapped things up by reciting the diagnosis he'd overheard from the waiting room a short while back.

Rodenberg winced as if he'd stuck himself.

"Ehhh, that doesn't sound too good, kid. All right, get to that boat as quick as you can; I'll try and meet you there."

'As quick as he could' turned out to be not to be as fast as either he or the grey rat would have liked. When he sent Erin to go get Billy, she returned with the news that he was gone.

"What the…?" Conor was up on his elbows in a nanosecond. "Dangit, what's wrong with that stripey-tailed idiot? Doesn't he know that…?"

"Oh, he only went to get fuel; he'll be right back," the young white-furred bunny interrupted—her features suffused with a look of smug enjoyment.

Conor immediately felt his ears turning backwards. Blankety-blank, little white-furred BLANK; she'd held back that last part on purpose—probably as revenge for the way he'd described their encounter on that fire-escape.

But then her nose began to twitch.

"Where the heck are we going anyway? I thought I heard you say something about…what was it, a boat?"

Conor was sorely tempted to respond with something on the order of, 'What do you mean 'we' dumb bunny?' Except, he needed all the help he could get right now.

So instead, he told her. "It's the Mercy Star, a floating clinic that services the poorer parts of Zootopia, free of charge."

"Oh," Erin nodded her understanding, "We have something like that back in Burrow County, too…only it's a bus, not a boat." But then she frowned. "Aren't you afraid they'll call the police on you?"

"Mr. Rodenberg doesn't seem to think so," He grunted, stretching his arms over his head again. Ahhh, his shoulders felt really tight, was that the meds he'd been given, already starting to wear off? God, he hoped not. "He didn't say why, but he kind of hinted that the guy paying their bills is one of the local mob bosses; I got no idea which one."

"A mob boss…funding a free clinic?" Erin was staring at the silver fox as if she'd just observed his spirit leaving his body. "Are you serious, Charcoal-Boy?"

"Heck yeah, I'm serious," he growled, reaching up to rub the back of his neck, "Wiseguy bosses do stuff like that all the time; 'Look, see? I'm a good guy at heart.' And it's not even anything new. Back during the Depression, Al Caprine opened up a whole line of soup kitchens; the only food a lot of folks who'd been thrown out of work were able to get." His eyes narrowed and he could feel his mouth crinkling. "And the Mercy Star's prolly where the guy backing it sends his soldiers when they get hurt—and he doesn't want the ZPD to know about it."

Erin only stared at him again, saying nothing. It didn't matter. Her thoughts could not have been more obvious if she'd been painting them on a billboard; how the heck did he know all that?

Should he tell her? He was going to have to tell Mr. Rodenberg, so why not her too?

"Coz you put her in too much danger ALREADY, ya dumb fox-kid." His inner voice's retort was like a slap across the muzzle.

Okay…scratch that idea. Honestly, why had even thought about opening up to her anyway?

Any further musings along this line were cut off by a noise from the waiting room, the outside door opening and closing, followed by footsteps…at least three sets of them; if that was Billy, he hadn't come back alone.

Conor wasn't the only one who heard it, and while a fox's hearing is seriously sharp, it can't begin to measure up to that of a bunny.

"It's okay," Erin's paw was on top of his. "At least two of them are deer; I think one of them is your buddy, Eez."

She might as well have said nothing. Conor sat up on his elbows again.

Where's my backpack?"

"Wha…? Erin pulled back with her nose twitching. "It's over there by the coat rack, but why…?"

"Bring it here." His voice was like a steel bridge-cable.

"Wh-What for?"

"Don't argue, bring it…please."

It was the last word that did it…not an order but a desperate appeal. She hopped over, grabbed the pack, and then hopped back to where the fugitive young silver-fox was waiting.

He took hold of the pack just as the door opened.

It was Eez all right…along with three other kids, the young black bear, Root, a beaver whose name was either Brian or Brendan—Conor couldn't remember which—and a deer he hadn't seen before, this one a doe, about the same age as the blacktail buck.

She wasn't a blacktail deer herself, but she might as well have been; everything else about her was the color of midnight. Her ears, her lips, her eyelids, even the end of her muzzle; her hooves had likewise been blackened with lacquer. She was clad in a short, black skirt, secured by a burgundy-red belt, a black t-shirt decorated with red, runic symbols, and a black hoodie that was fraying around the edges. The only bright spot was the silver ankh, dangling from a chain around her neck.

Glancing sideways, Conor saw that Erin's ears were wilting and that she had taken a tense step backwards. He could hardly fault her; he, himself, would not have been greatly surprised to see the newcomer open her mouth to reveal a set of bloodsucking fangs.

It was Eez who broke the ice.

"Whoa dude, thank God we got to you before…" He snorted and swallowed hard, "Brent…go keep watch out front." He waited until the beaver was gone and turned his attention to Conor again. "Listed dude, you've got problems."

"Ya think?" the young fox answered with an eyebrow squiggling upwards. This was no time for sarcasm, but he couldn't help it.

"No, we mean you've got NEW problems!" It was Root, sounding more scared than exasperated; almost on the tipping point of panic.

"All right…what?" Erin demanded, unable to keep silent any longer.

Eez ushered the other deer forward.

"Guys…this is my girlfriend Stacy; Stace…tell them what you told me."

At once, Conor felt an ear going up. His GF, did he say? That was unusual; heck it was almost weird. Goths, as a rule, only hang out with other Goths…and Eez was anything but.

But then with her first words, Stacy made it abundantly clear that while she might be dressed as a Goth, she sure as heck didn't ACT the part.

"Wow, fox….like it's really you. I never thought I'd ever get to meet you f-2-f." She was as bubbly as a groupie, meeting her thirst object for the very first time.

Conor's other ear went up to join the first one. F-2-f; nobody used that expression in regular conversation except…

He was in the presence of another hacker.

Eez, meanwhile, was nudging her in the elbow.

"Uhhh, Stace…!"

"Oh, right, right, right." She shook her head as though she had only just now awakened. But what she had to say next wasn't just dead serious; it was deadly serious. "It's all over the web, Conor. There's a $50 K reward out for your capture."

"Kgrrf!"

The sound the young fox made fell somewhere between a snort and a growl. Whatever; it was an unmistakable utterance of derision.

"Seriously?" he shook his head, looking almost like a disappointed teacher, "Give it up Stacy; no way is John Law gonna offer that kind of dinero for MY bushy, lil' tail; the whole thing's bogus." He fell back on his pillow again, rubbing his paws and sniggering. "Heck, if I knew who started that rumor, I'd buy 'em a case of their favorite pop; now the ZPD's gonna get hammered with calls from animals saying they've seen me or know where to find me—which means that even if any of 'em turn DO out to be legit, by the time the cops get 'em sorted out from the cranks, they'll be completely worthless."

He started to laugh but then stopped abruptly; neither one of the two young deer was showing even the slightest bit of amusement.

"Dude, it's not just a rumor," Eez insisted. Dipping a hoof in his pocket, he came up with a folded printout, which he carefully unfolded and then passed to the skeptical young silver fox.

It was dampish, but still legible. And when Conor took it and began to read, he felt as if he'd been given an injection of Freon. In his short time on the planet he'd seen more than a few wanted posters…and this one practically screamed 'real deal'—through a megaphone.

There, beneath a caption reading, "Wanted, Reward Offered" was his booking photo, front and side view, digitally updated to reflect his latest color scheme. Below this was a list of his crimes, which now included not only assaulting a police officer, but assault with a deadly weapon and incitement to riot. That he could live with; except he now saw that he was wanted in connection with the cyberattack on ZPD Precinct-1.

"Okay fox-kid, keep it together. Getting torqued won't help you. Just keep reading. This thing can't be…hey-y-y-y, okayyy, bingo!"

He slapped down the paper like a winning poker hand.

"Just like I thought—bogus," He was indicating a paragraph near the bottom of the document. "Look here; the reward isn't for info leading to my arrest and conviction; you've gotta deliver me in furson to collect. No way is the ZPD going to go in for something like THAT."

"It's not the Z…" Stacy tried to tell him, but Conor just rolled right over her.

"…OR the Zootopia Bankers Association—yeah, I saw that, too—and if even they did, the cops would be all over 'em like a car fire." He slapped the printout with the back of his paw, "Stinkin' hoax!"

That was apparently all that Stacy could take. She flung herself over the prostrate young silver fox, straddling him with her hooves and getting a whole lot closer than he would have liked.

"You stupid little moron, it doesn't MATTER if it's bogus if everyone thinks it's the real thing!" Her hoof dove into her pocket, coming up with another document that she didn't bother to unfold, but practically flung in Conor's face. "Take a good look, fox-boy; those are just a few of the comments."

She stepped back again, folding her arms and glowering.

"Crikes," Conor had to wonder, "Is THIS the same valley-girl who was almost gushing over me a minute ago?

He unfolded the paper as if he were defusing a bomb. It was a printout of a Preddit page…and as the fugitive young silver fox began to read, he could feel his tail frizzing and his paws starting to tremble. Holy foxtrot, it was worse than he thought; like sharks gearing up for a feeding frenzy.

"What the heck is wrong with mammals?" he growled silently, at the same time gnashing his teeth. "How the heck could anyone fall for something so stinkin' phony?"

Well, never mind; they had fallen for it. Eez and his girlfriend had been sooo right to come here and warn…

At that instant, the door handle began to rattle.

Everyone tensed…except for Conor, who grabbed swiftly for his backpack again, reaching hurriedly inside and finding…

Before he could complete the move, the door banged open…revealing a thoroughly irritated Billy McKenna.

"Oi, someone needs t' tell that rabbit-nurse to fix that bloody thing," he said, stepping into the room and closing it behind him, "Where'd she go, anyway…?" But then he stopped, noticing for the first time all the staring faces. "Cor, what's going on in 'ere, then?"

Conor gave him the short version. "Somebody put a $50 thousand smacker reward on my head. It's bogus, but a whole lot of animals think it's real."

"Wha…?" Billy's mouth fell open and his paws dropped limply to his side. "Yer jokin', aren't yer mate?"

"Wish I was, but no, "Conor shook his head grimly, regarded the Tasmanian Tiger with a flinty gaze. "Billy, I got no right to ask you this with a bounty on my tail, but I gotta. I…" he coughed hard, and cleared his throat. Dangit, he was starting to slip already, "But my lawyer came through with a doctor that can help me…only I gotta get to Outback Island by 8:30 tomorrow if…"

But Billy already had his paw up. "Say no more mate; we're out of here."

"NO!"

Eez and Root were screaming in almost perfect harmony.

"Dude, you can't!" the deer-buck protested, making stopping motions with his hooves. "You'll never make it past the Muddy Swamp, not with half the homies in the city looking for you. Conor, show him that Preddit page."

"Save it mate," Billy fanned a paw at young blacktail buck, "I can guess for meself what it says."

"Guys this is the CANAL District, remember?" Stacy was almost apoplectic. "You know who hangs out here? You'll get caught for sure if you try to make a run for it."

"Then that's what's going to happen."

Every head in the room turned. The speaker wasn't Conor—it was Erin.

"Listen, there's something you don't know," she told them, nodding quietly in the silver fox's direction, "He's a lot sicker than he looks; if he doesn't get to Outback Island, and right away, he could die."

"Didn't you hear what Stacy said…he'll never make it!" Eez was flapping his arms as if attempting to become airborne.

"Well then, what else are we s'posed to do, eh?" Billy's chin was jutting forward and his knuckles were on his hips.

It was Root, the black bear, who answered him. "Call 9-1-1 and get an ambulance. Look I know it bites, but…"

"No! Way!" Conor's verdict was as final as an ax, splitting a log.

He had more to say but then the door-handle began to rattle again and a quavering voice spoke up from the other side. "Eez, it's Bren…"

That was all the young beaver managed to say before the door burst inwards with an earsplitting crack.

Chapter 43: The Cascade Effect, (Continued...Part 6)

Summary:

And the chase is on!

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 7—The Cascade Effect
(Cont'd…Part 6)

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"It's him…we GOT him."

The voice was elated, feral—and menacingly guttural.

It belonged to an otter.

…Not a teensy little otter of the Emmitt Otterton variety, but a giant otter, a species from South America whose size lived up to its name, growing to nearly the size of a tapir.

And that wasn't the only difference between these otters and their smaller cousins. They were every bit as aggressive as they were big; in their native habitat they were known to take on monster catfish, caiman alligators, even anacondas. Had Emmitt Otterton been a giant otter, he wouldn't have needed a shot of Nighthowler to send Renato Manchas scrambling into the night with a damaged eye.

Giant otters also tended to run in packs; on their home turf they were sometimes referred to as Lobos de Río. Mess with one and you were messing with all of them.

The animal framed in the doorway was no exception. There were at least five other members of his species packed into the waiting room behind him.

There was also no mistaking him for anything but what he was; Kevlar vest and jungle-camo shorts, a beat up bush hat in midnight green, and a machete tucked into his belt, along with other various types of weaponry. Every square inch of his clothing was decorated with piratical symbols, cannons, muskets, swords, and the inevitable skull and crossbones. One decoration in particular, however, stood out from the rest. It consisted of a bright red jaguar skull, superimposed on a cross of bones, not the diagonal cross of the Jolly Roger, but straight-up vertical and horizontal crossbones. On either side of the emblem was a chalk-white, six-pointed star, each one given a quarter-tilt.

That was when Conor knew who had come to call on him; he was in the presence of the Deguellos, one of the most feared privateer gangs in the Canal District.

All at once, the three in front began crowding into the examination room—or that is, they tried to, becoming momentarily stuck in the doorway as they all attempted to push through at once. In that instant, they transformed briefly from the Terrible Trio to the Three Stooges.

Conor Lewis wasn't laughing; he was moving and moving fast. Snatching a pair of pellets from his backpack, he tossed them hurriedly in Erin's direction.

"Hide these, quick!"

Instead, she tried to ditch them.

"Wha…? Those are…!"

"Don't argue, do it!" the young fox hissed out the side of his mouth, and then his voice rose into a fox-scream. "Billy, DON'T!"

The young thylacine had been about to take advantage of the Deguellos' momentary plight with a black-jack he'd had stashed in his flotation vest. Incredibly, he chose to heed the silver fox's warning and back off—and it was a good thing he did, because right then, the otters wedged in the doorway managed to break free.

As the three of them came barging into the exam room, it became quickly obvious that the one in the center was the leader. He wasn't any bigger than the others, or any more muscular, but he carried an unmistakable air of authority.

Stepping to the forefront, he folded his arms, giving everything a quick survey.

His eyes remained focused on Conor for less than a second before they moved on…to the pair of young deer and the black bear, huddling in the corner.

"You…OUT!" he snarled, pronouncing the first word as 'Ju' and cocking a thumb at the door.

The three young mammals jumped instantly to their feet and went scuttling for the exit. As they beat their hasty retreat, none of them so much as glanced at the silver fox laid out on the examination table.

He didn't hold it against them; what the heck could they have done anyway?

"Not ju, El Tigre Tasmania," the leader snarled, blocking Billy's path to the door with his machete. "Ju stay here!"

"Cor, I weren't goin' nowhere!" Billy tried to protest…but the big otter just ignored him, instead turning his attention to Erin.

"Ju too, coneja blanca! Ju stay, too!"

"All right, all right," The young doe-bunny raised her paws, backing nervously away from him.

Meanwhile two more members of his crew were coming through the door. The first one held little interest for Conor…outside of the fact that she was the only female in the group.

That second one though; he wasn't the biggest animal either—but he was definitely the hardest, and easily the most heavily armed. In addition to a machete, he was carrying a tomahawk, two flash-bang grenades, a canister of pepper mace, a taser-flashlight…and strapped to one thigh, the piece-de-resistance; a short-barrel shotgun.

But it was the sullen look on his face that drew the bulk of the young silver fox's attention…mostly because it was directed elsewhere rather than at him. He filed that away for future reference, at the same time sending up a silent plea.

"Danny…if you were ever right about any of those things you taught me, please be right about THIS."

The Deguello leader, meanwhile, had become as jolly as a Pirate of Penzance.

"Heh, heh…what'd I tell you, socios?" he said, stashing his machete and letting out a belch of laughter, "Easiest 50 thou ever! An' right in our own backyard, too." He turned a beaming smile on the heavily-armed otter. "Somebody down there mus' like us, huh, Verdugo?"

The enforcer only grunted and shrugged indifferently. The rest of his crew, however, was a different story.

"You said it, Caz," the otter on his left sniggered, clapping him on the shoulder.

But not all of them…

"Hey let's collect the dinero first, before we celebrate, huh?" The female otter was also not laughing…and it brought the others instantly back down to earth.

"Yeah, Hechi's right." the leader growled. "C'mon lil' zorro, you're coming with us." He began to move in Conor's direction.

The young fox frantically threw up his paws. "Wait, hold it; listen to me. That 'wanted' poster's bogus. There's no reward out for me; you're wasting your time over here."

Caz only stopped and shrugged. "So…? Then it's two hours of our lives we don't get back, an' the ZPD owes us one. I can live with that okay."

He began to move forward again.

"No, please." Erin threw herself quickly between them. "Conor's sick…really sick; if he doesn't get to a doctor, he could die."

"Then we'll take him to a doctor." The big otter told her, once more in a jovial mood. Conor thought it was probably true; he wasn't any good to them dead.

But still the young doe-bunny refused to move…and so the big otter simply back-pawed her out of the way, sending her flying into sideways sprawl. At once, Billy came rushing forward, only to find his way blocked by a pair of crossed machetes.

Conor moved too, grabbing something from his backpack and popping it into his mouth. Too slow, and too obvious; Caz seized him by the throat, ramming his head deep into the pillow and snarling into his face.

"No, ju don't zorro golfillo; spit it out…now!"

The young fox responded with a choked snarl and an exposed fang..

And then he bit down hard and did as the otter told him…expelling a spray of dark-red liquid into the giant otter's eyes and mouth.

"Ai, you little…!"

Caz reeled back from the table, sputtering and wiping his face with his paws.

With hiss of fury he snatched the machete from his belt again.

That brought the female otter into it.

"No Jefe…they want him alive." She reached for his elbow but he batted her away with his other paw.

"You'd be surprised what ju can live through." he snarled, raising the blade high over his head.

But then it began to quiver...

…and then his paws began to quiver…

And then his machete went tumbling to the floor behind him, while he stared about the room with widening eyes.

"Wha….wha…what…?"

He was shaking all over now; his eyes were bulging and the whites were showing. His breath was coming in shallow gulps, and he was holding out his paws in front of him, as if pushing at an invisible wall. When he spoke again, the words came out as unintelligible gibberish.

"Ma…wha…mmmmm,mmm,mmmm…plea…hu…hu…huhhh…Ahh…I…Hmmm…wha…?"

He collapsed to his knees, trembling harder than ever.

Conor watched him for a moment with an indifferent expression…and then his eyes narrowed, and his lip curled upwards, exposing the other fang.

…and then he spat out just a single word.

"Boo!"

The effect was like throwing a firebrand into a powderkeg. Caz leaped to his feet with a terrified yelp, fell back down again, and ran screaming for the exit on all fours. He got as far as the door to the waiting room before two of his crew tackled him…and even then he continued to thrash and scream.

"¡Socorro! ¡Socorro! Help me! Let me go! ¡Déjame ir! ¡Socorro!"

"THAT'S for smacking Erin, stinkin' dirtbag." The smoldering young silver fox growled softly at the terrified Deguello leader, "And always remember…you asked for it."

That set off the female otter, Hechi. In the blink of an eye she had the young fox pinned to the table with a bolo knife at his throat.

"Little mocoso! Whad'ju do to him?"

She was furious…so furious that she didn't notice his paw was inside his backpack again.

"This," Conor croaked back coolly. And then, almost casually, pulled a dart rifle carbine from the pack and shot the heavily armed otter below the jawline.

Caught by surprise, he nearly pitched over backwards. When he came up again, he was rubbing at a deep-red smear on his neck and reaching for his shotgun. But before he could get a grip on it, he too began to shake uncontrollably and clutch at himself.

He wasn't the only one caught off guard. Startled by the silver fox's unexpected move, the female otter pulled the knife away for just a hint of a second. Before she could put it back again, the dart-gun was pointing right between her eyes.

"Drop it now or you're next; you know I'll do it."

Hechi didn't drop the knife but she didn't press it home either. Instead, she called out over her shoulder.

"Cobra, Tabú….get in here."

"I-I-I think they got problems of their own right now." the young fox told her, smirking. As if to emphasize the point, another scream came rolling in through the door.

"Aiiieeeee, SOCORRO!"

"And when that stuff hits your other buddy there, full force," Conor nodded at her shivering partner, "Trust me, you're not gonna be able to handle him on your own."

Still, she refused to back down.

"We got more socios outside." She hissed…and it was true, he could hear them crowding into the waiting room even now.

But HE wasn't about to fold either.

"And I got the only antidote to the stuff I gave your buds there," he snarled…in an unintentionally buzzy voice. Dangit, the medicines he'd been given were starting to wear off. He nodded over to where Billy was helping Erin to her feet—both of them were staring at him with shocked expressions. "You want it, you let us go…let us get to our boat and get outta here."

Her grip tightened around the knife handle. "Maybe we just take it off you!"

"And maybe your guys there will both be dead by the time you find it." The young fox sneered…the unfazed rejoinder of an animal with nothing to lose. Behind her, two more Deguellos were pushing into the room. "And no, I can't get all of you…but I can get you for sure and maybe one more."

It was the otter behind her that answered him.

"Okay…you give us the antidote, we let you go." He stepped out where the young fox could see him, lips pulling back revealing a long row of teeth filed into points and capped in gold, "but don't think we're gonna forget this, lil' zorro plata. You better believe we're gonna come looking for payback."

"Then that's what's gonna happen," Conor answered him, unruffled. "In the meantime make some room and make it now…or else both your buds are gonna die crying their eyes out." His right eyebrow arched upwards, forming an almost perfect crescent. "And I don't think that's how a privateer would want to go," he added softly.

The otter glared at him for a second and then stepped back, making parting motions with his paws, "All right everyone, move back an' let them pass."

His crew complied only grudgingly, but still they complied…all except for the female otter, who continued to stand her ground.

"You too, Hechi," the new otter in charge told her, pointing with two fingers for emphasis. "There'll be another time."

She moved, but not without a parting shot at Conor.

"If you double-cross us, lil' jerk…" She snarled, and drew a thumb across her throat.

"I won't," he answered flatly, "Erin…Billy, can you gimme a paw down from here? Billy, I'm gonna need you to carry my pack."

Outside the office, the sun had long since dipped below the horizon. All along the wharf, LED lamps were bathing everything in a stark, purplish light.

A few yards further on they found four more giant otters, standing watch over a quintet of souped-up speed-boats tied to the dock. All were either decorated with the logo of the Deguellos or flying their flag.

Two of them were RIBs…Zodyak style inflatables wrapped around a rigid hull. Another was what was known as a cigarette boat, a modified, stiletto-hulled offshore racer. The fourth vessel looked like nothing more than an oversized skiff…until you saw that it was fitted with six high powered outboards; a panga boat, the vessel of choice for contraband smugglers.

But the real eye-catcher was…good God, where the heck had they ever gotten THAT thing? She was a fully-restored Zhuk-class Sovikot gunboat, complete with a shielded gun mount up front. No actual weapons were showing, but there was no doubt in Conor's mind that she had plenty of firepower stashed below deck—and plenty of horse-power in the engine room.

Sandwiched in the midst of these monsters, Billy's boat looked like nothing so much as a toy dinghy. None of the otters were sneering though; they knew, better than most, the capabilities of a Super V-8 race-boat.

Erin insisted at first on riding up front, but Billy was having none of that—and neither was Conor.

"I need you in the back to cover our tail," he said, handing her the dart gun…which she promptly almost dropped, shaking her head violently

"No…no way."

"I reloaded it with tranq-darts, don't worry," the silver fox assured her under his breath, pressing the weapon back into her paw—and glancing tentatively at the faces all around them. Her hesitancy would not be lost on these otters.

She immediately tried to return it. "I-I don't know the first thing about how to shoot, Conor!"

Oh, great…the Deguellos wouldn't miss that either. He accepted the weapon back from her—but only for a moment.

"No worries, it's got a laser sight. Just touch the trigger like this." By way of demonstration, he aimed it at the nearest otter…who yelped and ducked quickly away when the pencil thin beam fell on his shoulder. "And then shoot when it paints your target," he said, passing the weapon back to her. Her paws remained closed and he lowered his voice. "You can do this bunny-girl. You took down Craig Guilford, you can do this too…I know you got it in you."

She almost snatched the dart-gun out of his hands, looking for a second as if she wanted to plant it in his skull.

"All right!" she snapped and then turned to Billy, "But how do I keep from falling out the back when you…"

"The stern," he corrected, tossing her a safety harness, "Clip that onto the engine mount, you'll be okay."

While the young doe bunny got herself secured, Billy helped his other passenger do the same. He then slipped on a full-face racing helmet, a long-snouted affair that gave him the appearance of a cyberpunk plague-doctor.

He had just finished buckling himself in when the substitute leader of the otters appeared.

"Hokay. we let you get to your boat. Now give us the stinkin' antidote!"

Conor cocked a finger and glared, "After we cast off…but first you and your guys lose your weapons—into the water, and right now!"

"Do it," the lead otter commanded…and a chorus of splashes followed.

"That won't hold 'em for long, mate." Billy muttered under his breath, as the engine rumbled to life. "They'll 'ave plenty more where that lot came from, stashed in their boats."

"I know." The young fox nodded grimly, "But it'll give us a second or two, anyway. Okay, cast off."

He was speaking to one of the otters, a scar-faced brute with only one ear who, instead of untying the mooring line, cut it with a swipe of his machete. Before putting the blade away, he drew it across his throat in an unmistakable gesture. Conor responded to this with a gesture of his own; throwing up his paws as if to say 'whatever.'

Then he turned and spoke to the bunny in the rear of the boat,

"Erin…tell 'em where you hid those pellets I gave you—but not the exact location."

She nodded and called out shakily through a pair of cupped paws.

"They're in one of the drawers in the exam room. They look like blueberries."

"Have your guys swallow 'em," Conor added, in a voice that was rapidly getting hoarse, "and don't get any of the juice on you. If that happens, it's your problem." And then his voice rose into a ragged fox-scream. "PUNCH it, Billy!"

The thylacine didn't need to hear it twice, not just putting the hammer down, but slamming it down.

With a deafening roar, the Superboat shot out across the water like a runaway missile, pressing Conor and Billy deep into their seats and making Erin supremely glad for her safety harness. From the dock behind them, puffs of CO2 smoke erupted, while lines of wet splatters went stitching across water all around them.

The otters hadn't thrown away ALL their ordnance.

Then a boat pulled away from the dockside behind them, one of the RIBs. And then the cigarette boat pulled out…and then every one of the Deguello boats was charging after them in hot pursuit.

Conor growled and slapped the side of his head.

"Aggggh, grrr…they must have found those Nighthowler pellets already."

"Either that," Billy answered tersely, "Or now they know where they are, they figure…" His eyes went wide and he turned to stare slack-jawed at the fox. "Waitaminnit, Night'owlers! Oi, y' gone barmy or somethi…?"

"Screeeow! WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING!"

Billy turned just time to see the weir pilings coming straight at them, and put the wheel over hard…a little too hard. As the racer banked hard to the right, it tipped upwards into a nearly vertical position. For three heart-stopping seconds, it seemed certain that the superboat would go flying into a barrel-roll…before it fell back against the water with a wet, slapping noise.

Conor shook himself and snarled.

"Smooth move there, Striper! Why don't we just give ourselves up right NOW?"

"Oi!" The Tasmanian Tiger snarled right back, letting his jaw drop open beneath the helmet, "Maybe yer'd like to trade places, then?"

"Maybe YOU'D like to get caught by those otter-jerks?"

"Cor, aren't you the ungrateful, little…?"

"Just shut up and drive the…!"

"Oh guys…guyyyyyyys."

It was Erin…and she was pointing at the channel behind them.

"Say hello to our little friends."

There were now a total of seven other boats chasing them.

And they were a lot closer than they should have been.

Billy came instantly back down to earth, all business.

"'Ang on mates, here they come!"

He kicked the throttle up another notch.

The boat didn't jump or even lurch forward; in fact there seemed to be no further acceleration at all.

But then Erin called out, "They're falling back."

Conor turned to look—just in time to see that the doe-bunny had spoken too soon. At that instant, two of the Deguello vessels broke free from the pack, closing on them at a slow but steady pace; the six-engine panga-boat and the cigarette racer.

The temptation to yell 'Can't you go any faster?' was practically overwhelming—except he knew that Billy was already running flat out.

So instead, he extracted the quad-barreled URSA pistol from his backpack, exchanging the loads for something more suitable to the situation. Even paired with Erin's tranq-dart carbine, it felt pitiful compared to the firepower the Deguellos were packing.

As if to illustrate this point, something flashed on the prow of the Panga boat and a tall, thin fountain of water burst upwards about six feet behind them.

"Holy foxtrot, they've got a grenade launcher." Conor barely kept it to himself. Okay, they wouldn't use explosive loads; they wanted him alive. So that round had been either a flash-bang, or a…

Another burst of light and another waterspout…much closer, only three feet away. The otters were getting the range; their next shot would be a direct hit.

Billy saw it too, and began weaving from side-to-side in a serpentine pattern.

Another flash bloomed and Conor fox-screamed, "Incominnnng!"

He and Erin threw their arms around their heads. A split second, the channel beside them exploded, showering them with murky water and leaving behind a stinging, acrid odor.

Gas—they were using tear gas grenades…wait, what?

It was barely audible over the sound of the engine, but…where was that chuffing noise coming from? Wait—the rear of the boat…

He turned…just in time to see Erin pull the trigger again. Well, at least she hadn't frozen up, but still... He raised his voice and fox-screamed. This time, it seemed to set the inside of his throat on fire.

"Not yet, they're still out of range. Wait till I…" he stopped, coughing hard, and saw her ears shoot up like antennae.

"Conor! Conor, are you…?"

"I'm okay," he croaked, too low for her to hear. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Wait 'til I give the word before…"

Before he could finish, the cigarette boat jumped suddenly forward, swerving around the panga and coming on fast.

"Okay, now's good!" Erin didn't seem to understand…until she looked over her shoulder and saw. She wheeled about fast and began firing. Annie Oxley she wasn't; even with a laser sight, her first few shots were all over the place. Nonetheless, they were having the desired effect. Their pursuers began dodging from side to side, attempting to avoid the incoming fire. Conor was unsurprised by this; her weapon was loaded with tranq-darts—but the Deguellos didn't know that. As far as they were aware, even a glancing hit from one of those pellets would set off an unstoppable panic-attack.

But the gap between them and the cigarette boat was still closing.

"Blimey…they must be running nitrous or summat." Billy observed, glancing quickly over his shoulder. He sounded remarkably collected, all things considered.

That told Conor he had a plan up his sleeve.

He'd better…two of the otters, big ones, were stalking towards the front of the cig boat. Swinging from the paws of one of them was a mean-looking grapnel-hook attached to a stout rope.

"Uhhh, Billy…"

Now, as he watched in horrified fascination the other otter leaned out over the bow tying the end of the rope to the Cig-boat's anchor chain.

"Billy-y-y."

And then he stood up again, readying something that looked like a big, mean, two-foot party-popper.

Conor groaned inwardly.

"Oh nuts; a Powler-Fouler!" A compressed-air weapon that fired a lead-filled bean-bag; much favored by bounty hunters. With a high-powered charge, it could…

"BILLY!"

"'Ang on, mate…should be on it any second."

Behind them, the otter with the grapnel was whirling it over his head.

"There!" Billy pointed and swerved left at a shallow angle, taking them up a long, narrow channel.

At once the superboat was plunged into darkness; there was no such thing as a street light in here.

It took only a few seconds for that situation to be rectified—but not in a good way. From behind, a blinding light stabbed out of the darkness, wrapping Billy's boat in a ghostly white sheet.

It was the cigarette boat, and it was hard on their heels.

Billy flipped on his own lights, illuminating nothing but a long dark corridor ahead of them. Behind the engine, Erin continued to shoot, firing blindly. And then she screamed as something bounced off the back of the superboat. The grapnel hook; they wouldn't miss a second time.

"C'mon, c'mon, where are yer, then?" Billy was muttering under his breath. Conor wondered what the heck he was talking about—and then he didn't want to know. Fifty yards ahead, barely visible in the running lights, a wall of solid concrete loomed.

Idiot Tasmanian tiger; he was taking them straight into a dead end…!

"No, he isn't, have some faith in your friend, dumb fox!"

But the wall was getting closer…closer…30 yards, 20 yards, 10… No, wait…there it was; a sharp left turn, right where the channel supposedly ended.

Billy chopped the throttle and spun a hard left, slewing the boat into a waterborne speedway turn. Ten feet above him a window opened, and an angry beaver leaned out.

"Hey, knock off that noise down the…oh, snap!"

He slammed the shutters closed just as Billy hit the gas again.

But he'd had to slow to make the turn and now the cig boat was right on top of them. Any second now, they'd….

Conor's thoughts were cut off by a noise like the breaking of a ginormous matchstick, followed by a sound that might have passed for the world's largest blender.

Even before he looked he knew. Much too long to make such a tight turn, the cigarette boat was hopelessly wedged in the canal-bend.

Billy was laughing his tail off. "Cor! I didn't think they'd try t' make it through that curve! Stupid bunch o' wan…"

"Conor! Billy!"

It was Erin and she was pointing upwards.

Conor looked and saw the grappling hook was skewered through the roll-bar, with the line peeling off at an alarming rate. The Deguellos had managed to get off a Hail-Mary throw before they crashed. He had to think…no, he had to move. It was too far up to reach and he was too far gone to climb. And when that line pulled tight…wait, NYLON rope; one chance!

Grabbing for the URSA pistol, he switched over to the third barrel and fired.

A splatter of black burst at the spot where the rope joined the grapnel; he had hit it, dead-on with an etching-fluid round…but would it work? That stuff would dissolve glass but what about Nylon?

He found out as the line pulled taut; the superboat snapped around sideways like a hooked fish heeling halfway over in the water. But then the rope parted, spinning the little speedster in a 360 degree pinwheel before she came to rest and went racing on smoothly across the channel.

"Cor, what was that?" Billy was casting his eyes about in jumbled confusion. Conor tried to point upwards, but then the question answered itself when they skimmed over a drifting log. There was no damage, but the superboat went airborne for a second, hitting the water in a belly-flop—and dislodging the grapnel from the roll-bar.

It fell straight down at Billy Mackenna. Conor saw him stiffen, heard him growl.

"Billy!"

"I'm okay; just speared me shorts is all."

His tone was not especially reassuring, but when the young fox looked…yep, one of the hooks had just caught him through a pocket. There was no blood, none that he could see any…hold it! What about…?

"Erin! Erin, are you all right?"

He got no answer…and when he looked, the white-furred young bunny wasn't there.

"ERIN!"

Her head popped up into view.

"I'm all right…but I lost the dart- gun under the engine."

Conor waved and gave her a thumbs-up; his voice was too spent for anything else.

The Tasmanian tiger next to him was another story.

"No worries, Sheila-bunny, we beat those blokes, didn't we? Next stop, Outback Isla…"

"LOOK OUT!"

They came roaring out of a side channel like a swarm of murder hornets, the rest of the Deguello armada. Conor realized at once what had happened; instead of following the cigarette boat into the trap, they had backtracked and pulled an end-run around their quarry.

And now they had it surrounded.

Instantly Billy found himself caught in a squeeze-play between a pair of RIB boats...pressing inward and trapping the smaller vessel like a cockroach in a padded vise.

Now the otter riding shotgun in the boat on the right side boat was leveling a Prowler-Fouler at Billy's head. Even with a helmet on…at that range, it would…

"Shut it down Tigre…now!"

Before the thylacine had time to react, they hit another piece of debris, not enough to send them flying, but enough to jostle the Degeullo's aim upward. In that instant, Billy snatched the grapnel free of his shorts and swung it in an overhead arc, burying the hooks in the RIB boat's port-side air cell and popping it like a beach-ball.

At once the RIB began to jink wildly, hitting against the Superboat before bouncing off and flying away to land belly-up on the water.

…But not before dumping the otter with the Prowler Fouler practically on top of on Billy. He lost the weapon as he fell, sending it skidding across the superboat's floor, but he had caught the Tasmanian tiger completely by surprise. Wrapping himself around the thylacine's head and neck he began to squeeze like a boa constrictor.

Billy tried to fight him off, but he could only use one paw, having to keep the other one planted on the wheel.

Then, all of sudden the Deguello went limp, sliding off the Tasmanian tiger and into the water with a ragged splash.

When Conor looked, he saw a breathless Erin with the tranq-dart pistol in her paws. Say what you want about this bunny-girl, she was not one to lose it in a pinch.

But now, he saw that he had problems of his own. On the superboat's right, the gunner in the second RIB boat had seen what happened and was grabbing a taser. Unfortunately, he had the driver between him and his target.

Bad luck for him, but not for Conor; leveling the URSA pistol, he switched to the second barrel and fired—sending a point-blank burst of hard rubber marbles into the pilot's head and neck.

The otter yelped and his paws flew off the wheel…and then the second RIB was flying across the water in a flat spin, crashing stern first into a piling and ripping one of the engines clean off its mount.

"Billy go!" the young fox cried—as if that was even necessary. The Tasmanian tiger had hit the throttle even before he started speaking.

Okay, they had dodged out of that one—but now the Degeuellos were really mad. He heard Erin scream again, and when he looked, he saw something happening on the bow of the gunboat and—holy foxtrot!

"Billy look out, they've got a harpoon-gun!"

The thylacine took his word for it, "Blimey O'Riley; 'ow'd they ever get hold of one o' those things?"

Conor didn't know; there was a lot he didn't know. How accurate was a harpoon-gun; what kind of range did it have? He'd heard something once, about…exploding harpoons? Was that what they were loading? One thing, at least, was for certain; explosive charge or none, if that thing hit them, it would snap their boat in two like a fortune-cookie.

Billy stopped his weaving and began to run straight. From the back he heard Erin's shrill voice, "What are you DOING?"

The Tasmanian tiger ignored her, speaking to to the fox beside him instead, "Gimme the word when they're 'bout to let loose!"

Conor understood, grabbing for his back-pack and pulling out his mini-binoculars. When he raised them to his eyes, he saw only a giant blur—and no amount of rolling the focus knob seemed to help.

"Mate!"

"Hang on, I'm trying!" His words came out like a mouthful of rough gravel. And now he could feel his chest getting tighter and tighter.

He took a breath, screwed his eyes shut and tried again.

There, yes, now he could see them…no he couldn't, his vision had gone fuzzy again. A loud bang sounded in his ears. They had fired; no they hadn't. His vision cleared again and he saw a big mean otter, pointing a finger and drawing a thumb across his throat. And then he turned and shouted something to the gun-crew…just as Conor's vision blurred again.

Dangit, no choice… "Billy, NOW!"

The Superboat jinked to the right just as the harpoon blasted from the cannon making a sound like a rupturing steam-pipe. Now Conor could see, and…Oh no, they had swerved too soon; the otters had been able to adjust their aim.

As he stared, mesmerized, the harpoon seemed to be coming straight at them—straight at HIM, right between the eyes. He threw his arms around his head; heard Erin screaming just as the projectile came crashing down on them.

It nicked the side of the superboat as it passed, burying itself in the water below, heaving them upwards like a giant paw when the warhead exploded, six feet beneath the surface, and dropping them down again.

Conor snatched up his binocs and looked ahead. The channel was rapidly getting broader, allowing the Deguellos' boat to spread out into a phalanx.

When he focused on the gunboat, his vision fuzzed over once again—but not before he saw the otters reeling in the harpoon line, at the same time loading another one. He turned to inform Billy…and saw a bend in the waterway up ahead, not as sharp of a turn as that last one—but it would require him to chop the throttle if he didn't want them to flip over.

Billy slowed into the turn; Conor gritted his teeth, waiting for the report of the harpoon cannon.

It never came, but as they rounded the bend they found themselves face to face with another privateer task force—and it was coming straight at them.

Billy groaned, Conor whimpered, and Erin began to sob. Where the heck had the Deguellos managed to get all that mammalpower?

Ahhh, who cared anyway? They were finished; there was no way out of…

That was when the fugitive young silver fox saw it; the oncoming boats were painted in a uniform mint-lime green. And flying from the masthead of the lead vessel was a banner emblazoned with that looked like a green bow-tie.

He leaned over, rapping Billy on the shoulder.

"Those aren't Deguellos; they're Chaungs!"

Conor felt as if he had practically no voice left. There was no way to know if the thylacine had heard him.

But then the Tasmanian tiger swerved and punched the throttle, heading straight for the onrushing flotilla at full tilt. In the back, Erin shrieked, "Wha…? What, are you crazy?"

She liked what he did next even less. As the superboat went streaking into the heart of the convoy, Billy backed off on the engine slightly, while Conor struggled shakily to his feet.

Compared to the Deguellos, the Chaungs were a motley band; he counted seven different species before he found himself swallowed up in the brilliance of not one, but two big spotlights.

The effect was all he could have hoped for. At once the animals on the green-painted boats began pointing and talking rapidly amongst themselves.

…And that was Billy's cue to hit the gas again.

As the superboat went powering through the rear of the Chaung task force, several of their boats attempted to wheel about in pursuit…just as the Deguello flotilla came flying around the canal-bend—with no time to stop before they hit.

What followed next was a maelstrom; perhaps a third of the Chaung boats were turned broadside when the otter fleet plowed into them. Metal shrieked, wood and fiberglass splintered, air-cells popped like paper bags. The worst of the damage was done by the Deguellos' gunboat. After capsizing a Chaung trimaran, it cut one of their panga-boats clean in half, "just like with scissors," as one of the crew later put it.

And then the screaming started; screams of anger rather than anguish—so loud that Conor could hear it over the engine, even at a distance.

…and then the shooting started. That, he couldn't hear—but he could see the muzzle flashes.

Erin was able to both see and hear. "Why are they…?"

"Don't LIKE each other, Sheila-bunny," Billy answered from the driver's seat, "Never 'ave."

"To put it mildly," Conor thought, but didn't say. Truth be told, the Chaungs and Deguellos hated each other's guts.

But then he spotted something and began waving frantically for the bunny to turn around.

When she did, she almost screamed. Not all of the privateer boats were engaged in trying to blow each other to bits. At least eight of them had broken free of the melee, and were coming after them—including the gun boat, and…

Ohhhh foxtrot; now theirs wasn't the ONLY V8 superboat in the chase. The Chaungs had one…no, make that two of them in pursuit.

And both of them were faster than Billy's boat.

Something buried itself in one of the fins, a short, ugly arrow—a crossbow bolt.

Yeah, that figured; this particular privateer gang was noted for preferring traditional weapons over the more modern stuff.

They were also renowned for their exceptional skill with those weapons. A long minute later, a second bolt went whizzing past Billy's head, so close, the feathers brushed against the side of his helmet.

It wasn't a miss, but a warning-shot…and the Chaungs were still gaining.

For a long, tense moment they held their fire. "What the heck are they waiting for?" Conor wondered with amazement? He found out when the first superboat pulled up alongside them.

"You have GOT to be kidding me!"

"All…right…" the sloth with the crossbow droned, leveling the weapon at Billy's head, "kill….your engine…"

Hmmmm, so THAT was why he hadn't fired a third shot.

"…right…now…before…I…"

That was as far as he got before a green splotch bloomed on his neck and his eyes rolled upwards into his head. He wasn't the only one who'd been taking his time. The difference was that Erin had been biding hers; keeping out of sight and waiting until she could get off a clean one.

As the first sloth began to fall backwards in slow-mo, the one in the cockpit hit the afterburners, attempting to get in front of Billy and cut him off. Erin tagged him on the back of his arm, and at first the tranq dart seemed to be having no effect; the Chaung boat just continued to pull ahead of them.

Until, all at once, the engine cut out, and it fell quickly back behind them. The pilot had managed to kill the throttle before the tranquilizer overtook him.

Dang….for someone who'd never fired a weapon before today…Erin was one seriously fast learner. Of course, she'd been shooting at nearly point-blank range, and with a laser-sight to assist her but still…

Now the other Chaung superboat was coming up next to them—and this one wasn't crewed by sloths. It had a fishing cat for a pilot—and a Sumatran tiger in the gunner's seat.

And he was toting a nasty-looking weapon, a blackpowder gun with a barrel as thick as a drain-pipe and a muzzle shaped like a dragon's head. Oh foxtrot, a blunderbuss! He wouldn't even need to aim that thing to cause serious damage, just point it in their general direction and pull the trigger.

But first, he'd need to get close enough…and with an antique weapon like that he'd only have one shot.

Conor checked the URSA's magazine. WHAAAA…? He should have had two rounds left, not just one—and that one shot was only a flash-bang. Aggghhh, grrrr.. it would have to do. He cocked the weapon and held it out of sight, waiting. He'd have a two-second window at best.

Closer…closer…c'mon, get in raaaange….hit him!

He raised the URSA and fired…but as he did, his paw began to shake and his vision blurred. He didn't see the discharge, only heard it. The shot went clean over the top of the Chaung boat, and hit the water on the other side. The tiger saw it and began waving to his pilot—get in closer and get in NOW!

But then Erin popped up and fired the tranq gun—again, at a range where she couldn't miss. But she did anyway because nothing came out of the barrel, except a jet of CO2; her magazine was empty.

And now the tiger was in range. Conor could only watch helplessly as he raised the blunderbuss and homed in on Billy, his finger tightening inexorably on the trigger.

Something smashed into the Chaung boat's engine from above, drilling it clean through the floor and exploding underneath a second later, tearing the hull to shreds like a kid with a Christmas package.

A harpoon! The Deguellos were still in the game. Had they mistaken the Chaung boat for theirs, or had it been deliber…?

"Never mind, they're reloading!"

Yes they were, but before they could finish, the Chaungs unleashed a hail of slings and arrows on the otters; payback for their destroyed superboat. As Conor and Erin watched in panicky amazement a free-for-all erupted in their wake; Chaungs and Deguellos trying to blow each other out of water…all the while still in pursuit of their quarry.

All around Billy's boat shots were stitching the water. Something flew over their head, hitting the channel two meters ahead of them; a bolt the size of a tent-pole.

None of the three runaways said anything but all of them knew. One good hit on the engine and they were toast.

Conor was the first to come out of it. Snapping open the URSA, he reloaded with trembling paws, taking twice as long as he should have, and then motioning for Erin to toss him the tranq gun so he could replenish her ammo supply as well. She did, but when he caught the weapon, it stung his paws like an angry nun's ruler.

It seemed to take forever to pull the magazine and even longer to jack in a fresh one. When he tried to toss it back to the doe-bunny, it landed right on top of the engine. Without thinking, she jumped to grab it and screamed as her arm was burned.

"Oh God, sorry!" Conor called as she fell back again. But when she got up, the look on her face wasn't angry—it was worried.

Rounding another bend they saw a wide lagoon spreading out in front of them. Was that good or bad—and where were they, anyway? Conor's mind refused to answer; he could only hope they were going the right way. On the far left he thought he could see the towering steeples of dockside cranes, swaddled in pale blue light.

The next thing he saw was another fleet of boats, coming in from that direction. What…? Oh no, not MORE bounty hunters! And who the heck were these guys? Conor raised the binoculars, expecting to see nothing but gray fuzz. He didn't, but he didn't get an answer, either. What, now? Whoever these animals were, they weren't privateers. None of their boats were sporting the tell-tale paint-jobs or flying the appropriate banners.

That was all he saw before his vision went fuzzy again…but not so much that couldn't see ANYTHING…what the heck, the newcomers' boats appeared to be…shedding?

It was Erin who clarified it for him…and for once, her words carried above the noise of the engine. "Billy, look out, they're launching drones!"

She was answered by an exasperated growl. "Crikey, bloomin' aircraft carriers! What's next; submarines?"

Conor was tempted to remind the young Tasmanian tiger to be careful what he wished for… and he might have, except the first wave of drones was already swarming in on them.

But then they just held their distance, keeping pace with the superboat, and waiting for…for what?

A short moment later, one of them zoomed in closer. Conor couldn't see it, but he knew it was there…and he also thought he knew why. He immediately turned away and ducked, throwing his arms around his head to hide his appearance.

Erin saw it…and if the silver fox up front had been able to hear her he'd have caught her muttering. "Wha…seriously? That thing's a piece of junk!"

But then the drone pulled back and dove hard at the superboat.

Now Conor could see, and now it was his turn to raise his eyebrows.

"Oh, puh-LEEZE! What the heck do you think THAT little thing's gonna…?"

He got his answer when the drone hit the roll-bar, bouncing off—and then exploding.

"Ohhhh, foxtrot!"

Another one came buzzing down on them. It struck dead center in the superboat's hood, exploding on impact as it hit. Luckily, it carried a much smaller charge than its predecessor. There was no hole; only a dent and a scorch mark.

Yay, them….but if that thing had hit the engine—and look out, here comes another one!

As if it had heard the silver fox's thoughts, the third drone was zeroing in on the engine compartment. But this time he was ready, leveling the URSA pistol, he fired a scattershot load at the oncoming miniature aircraft. He saw it only as a fuzzy outline, and managed only a glancing blow, but that was enough. The drone went into an instant spin, impacting a good ten feet in their wake.

The next one tried a different approach…coming in low over the water like a cruise-missile.

It might have worked…except Billy saw it coming and swung the superboat in a hard S-curve…triggering a wave that swamped the drone and sent it to sleep with the fishes.

"Ha, gotchyer!" The Tasmanian tiger raised a triumphant fist—but when he glanced over at Conor, he saw the silver fox with his face buried in his backpack.

"Oi! Whad'yer DOIN' there?"

Conor pretended not to hear him; actually, he didn't need to pretend.

"Dangit, where IS that thing? I KNOW I have another one; I have at least  three  more at home, so…. So, where the fox are you? Wait…I brought THAT with me? Wow, can I ever use…later, later! Ohhh, don't tell me I don't HAVE it…Aggggh, grrrr, if I could only stinkin' SEE! Wait, there…got it!"

He yanked the device from his pack just in time to see another drone come hurtling down on the engine…too close, too late to do anything.

"Ohhhh, why didn't I…?"

But then the drone jinked suddenly sideways and went cartwheeling into the water.

And then there was Erin with the dart-gun again.

"Whoa, is the same bunny-girl who didn't even want to  touch  that thing when I…? SHUT UP AND GET TO WORK."

Conor seized the gadget he'd taken from his backpack, working it with his thumbs. He couldn't see the switches and buttons but he remembered…and it was a simple device to operate. Okay, power on, bandwidth detector on…

"Oi, 'Ere comes another one!"

…frequency locked annnnd…HIT IT!

The wave of noise from the GPS Jammer hit the cloud of drones like an invisible Tsunami. Without the aid of a satellite signal, it was impossible for the operators to control more than one of them at a time. Two of the miniature aircraft collided, three more dropped like flies, and the rest began to swarm around aimlessly, as if they'd suddenly contracted dementia.

All, that is, but one…a big, black, eight-rotor drone that could have passed for a king-size, flying tarantula. And now it came screaming down on the superboat in an almost vertical dive.

And there was no way to stop it, not this time; he couldn't, and neither could Erin. It was going to hit the engine.

---

Well, it looks as if Conor and his friends have bitten off a lot more than they can chew. Will they still somehow manage to get away…or will they be captured and turned over to the ZPD? Will they even survive to be caught? And what about that guy over there, ranting "not ANOTHER cliffhanger?" Lastly, did I remember to put my cell-phone on the charger? The answers lie ahead in our next exciting episode:

Our Flag Means Depth

Or

Who Let The Docks Out?

Chapter 44: The Cascade Effect, (Concluded...Part 7)

Summary:

And the chase continues

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 7—The Cascade Effect
(Concluded…Part 7)

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Conor couldn't bear to look; neither could Erin. Both of them turned away, eyes shut tight as the drone came hurtling down on the superboat, traveling at what seemed like terminal velocity.

But when it hit, there was no explosion, only the sharp crack of rendering plastic.

The fox was the first to open his eyes…and he hardly dared believe what he was seeing; was his vision that far out of whack?  Of all the drones sent to intercept them, this was the one that had turned out to be a dud!

His relief was destined to be seriously premature; even with impaired sight, it was impossible to miss.  What was left of the drone was sitting practically right in front of him.  Or, to put it a bit more accurately, it was sticking in his face like a sore thumb…wedged in between the alternator and the intake manifold.

…And when the engine-heat reached whatever charge that thing was carrying…

Unbuckling his harness, Conor scrambled—actually kind of slithered—into the engine compartment, propelled by nothing more than sheer adrenaline.  Something burned his elbow, he ignored it.  He had to get that drone out of here before…

There…he had his paws around it.  He pulled, but it refused to budge.  He tried again, harder; still nothing.  Holy foxtrot, what the heck was this thing MADE of?  Something burned his cheek; he ignored that too.  The drone was getting warmer, getting hot, he could feel it.  He had to do something, but what?  Wait…he knew!  He pulled back and began searching the floor of the passenger compartment.  Ohhh, foxin’-A... his vision was going again.  He began to feel for the object; dangit!  It was here, it had to be…there; he had it.

He clambered back the way he had come, jamming the Prowler-Fouler against the drone at low angle.

No point in shouting, “Fire in the hole!”  No one would have heard him anyway; he simply pressed the firing button.  

The weapon kicked as it discharged, nearly breaking his wrist…and sending a lead-filled bean-bag smashing into the drone, tearing it from its rotor mount and sending it flying over the stern in a rainbow arc.

It was six feet behind them when the flash-powder charge exploded with a deafening bang.

Everyone tensed, waiting…but no more drones were coming.  In the distance, the lights of the mysterious interlopers’ boats were beginning to wink away into the distance.

But now here came the Chaungs and Deguellos again.  For the past few minutes they’d been holding back, most likely planning to rush in and steal the prize if one of those mini-Kamikazes managed to cripple the superboat.

Taking the lead was a Chaung panga boat that looked as long as a football field.  In second place was the Deguello gunboat—but at least, thank God, they weren’t reloading the harpoon gun; they must have used up the last of them taking out the other superboat.

But hey…they weren’t trading volleys with the panga boat either.  In fact none of the vessels chasing them were exchanging fire.  They had wised up apparently, and were shelving their differences until after their quarry was taken.

And they were gaining.

Billy turned to duck down another side channel, swerving away at the last second.  Conor thought it was a feint to confuse their pursuers…until the Tasmanian tiger shrugged. “Oops, wrong one.”

Something arced over the superboat, leaving a trail of smoke.  It was perhaps thirty feet ahead of them when it exploded; bursting just above the water in a white-hot, green dandelion. 

Somebody was shooting fireworks at them…the same kind of rocket-shells Nick had used to put down the crop-duster attack on the Carrot Days festival.

Another mortar-shell ‘thoomed’ into the air, fired from the deck of the panga-boat.  It struck the water perhaps ten feet behind the superboat, skimming along the surface of the canal like a ‘dam-buster’ bomb.  Bouncing off the stern, it sank like rock, and for a second, it seemed they were clear of any danger.

…Until a bright-red flash detonated beneath them, heaving their boat an inch or two upwards and then dropping it down again 

It was nothing that they hadn’t experienced before, but this time the results were vastly different—and vastly more distressing.  When they hit the water, their boat was moving at an erratic stutter.  A bubble of air had gotten into the jet intake—and until was it cleared they were crippled.

That was something their pursuers could hardly fail to notice.  Every single one of them hit the throttles, bearing down fast on their hapless quarry.

But then the gunboat began to edge out the lead panga-boat.  In response, the Chaungs let loose another rocket-shell—not at Conor and his friends but at the Deguello flagship.  Depending upon which gang you were in, was either the luckiest or the unluckiest shot in the history of mammalkind..  The shell flew straight through a porthole and went bouncing around the gunboat’s bridge-compartment like a golf-ball in a tiled bathroom, exploding in a shower of whistling stars.

At once the gunboat began to fall back…and at once the privateers ditched their makeshift truce, opening up on each other with everything they had.

Billy, meanwhile, was desperately trying to get moving…gunning the engine again and again in a frantic attempt to clear the intake.

The superboat lurched, hiccupped, stopped—bucked forward in a slow stammer, making a noise like gargling.

“Come onnnnn.” Billy’s voice was like a mosquito’s whine.

The boat jerked, belched, jerked again…and then with a thundering roar it shot out across the water, gaining speed at a rapid pace..

But the privateers saw it, and immediately put their feud on hold again.

Up ahead, Billy slewed hard into a side channel. Conor thought it was a Hail-Mary move—until he saw the thylacine raising a fist in triumph; he knew where he was…

A rocket shell bounced off the wall behind them and went screaming over their heads, exploding when it was almost directly over the superboat—showering the three young occupants with hail of blue sparks that singed their fur and burned their skin.

Conor realized then that he couldn’t hear the engine; he couldn’t hear anything.  The explosion had left him temporarily deafened.

Or…HAD that been the explosion and was it only temp…?  The engine!  

“Ohhh foxtrot, PLEASE tell me it’s still okay.”

He turned to look; he tried to turn, but his neck refused to pivot; it felt like it had been stuck in place with Krazy Glue.  He couldn’t hear, he couldn’t see, he could only feel.  The engine felt like it was running smoothly but…

Another rocket shell came screaming in after them at a high angle…too high; it struck an overhead cable on the way down, fell straight into the water, and then sank without exploding—for once.

Up ahead, the canal split into an abrupt Y-fork…but what was that laying across the left-side channel?  Oh foxtrot, a boom…a boom tipped with spikes!

Conor opened his mouth to shout a warning but all that came out was dry air.  At that instant, Billy also saw the hazard, and veered sharply to the right—and this time, he didn’t get away with it. The superboat flipped over twice, rolling across the water in a double sideways cartwheel.

She came to rest in an upright position, still headed down the channel with the engine running smoothly.  When Billy hit the throttle again, they streaked onward as if nothing had happened at all.

But Erin…Erin, was she all right?  The injured young silver fox couldn’t look to see; he could only hope.

The superboat was swaddled in darkness as it plunged down the right side channel.  Billy hit the running lights and a split second later, their pursuers did the same.

If Conor had been able to hear, he would have heard the young thylacine letting out a pained growl, followed by a high-pitched groan from Erin.  Had he been able to see more than ten feet in front him, he would have understood the reason for their distress.  

The detour had taken them into a lagoon, a lagoon with only one other exit…an impossible exit, a railroad trestle spanning a slender channel, a channel rendered even narrower by a forest of pilings and supports.

With no other option Billy gunned it in that direction.   Or…wait, did he actually seem to be relishing the idea?  There was no way for Conor to know—and also no way for him to hear the exchange between him and Erin.

 “Please, Billy…tell me you know what you’re doing!”

“Not t’ worry, bunny-Sheila,” he called out over his shoulder, “I’ve done this plenty of times before,” And then under his breath, he added, “…just not in ‘ere and not at night.”

Another rocket shell came streaking out of the darkness behind them; but either the gunner had aimed too high or the charge detonated prematurely.  For the breadth of a second, the lagoon was drenched in a brilliant, milk-white light.

At that moment, a ring of boats became visible, backed up against the sea-wall, facing inwards towards the center of the lagoon.  As the starshell faded, they all came to life, throwing a long, harsh web of spotlight beams across the water.

And then there were more lights—mounted atop cabins or affixed to roll bars—lights in bright red and blue; flashing red and blue.

A siren whooped and faded, and then an amplified voice called out, “Attention all boats, this is the ZPD.  Cut your engines and stand down NOW!”

Conor didn’t need to hear the order to be aware of it—and he had no idea which of their pursuers would choose to obey and which would try to run; maybe even fight it out. He could only hope that Billy wouldn’t be one of the quitters.

He wasn’t; pushing the throttle even further forward he took no notice of the order bellowing in his wake.

“You there; stop where you are!”

As IF—it was too late to stop; the trestle was already there in front of them—and the way through looked about as roomy as a credit-card reader.

Billy shot between the pilings…pulled right, pulled left; no, no further left, and back to the right again.  No, not that way… too low for the roll bar.  He pulled hard in the opposite direction; sending the superboat sideways into a bracing member.  Conor thought he heard a crack, but then they raced on, apparently undamaged.  But the way ahead was still too low—and there was no time to stop, only to slow down.

The roll-bar hit the beam with a dull clang, maybe two inches down from the top.  But then, because of its rearward-slope, the momentum drove the superboat downwards, sinking it almost to the gunwales.  Billy was sure they were going to swamp, but then they popped back up again…on the other side of the overhead.

No time for any sighs of relief; he had to keep moving.  Look out, a floating log, chop the throttles and just slide over it.  That’s it, now jink left, jink right…look out for that piling, just under the surface.  Look out!  Left…left again, now right again, now serpentine!

It was then that Conor’s hearing began to return, although he might have wished otherwise.  A shrill, whooping noise was coming from behind them.  And if he couldn’t see what was making the racket, he could sure as heck see the flashes of red-and-blue, dancing against the timbers all around them.

Billy dodged right, dodged left.  A triple piling as thick as a water main was right in front of them, and the thylacine made right for it.  But then, at the last second, he pulled left towards a sliver of open space.  The superboat waggled as it slithered through the opening—and then shot out into the open water like a spat-out watermelon seed.

But the three young fugitives hadn’t made it out alone.  On either side of them and right behind, a pair of siren-blaring Waverunners burst out from beneath the trestle in hot pursuit.  At the same time, a four-engine RIB boat peeled away from the canal bank, lighting up like a red and blue Christmas tree.

Ohhh, foxtrot…now they were really in it.  Conor couldn’t see any of the ZPD boats clearly—but he knew they had a whole truckload of advantages over the animals that had been chasing them earlier.

For one thing, standard police procedure was not to run their quarry down, but to run them out; they would stay with the superboat until it made landfall and then apprehend the occupants when they exited.  And as for any outside interference, forget it.  No privateer was going to stick his nose into this pursuit; John Law would have that superboat all to his lonesome.

And that wasn’t the all…

“Ohhhh, CRIKE!”

Conor would have echoed Billy’s sentiment if he could.   He didn’t need clear vision to see that the canal banks up ahead were lit up as bright as a Hollywool premiere, with more lights strung out over the water.

They were about to take leave of the Canal District’s industrial zone…and cross over into the Entertainment Quarter.

In this part of town, they’d be as easy to spot as crows against a snowbank.  And here, they would absolutely not have the waterway to themselves; pleasure boaters galore.

The effect was like walking into another room.  One moment everything was dark, and in the next, they almost needed sunglasses.

For the first few minutes, everything was hunky dory. There were no other boats on the water that they could see.  And the umbrella-topped tables and gawking tourists were all perched safely above them—atop steep, masonry banks, at least ten feet off the water.

But then something hit the channel in front of them, and then something else hit the water beside them—and then something hit the hood of the superboat, shattering as it struck and spewing ratatouille all over the place.

And then a hail of crockery and cuisine began pouring down on the three young mammals.  The animals on the banks up above had seen the lights and heard the sirens…and had decided to play Good Citizen. 

What happened next was like a cross between dodgeball and a food-fight.  In mere minutes, Billy’s boat was a sticky mess.  The only consolation was that one of the diners miscalculated; hitting one of the Waverunner cops full in the face with what looked like a pot-pie.  He slewed instantly to a stop… down, but not out.

Ahead of them the channel was widening, and Billy took advantage of the situation to pull away from the bank, away from the deluge of foodstuffs.

That was good for a sigh of relief from everyone—until they came fast around a bend and found themselves on a collision course with a flower-bedecked barge, occupied by a brass band. 

“What the HECK are they playing?” Conor wondered in his encroaching delirium.  It sounded like The William Tell Overture—except some idiot with a flute seemed to think that Turkey in the Straw would be a more appropriate selection.

Billy didn’t notice; he was too busy trying to decide…which way, which way?  There was room to pass on only one side of the barge, on the right.  But it was drifting to the right.  Which way?  Never mind, no time!  Billy spun the wheel hard, aiming for the left-paw side of the floating bandstand.  But the gap wasn’t widening quickly enough.  “Come on, come on, y’lazy bludger,” the thylacine snarled under his breath—and the barge actually seemed to hear him…increasing its drift just enough for him to make it through.

As the superboat went flashing through the opening, the band concert came to a sudden, cacophonous end, with the mouse who’d been conducting shaking his baton at the departing trio of fugitives.  He hardly had time to finish before the police boats followed, Waverunners on the right, RIB-boat on the left.

The instant they were clear of the barge, they kicked it up into full throttle.

Meanwhile, up ahead, Erin Hopps was wiping frantically at herself and wishing that rabbits could vomit.   Ewwww, just ewww—this muck!   She felt as if her fur would never be clean again.

From behind, an amplified voice called out after them.

“Stop your boat; stop right NOW!”

She instinctively ducked down; the right move, for the wrong reason.  It kept the young doe bunny from seeing what was waiting up ahead.

From one side to the other, the canal was choked with pleasure craft of all kinds, not a square inch of space between them…or the bank.  They were gathered in rough, concentric rings around a short pier—where a water-opossum in a long black robe was reciting a litany to a pair of muskrats, clad respectively in a tuxedo and white lace.

Billy Mackenna was beside himself.  “You blitherin’ idiots!  Don’tcher know it’s illegal to block the whole bloomin’ waterway?”

If Conor could have heard it, he would have laughed himself sick at the irony.

Billy was sick too…sick at heart.  They were trapped, there was no way through…wait!  The dock behind the pier, it was almost flush with the water.

Out on the makeshift altar, the minister was raising his voice.

“If there be any mammal here who can show just cause as to why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony…let him speak now, or forever hold his…”

That was as far as he got before the superboat leaped up onto the dock behind him, skidding like a hockey puck to the other side and roaring away in a plume of exhaust fumes.  A second later, it was followed by a siren blaring Waverunner, and then another one after that.

Everyone ducked…and then off to the left, another siren whooped, and an amplified voice spoke.  “Clear the way!  Clear the way or you will be cited.”

Rising up on his feet again, the groom turned and spoke to the minister, pretending to look and sound huffy.

“Wedding-crasher votes don’t count!”

The opossum didn’t answer; he was too busy laughing his tail off.  So was the bride, who then threw her arms around the groom and kissed him like there was no tomorrow.

The minister’s face turned playfully stern.

“Not yet!”

Thirty yards ahead, the pair of ZPD Waverunners had once again joined up with each other, spreading out on either side of the superboat and keeping pace with their quarry.  They wouldn’t try to overtake it—Billy knew that as well as Conor—they’d simply sit back and wait for an opening.

The only good thing was that there was no sign of the RIB boat…but like cockroaches and The Terminator, it would be back; that one was a given.

A hump appeared in the water ahead on the right.  The officer on that side saw it and quickly dodged it, bringing himself in close so that Billy could see the mottled tail, trailing behind his jet-ski; a jaguar.

He reached over, tapped Conor and pointed.  The silver fox rose up, bleary eyed.  All he could see was flashing red-and-blue, but that was enough.

Snatching his URSA pistol, he began to raise it…

…and then lowered it again.

Billy rapped him on the side of the head.

“Mate, come on, ‘e’s right THERE!”

“No,” Conor mumbled, not caring that the thylacine couldn’t hear him. ”Won ‘t hurt a cop…not again.”

Billy rapped him again, harder. “Lissen y’ little wan…ohh, CRIKE!”

Ahead of them, the channel was narrowing rapidly…and heading straight into another blind curve.  The officers trailing them saw it too and fell back to a safe distance.

Or that is, one of them did.  The jaguar hit the throttle, possibly hoping to catch the superboat when it came out of the turn.

With his attention focused so sharply on the speedboat up ahead, there were several things he failed to notice; the smoke beginning to trail from under the hood of his Waverunner and the dull, orange glow flickering beneath.

Nor did he seem to realize that a red light was winking on his instrument panel.

Up ahead, Billy had no inkling of what was waiting around the bend; all he could do was cross his fingers and keep on trucking.

As the superboat went roaring around the turn, he realized too late that he had again misjudged the angle.

“’Ang on!” he cried as the boat turned up on its side—but this time, luckily not so much that there was any danger of flipping over.

Around the other side of the curve, they came upon a waterfront café.  Situated much closer to the channel than its predecessors, this particular eatery was decked out in bright, pastel colors.  Multicolored lights and a mariachi quintet completed the picture.

As Billy came swooping by, the music and meals came to a sudden jumbled halt, courtesy of the wake he sent rolling across the stone-tiled floor.  When the Waverunner followed, a couple of seconds later, it went sideways into the bank…not hard enough to injure the rider, or cause any significant damage, only just enough to crack the hood open.

But that was all it took.  Fed by the sudden inrush of oxygen, the Waverunner’s engine burst into flame, pitching it into a sudden, nose–down halt and throwing the rider over the top of the bars.

He came bobbing to the surface in the strip of water separating his watercraft from the sea-wall…

…Just as flames reached the fuel-tank.

The jet-ski exploded in a ball of black smoke, and pale yellow fire, showering the canal with burning gasoline.

The jaguar ducked hurriedly under the water, trying frenziedly to swim away from the blaze.  Something tugged at his tail; he was caught, he couldn’t escape.

In the superboat up ahead, Conor was aware of only a faint, flickering glow behind them.  He tried to turn his head again; it refused to rotate for more than half an inch, but then the glow brightened noticeably.  And what was that noise; was that Erin…screaming?

A choir of a thousand alarm bells began to ring in the young fox’s head.  Without thinking, he thrust his paw into his backpack, finding at once the object he’d located by accident earlier.  He’d been hoping to save it for later, but…

It consisted of a metal cylinder the size of a mini-thermos, with a mask attached.  And now, with shaky paws, he slipped it over his muzzle, pressed the button and inhaled.

The effect was both instantaneous and amazing.  His vision cleared, his hearing returned, and he could actually breathe again.

He turned and rapped Billy on the shoulder; it needed only a small effort.

When the thylacine turned to look, his jaw fell halfway to the deck—until he noticed the oxygen-bottle clasped in his passenger’s paw.

And the way he was frantically pointing behind them.

“We’ve gotta go back!”

Billy didn’t try to argue; he didn’t want to argue.  He swung the boat in a fast loop, making a beeline for the burning jet-ski.

Conor rapped him on the shoulder again.

“Fire extinguisher; you got one?”  His voice was already retreating back the way it had come.

“I’ve got better’n that, mate,” The young thylacine growled, and then proved it by whipping the superboat around in a furious donut, setting off a wave that drenched the Waverunner and extinguished the fire.

No time for rejoicing he kicked it around and took them roaring down the canal once more.

In the rear of the boat, Erin Hopps did have time to celebrate, throwing up a pair of fists and whooping, “Whoo-hoooo!”

After all, her sister Judy was a ZPD de…

Something whizzed past her ear; huh, what?  And then something ‘thwanged’ off the roll-bar—and then something flashed in their wake.  It was the second Waverunner, coming on fast.  Another flash, a shard of light, streaking past the superboat; and that was when the young doe-bunny finally made the connection, “What, you’re SHOOTING at us?  You can’t shoot us, what’s WRONG with you?”

As if in response, a fourth shot clipped one of the fins.  Whoever was on that jet-ski, they no longer cared about police procedure; as of now, they were a mammal on a mission. 

But…WHY?

Another shot went streaking between the young doe bunny’s ears; she screamed and ducked down.  At once, she felt her paws close around the dart gun…and immediately let go of it.  Like the silver fox upfront, she could never bring herself to shoot a police officer, not even with a tranquilizer pellet.

…Not even if he was trying to kill her.

Billy was aware of none of this.  He heard the impact with the roll-bar but had no idea what it was or where it had come from.  He knew only that he had to get away from all these bright lights and pronto.  Wait…up ahead, where the canal turned right; there was another smaller channel straight ahead.  It was narrower than this one…and also much more dimly lit.

He hit throttles and made for it…unwittingly spoiling the aim of the rogue cop trailing in their wake.

As the superboat went tearing through the canal, the environment began to undergo a sea-change; brick, stone, and mortar gave way to wood, tar, and creosote.  With every passing minute the construction on either side became more and more rickety; the lighting dimmer and dimmer.

They had left the Entertainment Quarter for the Muddy Swamp; no high-class eateries or fancy nightspots in this neck of the woods.  Not to put too fine a point on it, this place was Happytown-On-The-Water.

Something fast and bright drilled through Conor's headrest, missing the fox by centimeters.  That was when Billy finally realized—someone was shooting at them.  He began to zig-zag as best he could…but the space in here was so tight!

A bullet pinged off an overhanging lamp-post.  Another one barely missed the engine.

That was when Erin finally realized something; maybe she couldn’t shoot a cop, but there was no rule that said she couldn’t...

She snatched up the dart gun making sure the safety was on, and then let her finger touch ever-so-lightly on the trigger.

A pencil-thin beam of bright red light shot out from beneath the dart-gun’s barrel, alighting just below the knee of their pursuer.  It wasn’t perfect, but it worked.  The cop swerved frantically away from the beam and she saw something go tumbling from his paw and into the water.  Erin had no idea what it was, but the shooting ceased immediately.

Meanwhile up in front of them, barely visible in the running lights, Billy could see the crumbling outline of a stone bridge.  Oh no, was it high enough for them to get under?  Yes…yes it was, but as the Tasmanian tiger got closer he noted that the span was packed from one end to the other with what looked like dozens of young mammals.

 “Ohhhh, crikey!  ‘Ere comes another tucker-bag monsoon.”

He gunned the motor; his only option.  But when the superboat reached the bridge—nothing happened.  It shot straight beneath the span without incident.

The officer chasing them wasn’t so lucky.  As he came upon the bridge, an old cargo net was flung over the side, landing right on top of him.  Blinded, unable to steer, he hit the central support at a sideswipe, killing the engine and bruising his knee.

In this part of town the citizens weren’t on the ZPD’s side—at least not the younger ones.

And now they began to whoop and chant, “Weeee’re not gonna TAKE it!”

No one on the superboat heard them; none of them had seen what happened, but none of them would have cared in any case.  They weren’t being chased, and that was the only thing that ma…

Without warning, the RIB boat shot out of nowhere in front of them, turned broadside in the canal and completely blocking their path.

No, wait, not completely; a side-channel entrance was just up ahead, nearly invisible in the darkness, but there it was.

Billy didn’t think, he just moved, swinging around and into the waterway.

…right between a pair of yellow signs; inverted triangles emblazoned with exclamation marks.

There was writing underneath, but the young Tasmanian tiger had time to make out only a single word; ‘DANGER…”

Too late, nothing to do now, but ride with it; the ZPD boat was right behind them and closing fast.

Billy kicked it into high gear.  The superboat shot through the canal like a bullet through a gun barrel.

And there, up ahead, was the exit…flanked by another pair of yellow triangles, but this time without any text.  So here was the ‘danger’ at last, but what was it?  Well, they’d find out in another 3…2…1…

As his boat went flashing between the signs, Billy’s jaws fell open and so did Erin’s.

They were passing across a vast expanse of wide-open water; nothing at all around them.  The lights ahead appeared to be miles in the distance.

They had made it out of the Canal District, and into Zootopia Sound!

But a fat lot of good that would do them with a police boat hard on their tail—and it was closing in fast once again.

“Attention on board, this is the ZPD; cut your engines and heave to.  This is your last…”

That was as far as the speaker got before the RIB boat kicked sideways and went into a flat, pinwheel spin, coming to rest facing back, the way it had come, one side tilted higher than the other.

Billy began to laugh; he couldn’t help it, cathartic almost hysterical laughter.  His brain had just clicked on those signs again—and the full text had read ‘DANGER SHALLOW WATER AHEAD.’

Too shallow for a police-boat, but not for him; V8 superboats were built for racing in the shallows.

And when the thylacine looked up ahead, his laughs promptly morphed into whoops.

“Woo-hoooooo!  Eeeee-yes!  Who’s yer Daddy!”

“Wha…what the HECK are you cheering about?”

He had finally gotten loud enough for Erin to hear—and he was only too happy to give her the lowdown.

“We’re out on the flats, Sheila-bunny…Ain’t nuffin’ can catch us here!  An’ look there,” he pointed up ahead to where a wall of dark gray cotton-wool was stretching across Zootopia Sound.  “Once we hit that fog, we’re ‘ome free!” The white-furred young bunny immediately let loose a whoop of her own.

Still smiling, Billy reached over to pat Conor on the shoulder.  “We made it, mate!  We…”

He stopped and drew his paw back as if it had been scalded.  The young silver fox was curled up into a fetal position with his eyes half open, sitting still, very still… too still.

But then his eyes blinked and he nodded feebly, trying to manage a smile.

That was enough to instantly wipe away Billy’s smile, replacing it with a look of grim determination.

He reached into his vest, removing what looked like a scaled down computer tablet and clipping it into a holder attached to the console.

But when he tried to power up…

“Gahhhhr, NO!”

“What’s wrong?” Erin called from the back, frightened.

Billy waved at the screen with a frustrated paw…where nothing was visible but an empty field of blue “I’ve got no GPS…an’ we can’t through that fog without it!”

Someone tapped him on the ankle; no, kicked him in the ankle.  It was Conor…and then the thylacine looked, he saw the fox was pointing at a walkie-talkie, lying on the deck.  Wha…What was that supposed to…?

“Oi, wait a minute; since when’s a walkie-talkie have FIVE bloomin’ antennas?  Cor, right…them drones!  He must have f’gotten to switch off.”

Snatching up the Jammer like a hundred dollar bill, Billy found the power knob and shut it down.

At once the GPS screen changed—to a display showing their location.

“NOW we’re home free!” the Tasmanian tiger crowed, raising triumphant fist.

He had no way of knowing that 200 yards away, a monster was awakening with an angry roar.

It did not come charging after them.  No lights blazed, no siren wailed.  The only light showing was a dull, red glow inside the cabin.

And now, slowly, inexorably, it began to close the distance upon them.

Erin was the first to become aware of it…when, without warning, a tracer round drilled a hole through Billy’s helmet.  She screamed, expecting to see him fall over sideways, never to rise again.  But the Tasmanian tiger only fingered the side of his helmet, none the worse for wear; the bullet had penetrated his head-covering, but had missed the skull underneath.

But when he found the hole, he knew immediately what had happened, and began frantically weaving back and forth—just as another round went whistling past the roll-bar.

That was when the monster finally revealed itself; bright lights blazing all around; an incandescent spotlight trying to pin the superboat like a butterfly.  Painted on the front of their pursuer was a wide, leering shark-toothed grin.  

And seated in a gunners chair below the control cabin, a wolverine was drawing a bead with a telescopic sight.

Billy had forgotten something; there was one kind of vessel that could beat a superboat on the flats.  And it was the monster chasing them now—an XG-8 hovercraft.

Desperately racking his brain, the young thylacine tried to remember what he knew about those things; he had seen one at a boat show some years ago.  All right, there’d be no such thing as trying to outrun it; the XG-8 was supposed to be the cutting edge of hovercraft technology.  These machines also tended to function better in wet weather than dry—blast all that stupid rain from earlier today!

But wait…now he remembered!  Hovercraft might be fast, but they were hellishly hard to maneuver.  There…that was their way out of this.

He swung the superboat in a tight U-turn, just as another shot nicked a fin.

As the pair of watercraft came broadside of one another Erin saw that the hovercraft was actually smaller than it had first appeared, only about the size of a mid-range cabin cruiser.  Even so, it was an evil looking thing, done up in dark, gray-green camouflage-paint.

…Except for one thing, a stark-white logo on the side…a sort of monogram made up of four different letters; what were they? They looked like…an ‘A’...a ‘K’...’E’…

Another spotlight flared on the hovercraft, dousing the young doe-bunny in bleach-white illumination.  She shielded her eyes and ducked, just as Billy went into another turn, converting the ‘U’ into a latch-hook.

“Let’s see y’ follow us NOW, mates,” the thylacine sneered under his breath.

As if in response to the challenge, the XG-8 simply swung on its axis like a compass needle; it really was the ne-plus-ultra of hovercraft technology.

And then it was after him once again.

He turned and made for the deeper water, knowing hovercraft don’t play well with rough seas.

No such luck; The Sound was like a billiard table on this fine Zootopian evening.

And now the wolverine-gunner let loose a burst of automatic fire, missing the superboat by a good six feet—on purpose.  Even Erin could tell that much; it was all a colossal bluff. 

But why…why was he holding off when he could have reduced the superboat to shreds any time he wanted?

The answer to the young doe-bunny’s question was sitting huddled in the passenger-seat, wanted alive…or alive; no substitutions accepted.

But who the heck was chasing them?  That hovercraft looked way too sophisticated—and way, way too spendy to belong to a privateer gang—and it sure as heck wasn’t the ZPD back there.

So who was driving that beast?

Billy MacKenna had no time for such musings; he couldn’t outrun that hovercraft and he couldn’t outmaneuver it…and there was no way that he could make the fog bank before he was taken out.  He looked left, looked right…and then his head snapped back to the left again.  They were coming up on a cargo terminal…and there, butted up against a loading dock was the long, blocky form of a container ship.

He turned towards it at the same time muttering a prayer, “Hail Mary, full o’ grace…please don’t let me lose this race.”

If he could just get close enough.  Whoever was on that hovercraft, they wouldn’t dare to shoot at him in front of a shipload of witnesses.

…he hoped!

Behind him, the wolverine fired another shot…or tried to; his clip was empty.  It was just the break Billy needed.  By the time his attacker managed to jack in another one, the superboat was within visual range of the cargo ship.  No doubt about it; they could see him all right.  Look at the animal up on the bow frantically waving a flag…and the smaller boat nestled up against the container vessel, flashing its lights at him.

And ohhhh, thank you, Mother of Mercy; in between the ship and the dock, he could see a long, corridor of empty water…wide enough for his boat, but not for the hovercraft.

…he hoped again.

He spun the wheel and ran fast for the opening.  If he could just make it inside before their pursuers could get off another round…

Ignoring the flag-waving sailor on the bow, and the blare of the cargo ship’s horn, Billy shot beneath the vessel’s bow and into the safety of its lee.

He raised another fist, but then something at last began to register.

Waving flag…horn blowing…flashing lights…and that other boat pressed up against the container ship’s hull—had that been a…a TUGboat?

Ohhhh,no…the container ship was  in the middle of docking—and HE was right in the middle of…

Billy gunned the motor; the superboat leapt forward, nearly leaving the water as it raced down the ever-narrowing channel.

Erin screamed as the walls came closing in…and then she screamed even louder when the hovercraft swept into the passage, still hot on their heels.  Sweet cheez n’ crackers; were those idiots crazy, or…?  Oh, no…the gunner was taking aim again…painting the back of Billy’s head with a laser sight.

She tried to shout a warning, but it was no use.  Even if the Tasmanian tiger could have heard her there was no room to dodge in here.  She could only watch helplessly as the wolverine pulled the trigger.

His shot this time hit dead-center in the back of Billy’s helmet…leaving behind only a messy green splotch.  They had switched to a tranq-gun; no live ammo in here, not where there might be witnesses.

But the container ship was still closing in on them…the impossibly tall hull getting closer and closer and closer…until nothing was visible on their port-side, but the blackness of her bulkhead.   Behind them, their pursuers seemed to have realized what was happening as well, holding their fire and hitting the afterburners.

Soon the hovercraft was nearly on top of the superboat…close enough so that the next shot couldn’t possibly miss—except if they took out Billy now, they’d be trapped in here and crushed along with their prey.

Something brushed against the side of the superboat…brushed again, and then scraped against it with a banshee screech.  Noooo, not NOW when they had almost made it, not…

Erin hunched over, throwing her arms around her head…just as the hull of the ship began to curve away.  They had made it to the stern section.

Behind her she heard a sound like a car-crash.  When she turned to look, there was the hovercraft—lying tilted in the water, folded down the middle like a half-open book, while the crew hurriedly abandoned her.  Their pursuers had also made it through, but not without suffering significant damage.

“Let’s get out of here.” She groaned to Billy—knowing full well that he couldn’t hear her but also knowing that he didn’t need to be told…and they had almost reached the fog-bank anyway.

That should have been reassuring to the young doe-bunny.  In fact, she was halfway certain that something else was going to happen before they made it.  After all those other mishaps tonight—why wouldn’t it?

Not this time, they slipped easily into the cloak of gray without a hitch. 

Billy immediately powered down to cruising-speed, letting out another whoop. 

Erin really wished he’d stop doing that; every time he did…

The superboat’s engine began to sputter…and then it began to cough.

…And then it grumbled away into silence, leaving them to slither to a stop, dead in the water.

“Oh nooooo!” Just when the young doe-bunny thought she had run out of screams… “They got the engine!”

Billy turned in his seat, tapping fingers against the knuckles of his other paw.  His voice was like a vinyl record being played at an erratic speed.

“Uhmmm, no actually, uhhhh…weeeee’re, um…out of petrol.”

For a long moment, Erin just looked at him—not knowing whether to scream again, or give herself a face pawlm.

She never got the chance to make up her mind.  At that moment, Billy’s cell-phone went off; the opening lyrics to the old Alice Raccooper tune, ‘Under My Wheels.’

♪ “Telephone is ringin’
You got me on the runnn…” ♫

Erin had never wanted to laugh so badly.  Sweet cheez n’ crackers, could there possibly be ANYTHING more appropriate.

But when Billy pulled out the phone and looked at it, he next looked like he was going to have a heart-attack.  He worked hurriedly to shut it off, all the while muttering under his breath, so rapidly that the young doe-bunny couldn’t make out a word he was saying.

And then, stripping off his helmet, he cocked an ear and listened.

That was when Erin became aware of something…the sound of a motor; somewhere out in the fog, not the roar of a boat moving at full throttle, but the laid-back rumble of a vessel traveling at cruising speed.

And it was definitely coming straight at them.

Billy shrank into his seat, slapping the sides of his head and almost whimpering

“Nooo!  No-no-no-no-no-no-no-NOOOOOOOOO!”

“Billy!” Erin cried, “Billy, what’s wrong?”  She would have jumped over the engine and shaken him if she could.

“Dead…that’s it, dead!” The young Tasmanian tiger’s paws were covering his face—and Erin could swear she saw tears trickling.  Who the heck was out there?

She found out quickly, when it swung out of the fog like a gray-metal ghost—a big, steel-hulled cruiser with a forward-sloping cabin—topped by not one, but two radar-arrays.  So that was how they’d been able to find the superboat in all this fog.

The cruiser eased up to them with an almost loving touch—and then vanished behind the glare of yet another spotlight.  It swept over the smaller boat for a second and then went out…revealing another Tasmanian tiger, much older than Billy Mackenna, and also much burlier.

…And also VERY angry.

Billy hurriedly raised his paws.

“N-Now Da…don’t go flyin’ off the handle.  Lemme expla…”

“SHADDUP!” 

The younger thylacine wisely did just that.

But then the elder Tasmanian tiger reached up and took something from his shoulder.  When he lowered his paw again, Erin saw a grey rat, dressed in denim and khaki, seated on the flat of his pawlm.  On the top of his head…was that a skullcap?

Leaping onto the superboat, the rodent leaned in over the gunwale, peering down at the still, silent figure in the passenger seat.

“That ‘im?” Colin Mackenna queried.

“Y-Yeah,” Vernon J. Rodenberg, Attorney at Law answered in a shaky voice, “but…he doesn’t look too good.”  He jumped down onto the silent young silver fox, landing on his chest in a four-point crouch.

“Conor…Conor, it’s Mr. Rodenberg.  Conor, can you hear me?”

Nothing; just an airy silence; one eye was closed, the other was open, but it appeared to have lost all its color.

In the back of the boat, Erin was silently weeping…and this time, there was no mistaking the tears in Billy’s eyes.

“You fancy-pants little shmendrik,” the grey rat shrieked, “don’t you even go down on me NOW!”

Again…there was no response.

Rodenberg clicked his teeth and then turned and scampered downwards.  Finding Conor’s forearm, he opened his mouth and sank his incisors into it.

The effect was like a shock treatment. The young fox shuddered spasmodically and let out a barely audible whine.  For just a hint of a second, his eyes flew open and then lazily fell shut again, both of them closed this time..

Rodenberg wiped his mouth with the back of his paw. “Sorry, kid…had to do it,”

“Right, let’s get him over ‘ere, then.” Colin Mackenna was all business. “Bones,” he turned and called into the cabin. “Bones, come and give us a paw out here, would yer?”

“I’m coming with you,” Erin declared, starting to climb over the tail fin…only to be halted by a freezing stare from the Tasmanian tiger.

“Not in that state, yer not,” he turned and called into the cabin again, “Bones, bring up that extra blanket while yer there.”

Colin’s brother was smaller than him, but other than that, they might have been twins.  Exiting the cabin, he tossed a field-gray blanket to the thylacine, who in turn pitched it to Erin.  “I’m not having you makin’ a mess over here; wrap y’self up and then yer can come…Oi, Oi, Oi, not you, boy; YOU stay put!”

“I was only gonna help!” Billy instead, spreading his arms as if to embrace the older thylacine…who was having exactly none of it, jabbing at his son with a Final Judgment finger.

“When I want your help right now, I’ll ask t’ be talked out of it; now siddown…an’ SHADDUP!”

Billy retreated into his seat without another word.

With the help of his brother, Colin was able to get Conor transferred with minimum of difficulty.

“Oi, look here, Colin…an oxygen bottle; should we give ‘im some?”

“After we get ‘im inside, Bones...” and then they disappeared through the cabin doorway.

When Billy’s father returned a moment later, his expression had softened a bit—but only a bit.

“What’s wrong with it, then Billy?”

He was pointing at the superboat’s engine.

“Nothing serious, Da,” his son answered hastily, “Just ran out of petrol’s all.”

Colin’s paw slapped into his face. “Oi, f’ the love o’…one minute, yer makin’ me proud, and then the next…’annnng on.”

He disappeared for a moment, returning with a red-painted jerry-can which he passed over the gunwale to his son.

“Right…now after y’get refueled,” he raised an arm and pointed, “there’s a canal viaduct over there, right by where the fish-plant’s being built….”

In the cruiser’s cabin, Erin didn’t know whether to laugh or bang her head against the bulkhead.  Without even knowing it, they had come full circle.

Meanwhile, Colin was telling his son, “Get inside there, s’far as you can, and wait for my call…oh, and now we’re on the subject, William! Kingsfur! Mackenna!”  He leaned forward, letting his jaw fall open, “Don’t you EVER turn y’ phone off when I try t’ ring you!  M’ I clear on that?”

“Yes, Da.” The younger thylacine answered with a helpless gulp.

“Good,” his father nodded, satisfied and then pointed towards what was presumably the shoreline.  “Get in there, get out of sight, and then get that boat cleaned up.”

“Cleaned…UP?”  Billy’s eyes were wide and he was waving his paws as if attempting to dry them. “Wi’ what, Da?  I ‘aven’t got anything…”

“That’s your problem, boy!” Colin cut him off with a snap of his jaws, “An’ she better be spic an’ span, next time I see ‘er.  Or else guess who’s gonna be scrubbing bilges an’ cleanin’ up waste oil f’ the next ten bloomin’ YEARS?”

And on that note, the cruiser’s engines rumbled to life and she eased away from the superboat.  

A moment later, she was lost in the fog once more.

Notes:

Author’s note:

A lot of work went into this and the previous chapter.  I re-watched a whole stack of chase scenes from a whole bunch of movies before I started work on them.  These included, several James Bond films, Mad Max - Fury Road, the original Italian Job, Baby Driver, Bullitt, The French Connection, and, of course, The Bad Guys.  I more or less didn’t bother with the Fast and Furious movies—and least not the later ones—since they mostly stepped outside the realm of reality.

The two standouts however were a couple of movies you probably never heard of.  The first was Dutch film called Amsterdamned, about the hunt for serial killer stalking the canals of the movie’s namesake city.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xJyyNN_rrnM

The second was a Spaghetti Western sendup from South Korea—yes, you read that right—called, The Good, The Bad, the Weird.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hSC51fApNs4&t=6062s

The chase scene starts at 1:33: 39.   But if you haven’t seen this flick in its entirety, you should.  Click the ‘CC’ button for the subtitles.

And that’s all I’ve got for today; go away now.

 

 

Chapter 45: Everything You Know Is Wrong (Pt. 1)

Summary:

The next day--Zootopia and Zoo York City

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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And a Happy Saint Padraig's Day to ye's all.
In honor of the occasion...

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Chapter 8: Everything You Know is Wrong
(Part 1)

Tuesday, 09:47 ZST: ZPD Precinct 1, Savanna Central, City of Zootopia

"I won't say I've NEVER seen Bogo that ticked off," Lieutenant Perry 'Spike' Redding stirred creamer into his coffee and took a short sip, "But it was easily in the top ten; I'm just glad it wasn't me he was mad at."

On the other side of the roan antelope's desk, Detective Judy Hopps nodded and took a taste of her own coffee. Her new boss looked haggard and weary and it was no surprise. As the head of the ZPD Juvenile Division, the events of the past weekend—the ZAPA and Savanna Central riots—were clearly within his concern; the vast majority of participants, in both uprisings, had been under the age of 18.

Between the two, Lieutenant Redding was in a situation unlike anything else he'd ever had to face—or that any ZPD cop had ever had to face, truth be told.

And as if that wasn't enough, last night, a free-for-all had erupted in the Canal District. When Judy had arrived for work, it had been the talk of Precinct-1—and nobody had seemed to know any details, not even Benjamin Clawhauser, who was usually up on everything.

…Although he did have at least one interesting tidbit to impart.

"They say the Lewis kid was in that boat everybody was chasing—but nobody knows for sure, since it got away."

"..Again!" Judy had thought, but had not said. Dangit, that silver-fox kid was as slippery as an eel dipped in WD-40.

The next thing the plus-sized cheetah told her had made her ears stand up and set her nose to twitching. "We'll probably know more when the meeting's over."

"Meeting…what meeting?" the doe-bunny had asked him, thumping her foot. You didn't need to be a police detective to guess which topic they were discussing—and dangit, why hadn't she been notified?

It was Clawhauser who'd provided the answer; simply put, it was above her pay-grade. "Awww sorry Detective, but it's Precinct Captains and Division Chiefs only." He'd glanced nervously behind a shoulder and leaned out over the desktop, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper, "I-I'm not sure you'd want to be in there, anyway. Chief's not in the best of moods right now."

As he often did, the plus-size cheetah had understated the case by several degrees. In the words of Spike Redding, Bogo had been 'mad enough to eat piano wire.'

Redding had spoken those words with a wink and a smile—something he could afford to do, since most of Bogo's wrath had been directed elsewhere. The animal catching the worst of it had been Captain Judson 'Jud' Cody, the Furrida Panther who headed up the ZPD's Waterways Division.

"As if anyone didn't know that was coming." The roan antelope was saying, "Two jet-skis totaled, and a patrol boat with a $2K repair bill." He took another sip of his coffee. "And did you know that's the third wave-runner we've had blow up on us? Yep, nobody got hurt the first two times, thank God, but last night we almost had an officer killed. Bogo almost went ballistic when he heard; he never liked the idea of putting 'motorbike cops on the water'—his words—and now he's ordered every single one of our jet-skis beached until further notice."

Judy raised her coffee mug in concurrence. "And knowing him, that 'further notice' probably won't come until the Climate Wall converts to running on steam power." Chief Bogo was never less compromising than when it came to the safety of his officers.

"I heard that," Redding nodded, returning the gesture. It made Judy glad she'd been transferred here. Her new supervisor was both tough and streetwise, but at the same time, had a genuine rapport with the officers working under him.

But now, the doe-bunny figured, this was as good a time as any to start asking some pertinent questions.

And she knew exactly where to begin.

"Sir, if I may…how do we know the Lewis boy was on that boat we were chasing?" Since parting company with Benjamin Clawhauser, she'd heard it at least three times, and from three different officers—none of whom had seemed to know where the information had come from.

Spike Redding, on the other paw….

"Confidential Informant," the roan antelope told her, looking oddly frustrated, "and don't ask me who—coz I don't got a clue. Ever since we got hit by that cyberattack, everything 'round here's been on a strict, need-to-know basis." He scratched thoughtfully at a horn, "If I had to take a guess though, I'd say it was probably one of the Deguellos. Ain't nobody knows how to work a snitch like Serena's boys."

'Serena' was his good friend, Lieutenant Serena Leonard, the lioness who headed up the ZPD's anti-gang unit. As such, the privateers fell under her authority.

But it was something else the roan antelope said that drew the bulk of the doe bunny's attention.

"Wait, what…the Deguellos? What do they have to do with any of this?"

Redding stared at her for a second, and then sighed and shook his head.

"Ahhh, don't the Chief know there's such a thing as keepin' the lid on too tight? Ohhhh-kay, here's how it all went down."

For the next 90 minutes, the roan antelope gave her a recap of the previous night's events, with Judy interrupting occasionally, either to ask a question or make an observation.

"Wait, what…the Lewis boy said he might die if he didn't get to a doctor? Sweet cheez n' crackers, I didn't hurt him that bad."

"Could be he took some more hits later on." The Lieutenant conjectured, shrugging, "In the middle of that riot—I mean the big one, night before last—just 'bout anything could've happened." He drained his coffee cup and set it aside. "That's one thing you'll find, workin' Juvie, Detective Hopps; kids get hurt for the darndest things."

"Right," the doe bunny nodded, finishing her own coffee. "You think the Lewis boy might have participated in that riot?"

"You tell me, Detective," Redding answered with another shrug, "you're the one who knows that fox-kid."

Yes, she did…but on reflection, Judy remembered something else.

"Mmmm, eee-yes, but only to try and stop it; don't forget, he's the one who killed that cyberattack…and no, I'm not defending him." The change of expression on her Lieutenant's face had not escaped her. "But I still don't understand why the heck the Deguellos were after him."

"Yeah, that," Spike drummed a disgusted hoof on his desktop. "Someone posted a message online, sayin' there's a $50K reward out for that fox-kid."

"WHAT?" Judy's nose was twitching and her foot was thumping.

"I know, right?" the roan antelope replied, throwing up his hooves, "But that's what happened and the Deguellos fell for it like a ton of bricks; so did the Chaungs." His expression turned caustic. "None of their guys that we pulled in are saying diddly about last night—as ya'll can probably imagine—except to blame each other for the property damage and whatnot. Typical privateers…or that's what Serena tells me."

"What about that…nurse," Judy almost said 'bunny', "the one who treated the Lewis boy, has she said anything?"

Redding threw up another hoof and then slapped it against his thigh.

"She might…if we could find her. Bogo thinks either the kid or the Deguellos may have threatened her to keep quiet. In any case, she hasn't turned up yet."

Judy felt her ears rise once again. Menacing someone who'd helped him? That didn't sound like Conor at all, at least not the one she knew.

"How about the one that sent you to the ER?" her inner voice rejoined smartly. All right, yes, but still…

"Hm, all right…the Deguellos, yeah—but what the heck could the Lewis boy have used to threaten her?"

By way of response, Spike Redding lifted a hoof in the direction of his office window…and the carnage beyond that had once been Savanna Central Plaza. It was a simple but effective gesture…and one for which the doe-bunny had no immediate response.

Over the course of the next few minutes, she kept her thoughts to herself. It wasn't until the Lieutenant got to the part where the ZPD had become involved, that she finally made bold to speak.

"How the heck did Captain Cody know where to set that trap?" It was a fair question; if you threw in the Muddy Swamp, there were more miles of shoreline in the Canal District than in all the rest of Zootopia put together.

Once again, Spike Redding had the answer she was looking for.

"That left hoof channel—the one they blocked off—it's a shortcut that leads straight to Zootopia Sound. And we knew they were headin' for Outback Island, so…"

"Huh? Where'd we get that from?" The interruption was out before Judy could stop herself. Fortunately, the Lieutenant took it in stride.

"No idea, but I'm guessing it was that CI again."

What had really set Bogo off was the exit Captain Cody had left open from the lagoon where he'd set his ambush—not so much the error itself as his lame attempt to excuse it.

"'It's not like we left it unguarded!' Whoa, can ya'll believe he said that to Chief Bogo? I was ready to dive under my seat when I heard. "

"Then where's our SUSPECT?" the big Cape buffalo had bellowed, shooting up out of his chair like a rocket shell. The fireworks that followed had topped anything the Chaungs had been lobbing at Conor and his friends.

And on the subject of those friends, it brought Judy to her next question.

"Who were those other kids in the boat with the Lewis boy? Do we know?"

The response was yet another head-shake from the antelope.

"No idea—leastways, I don't have one; either the CI didn't say or else Bogo just plain decided not to tell us."

Judy's nose began to twitch again.

"What about the officers on the police-boats chasing him? Didn't they get a look at who else was on board?"

The Lieutenant's eyes turned upwards and to the right.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? But noooo, when that getaway boat hit restaurant row, all the animals on the dining terraces started pitching their food at it; made a complete mess out of that bad boy—and everyone on board. By the time our guys got close enough for a good look, they couldn't even tell what SPECIES those kids were—much less make any kind of a positive ID. Heck they're not even sure if it was three kids or four kids they was chasing."

"G'ohhh!" Judy groaned and slapped her knee, remembering the old police adage: 'The only thing worse than an unhelpful citizen…is a helpful citizen.'

And now it was time to ask the question she'd been both saving—and dreading.

"How many…uh, hurt?" She couldn't quite bring herself to ask if anyone had been killed

The answer came like a weight lifted off her shoulders.

"That's the lucky part, Detective," the roan antelope told her, "none seriously, not even the officer whose jet-ski blew up on him; just a few minor burns is all. A few of the Chaungs and Deguellos got busted up pretty good, but nothing life threatening, and anyway, that came mostly from them beatin' up on each other." He sat back in his chair and folded his hooves; a gesture reminiscent of Chief Bogo. "Heck, all things considered, there wasn't even that much property damage—'cept for a bunch of the privateers' boats, and I cry no tears for those fools."

While Judy might have tended to agree with his assessment, those hadn't been the only boats taken out in last night's running battle.

"What about…? Look, I know about our pursuit boat getting grounded and that one jet-ski blowing up…but didn't you say that both of them were write-offs?"

"Yeah, I did," the Lieutenant replied, leaning forward again with a grim expression. "Second officer got ambushed by some kids, over in the Muddy Swamp; dumped a cargo net over her and made her crash into a bridge." He sighed and shook his head, "Coulda warned her if I'd a' known; the homies down the Muddy don't like the po-lice. Myself, I never send anyone into that neighborhood without at least two extra officers for backup."

"Is she all right?" the doe-bunny asked, concerned. It was probably an unnecessary question, but she couldn't help herself.

"She's okay…'cept for a bruised knee and a bruised ego," Redding shook his head in disgust, "Her jet-ski though, that's another story. By the time we got to that bad boy, it'd been stripped like a corn-cob. They even drained all the oil outta the crankcase. And then they sank what was left in the mud. Roy Digger, from over the ZPD dockyard, says that what-all we recovered, we couldn't sell to a junk dealer."

"Ouch!" Judy winced and looked away with her foot thumping. She had visited the Muddy Swamp all of three times since joining the ZPD—but that had been enough. The Lieutenant was right; the Big Muddy was no place for a cop flying solo.

And from there, the roan antelope proceeded to bring her up to speed on the current state of the investigation.

"We've got officers checking out every hospital, clinic, and urgent care facility on Outback Island; so far, nothing…at least as of that meeting last hour. We're searching all the boatyards too, though I don't hold out much hope on that front. Did I mention that there weren't no markings on that getaway boat? Nope, no registration numbers, no decal, no nothing. And those Super V8's may be fast, but they ain't all that big, especially one that's the right size for a fox. A boat that small's pretty easy to hide…or it would be if it was a car anyway. As for me, I got all my mammals checking with their snitches; see if any of them know anything." He picked up a pen and dropped it like a microphone. "Honestly though, I expect even less outta them than from the boatyards; most of our informants been dodging us ever since the big riot—and the few that we were able to get hold of pulled Schultzes on us, I mean every last one."

Judy didn't know whether to snicker or groan. She was familiar with the expression; it was a favorite around the ZPD—taken from a character on the old network TV show, Hoggan's Heroes. "I see nu-THING, I know nu-THING!"

And it didn't surprise her, not in the least. In the wake of those riots, they'd be lucky to find any kids willing to cooperate…or rather, crazy enough to cooperate with the law. With tensions running at an all-time high, God help any police snitch who got found out by his homies. Small wonder that Chief Bogo was keeping the name of last night's CI tightly under wraps.

On the other paw, things had at least quieted down a little since the 'Battle of Savanna Central,' as the kids were allegedly calling it. Except for that boat chase through the Canal District, last night had been relatively uneventful.

And yet…somehow Judy knew that it wasn't over—not yet, and not by a long shot.

And she wasn't the only one who thought so. From the moment she'd set foot inside the precinct, she had felt it in the air, a sensation not unlike the experience of standing beneath a high tension wire. Even before she'd heard about the boat chase, she had sensed it. And when she'd looked around the Precinct 1 lobby, every single officer she'd seen had looked like…

Oops, Lieutenant Redding was speaking to her again.

"Anyway, Detective…here's what I got for you," he was folding his hooves on the desktop, "Now that the Guilford kid's a murder suspect, his case belongs to the Mammalcide Division. They've asked for your assistance in taking down that punk, and I agreed to lend them your services."

For perhaps nine tenths of a second, Judy stared at him—and then her paw went slapping into the base of her neck. Had she really just heard…?

"Me, sir?" Being assigned to the Mammalcide Division was every officer's Holy Grail; for a rookie detective like her it was practically unheard of. Granted, it would only be a temporary post, but even so…

"Yep, you," Perry leaned across his desk, looking mildly surprised, "And why not? You know that 'yote-kid almost as good as you know Lewis kid; you're the one, busted him, remember?"

Judy stifled a wince. D'ohhh, yes she had, and how could she have forgotten?

"And not only that, Detective Hopps," the roan antelope was saying, "he's from your home turf, too. If this was Juvie Division's investigation, I'd want you in on it myself." He waved a hoof in a throwaway gesture, then turned and consulted his workstation. "But anyway…the lead detective on the Guilford investigation is…Ohhh-kay, Detective Sergeant Margaret Drescu." he turned and looked at Judy, nodding his approval, "I worked with her once or twice, she's good." And then his face split open in a sardonic smirk. "If I know Mags, though—that's what everyone calls her—she twisted 'bout a hundred arms to get this case."

"Why's that, sir?" the doe-bunny asked, unable to keep her nose from twitching.

"She's a lynx," The Lieutenant answered simply, as if that was all she needed to know.

As a matter of fact, it was; the Zaqir boy had been a sand cat and Mac Cannon was a bobcat—a brother feline as well as a brother officer. Ohhhh yes…say no more, she understood Detective Drescu's reasoning perfectly.

"Mags should be in her office right about now," the Lieutenant informed her by way of dismissal. "If not, just ask around Mammalcide, and they'll tell you where to find her."

"Yes, sir," the doe bunny answered, easing off of her chair and sliding carefully down to the floor; her injuries were healing nicely, but she wasn't quite there just yet. Her caution did not escape Spike Redding's notice, and he came quickly around his desk to open the door for her—but not before offering a wry comment. "Just do me one favor though, 'kay Detective? Don't go jumping out no planes this time."

Judy had actually jumped onto that airplane but knew better than to correct her Lieutenant…and accurate or not, it was a merited warning; no reckless moves, bunny-cop.

"I won't sir," she promised, offering what she hoped was a sincere smile.

And then he opened the door and she made her exit.

Bay Ridge, Barklyn, Zoo York City, 14:08 EST

The Wicked Mink Pub and Grill…

It was a name guaranteed to conjure up your stereotypical waterfront dive. Dark wood, dim lighting, a surly barkeep, floors that got cleaned only when the health inspectors were due to make a call, and dingy windows, covered by wrought iron grates—the better to keep rowdy patrons from being pitched through them. If there was a jukebox, it was likely to be loaded with oldies, and probably broken anyway.

In point of fact, from the outside, the Wicked Mink could have passed for an ordinary storefront, done up in a uniform dull gray.

What was behind the entrance, however, gave an immediate lie to both images.

The pub's interior was light and airy, with a vaulted ceiling, high enough to accommodate a giraffe. The walls were stone rather than wood, the ornately carved, hardwood bar had reportedly once graced a real, live Irish monastery, and the windows were covered in stained glass rather than iron grilles. There was no jukebox to be seen, but a sign near the entrance cheerfully proclaimed 'Live Music on Weekends.' There were pool tables of varying sizes in the back, upon which only one type of billiards could be played, that quintessential Anglo-Irish game, Snooker. Brass fittings were everywhere to be seen, including a solid brass spittoon, planted with Irish Mint to prevent it from being employed for its original, intended purpose.

All in all, The Wicked Mink Pub was a cheerful spot; packed and humming every evening.

And yet…and yet…

The artwork decorating the bar-room's cathedral-high ceiling painting offered no images of grace and heavenly hosts. Rather it depicted a host of rowdy mustelids, lined up along the edge of the artwork and raining kegs and barrels on the patrons below.

And then there was the pulpit…

A real, genuine, octagonal pulpit; carved from a single piece of oak and varnished to the color of old honey. It had been brought over from the same monastery that had provided the long bar, and now it floated above the room like a watchtower. Stretched across the stairs leading up to it was a thick, velvet rope, with a 'Staff Only' sign hanging from it. Any patron attempting to negotiate this barrier was politely dissuaded from doing so. If they persisted, they were less than politely invited to leave the premises.

No one ever said why but all of the regulars knew the reason; that pulpit had once been the exclusive domain of the notorious arms-merchant, James 'The Mister' McCrodon—at least until he became too ill to ascend the stairs. Even today, it was kept off limits in his memory.

At this moment, in the twilight period between lunchtime and happy hour, the place was relatively empty, except for a cadre of die-hard regulars. As the name of the pub implied, most of them were mustelids; ferrets, badgers, martens, otters, one or two Duke Weaselton types, and of course, the ubiquitous mink. All of them were locals, all of them knew each other, and all of them were insular by nature.

Thus it was no surprise that the red-fox coming in through the door had every eye in the place trained on him from the moment he crossed the threshold.

He was chewing a wad of gum as he entered, and when he stopped to spit it into the wastebasket near the end of the bar, the hostility meter went up a tick; he'd better not do that and then just stroll back out again. This was a pub, not a garbage dump.

The fox appeared to take no notice, making straight for a booth near the midpoint of the room and seating himself without ceremony. He was dressed rather simply, but a little bit strangely, a green-print Hawaiian shirt and chocolate brown slacks. It wasn't anything you wouldn't see a local wearing, but what was up with that tie? Who the heck wears a tie on a muggy day like this? Wall-Street types yeah, but not with a shirt like that one; whoever this animal was, he wasn't a Zoo Yorker, and definitely not from Barklyn.

But while the patrons were giving the newcomer plenty of attention, the attitude of the wait-staff appeared to have trended in the opposite direction. A good fifteen minutes later, no server had yet appeared at his table. The fox didn't look as if he cared, one way or the other…or rather he seemed too lost in his thoughts to care.

The actual truth was something else; Nick Wilde might be a stranger to Zoo York City, but he was no stranger to the street. Sooner or later, he knew, the locals' curiosity would overcome their suspicions. Had the Wicked Mink catered to felines rather than mustelids, it probably would have happened already.

Finally, after perhaps another ten minutes, a thickset waitress, a badger, came waddling in his direction.

"Hi there hon, what can I get you?" The smile on her face was so artificial; it might have been applied with a magic marker. She also hadn't bothered to bring a menu. No matter; Nick had made sure to get his homework done before even thinking about setting foot in this place.

"Fish and Chips…and a pint of Blue Head Blueberry, please."

"Coming right up," the badger replied, her manner softening somewhat as she jotted a note in her book. This fox might not be dressed like a local—but he sure knew how to order like one.

But then he lowered his voice to front pew level. "By the way…is Estvan anywhere around here today?"

At once the waitress frosted over again. "I-I-I'm not sure," she said, "I can check if you like."

…Meaning, yes he was, but no—she wasn't going to send him to Nick's table unless HE agreed to it.

Again, the fox just went with the flow. Either Estvan would show up or he wouldn't…in which case, he would simply move on to Plan 'B'.

Given how long it had taken for her to show up at his table, Nick was a little surprised by how quickly the waitress returned with his food…although he probably shouldn't have been. The sooner he finished eating, the sooner they'd be rid of him. And there was another, subtler reason for the prompt service; his fish arrived still sizzling from the fryer; likely hot enough to burn his tongue right out of his mouth if he tucked straight into it. It didn't matter; he had come here for information, not lunch…although he had to admit that his meal smelled delicious.

He settled back to let it cool and took a sip of his blueberry ale—which was also quite good—mentally reviewing the briefing Martin Pennanti had given him over bagels and schmear, earlier that morning.

Back in the day when 'Mister' McCrodon had held court here, the Wicked Mink had sometimes been closed to all outsiders for the occasion.

One of the few exceptions to that rule had been a street performer known simply as Estvan, a favorite of not only The Mister, but the rest of his gang as well. During their gatherings here, he was often invited to provide the entertainment.

"You might say he was The Company's unofficial court jester." Pennanti had informed him with a smirk. "And he's good at what he does Nicky, real jack-of-all trades. He can juggle, mime, tell jokes, perform magic tricks; he's got a great living statue routine. The thing he's best known for, though, is what he calls his bag-cycle act. Nah, don't ask; I don't wanna spoil it. It's something you gotta see for yourself."

There'd been few other tidbits about Estvan, however, that the fisher had been more than willing to impart.

"He's a chatty guy, Nick; the kind that keeps going like a merry-go-round once he starts talking. Not about The Mister or the Company of course; even he knows enough to keep it zipped where those guys are concerned. Or that is, he used to; now that those bums are all either doing life or done with their lives, he just might be willing to open up a little. You see there's this one other thing about him; something we didn't learn until after the, uh, 'raid-that-shall-not-be-talked-about.'"

"What's that?" Nick had asked him, fascinated.

In response, a sardonic smile creased Pennanti's muzzle.

"Estvan never liked performing for The Mister all that much; after a while he even learned to hate it."

"Cheapskate?" the fox had asked, raising an ear—and Pennanti had shaken his head.

"Nahhh, that sea-mink was a lotta things—but tightfisted wasn't one of 'em. Our guy always got a decent payout from the Company whenever he played The Wicked Mink. No, it was The Mister's snot-nosed kid, Junior…again. Anytime Estvan showed up at The Mink and found that punk waiting for him, he knew he was in for a rough time; nothing but non-stop harassment…and if you don't like it, take it up with my dad."

"Right…" Nick had nodded unsurprised, and from there his host had gone on to more pertinent issues.

"Your kid, Conor—or Sean, as he was known back then—used to work as The Mister's private, one-fox, bicycle messenger service. He picked up and delivered messages at The Mink all the time; I saw him there myself, once or twice. So, it's a pretty safe bet that Estvan spotted him a few times, too. With a little luck he might even have gotten a look at the kid after he had his face fixed, though that's probably a long shot. Annnnd there's one other thing about the guy that I almost forgot to mention…"

Yes, there was, but it could wait; Nick's fish and chips were finally cool enough to enjoy…and mmmm, they tasted every bit as good as they smelled.

He had managed about three bites when a shadow appeared over the table—not the elusive Estvan, but the badger waitress again.

"Compliments of the house," she said, smiling sweet venom at the fox and setting a plate in front of him. Nick took one look at it and immediately lost his appetite. Laid out on the platter was a trio of oysters on the half shell.

Raw oysters…ewwww! To him they looked like miniature versions of the face-hugger creature from the movie Alien. From every nearby table and the bar, he could hear animals sniggering and whispering. Oh, they were just having a grand old time at his expense.

Nick spent the next half minute debating his next course of action. His first instinct was to scarf one of the oysters quickly, before his brain had time to realize what he'd done. All well and good, but what if he hurled it back up again? In that case he'd lose more face than if he'd been unable to eat it at all. Agggh, grrrrr…and coming here had been HIS idea…

Wait, what the heck was that? It sounded like… bagpipes?

He wasn't the only one who heard it; everyone in the pub had stopped what they were doing and were gazing towards the entrance with looks of keen anticipation.

The piper came briskly through the door a moment later, clad in a plain kilt, and a Darth Vader helmet. Slung beneath his arm were the bagpipes, upon which he was belting out a lusty rendition of the Star Wars Imperial March.

He was riding a unicycle.

For the next few minutes he went rolling around the pub, much to the delight of the patrons, all of whom applauded, and several of whom dropped bills into the satchel worn around his waist. After one more circuit, he pulled to a halt in front of Nick's table booth, releasing a whoosh of flame from each of the three big pipes—and triggering an angry rebuke from the grison behind the bar.

"Dangit Estvan, how many times you gotta be told? NOT inside the pub!"

"Sorry Michael," Darth Vader replied, in a brogue as thick as clotted Irish cream, "Get a bit carried away, Oi do, now an' again." He turned to address Nick, "So…as Oi unnerstand it, ye're lookin' me?" It was more of a statement than a question.

"That's right," the fox replied warily, "If you're Estvan."

"Aye, it's that Oi am," the newcomer replied, laying aside his pipes and cycle, and pulling off his helmet.

Underneath was the other reason Martin Pennanti had recommended him; he was a fellow member of Nick's species…although not of the same hue, or even close to it. His fur was a light pearl-gray in color; the phase known as a platinum fox. Nick would have been surprised if he hadn't been forewarned; he had heard about these foxes but had never actually met one, face to face.

Nor had he ever met a fox dressed quite like this one, a ruby-red shirt with billowing sleeves, a frilled collar and frilled cuffs, topped off with a lime green vest. He would have looked perfectly at home as a minstrel in a mythical faerie-land.

Meanwhile, his saffron-yellow eyes had fallen upon the platter of oysters.

"Wellll, if yer not goin' t' be havin' 'em yerself…."

And without waiting for an answer, he scooped up them up one by one, slurping them down in quick succession.

"Waste not; want not, Oi always says," he declared, patting his midsection contentedly, "Hudaleigh!"

Nick had no idea what that meant, but if Estvan's intention had been to put him off his stride, he had badly miscalculated. With those…things off the table, maybe now he'd be able to enjoy his fish and chips.

But first, he had business to discuss…and if he knew what was good for him, he'd better skip the small talk and get right down to cases.

"Okay," he said, pulling out his cell phone, and laying it on the table-top. On the screen Conor's picture was showing, this time with the color of his eyes clearly visible. "I'm here, looking for my nephew, Conor….Conor Lewis is his full name. He ran away from home last week, and may have come back to Zoo York. My sister tells me he used to hang around The Wicked Mink, back in the day. Being as you were kind of a regular yourself back then, she figured you might be the one to talk to. Have you seen this boy around the neighborhood, anytime in the last couple of weeks?"

Regarding Nick curiously for a second, Estvan sighed and pulled the phone towards him.

…And immediately pushed it back.

"Sorry boyo, don't know this lad…an' in any case, Oi 'aven't seen anyone like that 'round here."

Nick heard him, but was paying more attention to his fellow vulpine's eyes, which were rolling upwards and to the left, and also to his tail, which was more than a little frizzed

He had recognized Conor…and it was no surprise that he wasn't willing to talk about it. Nick knew the attitude all too well; the mammals of Mr. Big's home turf were equally close-mouthed with strangers.

But then one of Estvan's eyebrows lifted higher than the other, and a tilted grin spread across his muzzle. "'Ere, now…that silver fox boy don't look t' be more 'n thirteen year if, 'e's a day."

Spoken loudly enough for the entire room to hear…and it had exactly the effect the platinum fox intended. At once the barkeep came barreling into conversation.

"Hey bub, we DON'T allow minors in here! What're you up to, huh? Trying to make us lose our license or sump'n?" He was looking at Nick as if the fox had been trying to pull a fast one—which, in a sense, he had.

Hastily grabbing his phone back, Nick pressed a button and watched the picture disappear.

"When's this so-called nephew o' yours s'posed to have been comin' in 'ere, anyways." It was Estvan again, skeptical, but at the same time curious.

"About three years ago," Nick answered him—and at once the atmosphere in the pub became as chilly as a produce locker. Everyone, it seemed, was regarding him with spiked fur and exposed fangs.

…None more balefully than the platinum fox in the jester's outfit.

"Oi…them's MISTER days yer talkin', boyo." He drew himself up to his full height, neck-fur spiking and fangs showing. "Right then…Oi think Oi've got nothin' more to say to ye's." And then he angled his muzzle in the direction of the door, lowering his voice to a menacing purr. "An' if Oi was youse boyo, Oi'd be fergettin' bout me lunch an' git to high-tailin' it out the door…'fore Oi got meself hurt."

As if to underscore these words, the biggest honey-badger Nick had ever seen had appeared out of nowhere behind Estvan—probably the bouncer—and the grison barkeep was also hovering in the background. Their unspoken message was as clear as distilled water; he could either leave The Mink right now…or else leave face first.

Not quite…

"But 'fore ye say g'bye…" Estvan eyes narrowed impishly, "Oi don't believe I caught yer name." And then he stepped aside, offering a full view of the hulking honey-badger.

Nick was sorely tempted to respond with the old chestnut, "I don't believe I dropped it," but had better things to do than spend the next six months in a wheelchair. It didn't matter in any case, because right then, another voice spoke up.

"His name's Nick Wilde. He's a police detective outta Zootopia…so you might wanna think twice about watchoo thinkin', okay Crusher? He may not be a Zoo York cop…but he's still a cop, ¿entiéndeme?"

All eyes turned towards the entrance, where a kinkajou in a guayabera shirt and snap-brim hat was leaning against the frame with his legs crossed.

And just to make certain that no one would mistake him for anything else; he had a thick gold chain, hanging loosely around his neck—at the end of which dangled the unmistakable badge of a ZYPD police detective.

Whoa, and Nick thought he had gotten a hostile response when he came in here. If looks could kill, the ones the newcomer was getting would have had everyone in The Wicked Mink looking at 25-to-life in Viomax.

…including HIM! Agggh, grrr, Nick was practically livid—and the reason was obvious; just where the heck did this jerk get off, barging in and blowing the whistle on his investigation?

He said nothing at first, preferring to let the barkeep have first dibs.

"Hey, what's the matter, Pipsqueak?" The grison snarled, folding his bulging arms and regarding the kinkajou-cop as if he'd just crawled out of the sewer, "Ah, 'scuse me, I mean Pepe. What's up, not enough kids stealing candy from bodegas in The Heights to keep you busy?"

"Nahhh, they know better than to pull that stuff when I'm around," the newcomer replied, fanning a paw and refusing to take the bait. But then his features darkened like a thunder-cloud, "Anyway, my business is with him, not you." He was pointing a rigid finger at Nick…and in response Estvan and the others backed off with smirks and raised paws, as if to say, 'In that case…have fun.'

A brief nod, and then the kinkajou came strolling over to Nick's booth with a big smile on his face.

…But not a friendly one.

"Hola, mi zorro," he declared, sticking out a paw. "Detective first grade Alejandro Guerrero, Zoo York PD."

Nick only stared at the paw as if he had never seen one before…or maybe as if he wanted to bite it off at the wrist.

They remained like that for several seconds, before Detective Guerrero withdrew the gesture and shrugged it off. At the same time every ounce of forced geniality drained away from his face.

"Hokay, if that's how you wanna do it, I can play hardball, too." He laid an elbow on the tabletop, leaning in close and showing a fang. "Watchoo think you're doing in here, huh Wilde? You were told the Finagles thing got nothing to do with you!"

"What?!" Nick was halfway out of his seat with a spiking neck, "What the heck are you talking about? This place isn't even in the same neighborhood! And it's Detective Wilde, if you don't mind."

Clearly the kinkajou did mind, but was not about to be distracted by trivialities.

"Don't gimme that, Detective!" he hissed. "Here you are in The Mister's favorite daytime hangout...showing THAT picture around again." Behind him, the waitress was passing out bowls of popcorn.

"Well, DUH!" the red fox snarled right back, "According to what I heard, he sent out his diamond shipments from Finagles, but THIS is where he…"

That was as far as he got before Guerrero brought his fist down on the tabletop. "You wanna lie to me zorro, okay, but don't insult my intelligence…OR the ZYPD's intelligence unit. We know watchoo been up to these last coupla days—and who you been hangin' out with. Yeah we know all about you hooking up with ex-cop Martin Pennanti." He shook his head, looking almost disappointed. "Not the smartest move on the chessboard, Detective; you ticked off a lotta mammals downtown when you started workin' with that jerk."

"Penannti…WHO?" The fox replied, spreading his arms as if preparing to be patted down for weapons. "I don't remember coming in with anyone…do you SEE anyone else in here with me?"

The kinkajou appeared not to have heard him.

"We could live with that, maybe—'cept you ain't been askin' nobody about no diamond mule…only about this fox-kid, used to run errands for The Mister."

Nick's paw slapped into his face. "Oh, for crying out, Detective, that's exactly who I think WAS the Mister's Diamond courier."

Guerrero's paws went straight to his hips.

"For the last time estupido…you think we don't know what you really been trying to find out? Here, lemme save you the trouble. Sean McLeod is NOT the same silver-fox kid whose picture you been showing around! How many animals you shown it to, huh? An' how many said, 'Yeah, that's the McLeod kid?'" He slapped his paws against each other. None, zero, nada…an' you wanna know why? Coz he's DEAD, thass why—killed in a street fight with the Stalniy Volki. So he wasn't smuggling no diamonds, and he's not gonna be able to tell you about that…or anything else. So, either start doing the job you said you came here to do…or else get your tail back to Zootopia right NOW!"

"Or…you'll…what?" Nick was out of the booth and almost toe-to-toe with the kinkajou.

"Me…nothing," Guerrero was almost purring with satisfaction, "but the Commish? He's halfway ready to have you packed up in a crate and shipped back to Zootopia on a slow, stinkin' freight train…an' when he hears you been nosin' around the Mink…"

"Fine," Nick's ears were back and his neck-fur was spiking, "then he can hear it from me…and right NOW!"

"Wha…? What!" The kinkajou was staring as if he'd just produced a lit stick of dynamite, "You serious, zorro?"

"Darn right I am," The red fox snarled, lips rippling as he spoke. "I've been bending over backwards to get along with you guys ever since I got here..."

"Yeah, hanging with Martin Pennanti," Guerroro sniffed in contempt, "Thass a REAL good way to make friends with the cops in Zoo York, mi zorro."

All right, that was it; Nick threw up his paws in exasperation.

"Well, what the heck else was I supposed to do? None of your animals were going to help me. The first time I visited One Police Plaza, I almost got arrested for impersonating a cop—and then your boss called my boss and accused ME of creating a scene." He snarled and stamped his foot. "I've had just about enough of this, so let's him and me have it out…right now, once and for all."

"Holy Madre," Pepe Guerrero was shaking his head as if he'd just awakened from a nightmare, "You know what, Wilde? You ain't just dumb, you're stinkin' loco. There's only two ways anyone gets in to see Commissioner Waghorn; if he sends for you, or if you got an appointment."

"Then I'll make my OWN appointment," The fox shot back, this time showing both fangs.

And without waiting for a reply, he went storming off in the direction of the bar, at the same time snatching a pair of bills from his wallet.

"I wouldn't want to get arrested for defrauding an innkeeper," he sneered, speaking to Pepe Guerrero, and then turning his attention to the grison-barkeep, he slapped the money down on the bar. "There, will that be enough to cover my order?"

The long-necked mustelid only waved his paw in contempt.

"Keep it, fox….just get your tail out of here." Nick took back the money, but wasn't quite done, literally slam-dunking a coin into the tip jar; a single, miserable penny. "Never let it be said, I don't appreciate such fine service," he growled, his voice oozing with vinegar. And then turned and laid for the door, at the same time beckoning to Detective Guerrero. "Okay, let's go."

"Your funeral, Wilde," the kinkajou muttered wearily, hurrying to catch up.

Behind them, Estvan had struck up 'Taps' on his bagpipes.

---

Notes:

Author's Note:

The character of Estvan belongs to E.O Costello. In his original incarnation, he's actually a gray fox, but I changed him up a little to make him more compatible with Nick.

Estvan's musical act comes from a real person, a chap known as the Unipiper. You can learn more about him by googling his name

And finally, my apologies for being late with this post; I've been in the process of moving to a new computer this past week.

Chapter 46: Everything You Know Is Wrong (Cont'd...Pt. 2)

Summary:

It's called a hustle, Sweetheart.

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 8: Everything You Know is Wrong
(Part 2…Cont'd)

Bay Ridge, Barklyn, Zoo York City, 15:35, EST

They drove in silence down 3rd avenue, with neither one offering the other so much as even the briefest glance. Nick spent most of his time gazing out the window while Pepe Guerrero's eyes remained fixed on the road ahead. The whole time his expression remained as cool as a Limber Ice Pop—offering no hint whatsoever as to what lay ahead at the end of their journey. Not to say that it would have been all that easy to fathom what was on their minds anyway. It was a bright afternoon in Zoo York City and both of them had on their sunglasses; aviators for the fox, wraparounds for the kinkajou.

At the intersection of Shore and 4th they were supposed to double back North again. That they did…except instead of taking the Belt Parkway—which would have led them to the Hugh L Catty tunnel and Mammalhattan—they swung a U-turn directly onto 4th avenue, heading back in the direction from which they'd come.

At 97th Street, Guerrero turned right, and then swung a hard left into the parking lot of St. Patrick's Academy. Being as it was the middle of summer, the lot was largely empty—completely empty, as a matter of fact, except for a dirty-white high-cube van, marked only by a swirl of graffiti. The sight of it reminded Nick of all the 'unsanctioned artwork' currently adorning much of Zootopia.

It was nearly enough to provoke a shudder. The great Zootopia Graffiti Plague had been bad enough before he'd left for Zoo York; who knew what his city looked like now, in the wake of that pair of riots?

He shook it off and pointed towards the panel truck, "There it is," he said, the first words he'd spoken since they left the Wicked Mink.

At the back of the van, he rapped twice on the roll-up door with the flat of his paw. Pausing for a second, he rapped twice more, paused again, and then knocked three more times.

At once, the door rose upwards, revealing a smiling Martin Pennanti.

Smiling that is…until he happened to glance over the red fox's shoulder, at which point his expression became almost apoplectic.

"Pepe, what the heck do you think you're doing? You were supposed to drop Nick off in front of the CHURCH, not back here for crying out loud!"

"Eh, sorry Jefe," the kinkajou shrugged, looking not at all repentant for his actions, "But after alla that back there at The Mink, I just hadda see if it worked out or not, ju know what I mean?"

Penannti jumped down from the van, looking even more vexed

"Yeah, yeah, it's working great. Now beat it before someone sees us. I need you…not another ex-cop that nobody wants to talk to."

Guerrero only fanned a palm. "Ahhh, don' worry 'bout it, Jefe, I got it covered."

The fisher was not impressed.

"Yeah, yeah…the last time you said that, you nearly got your head blown off." He thrust a finger in the direction of Pepe's ride. "Take—a—hike!"

"Hokay, hokayyy, I'm outta here," Guerrero waved his paws in surrender, "But ju know, Martino; you really gotta start laying off the espresso…"

"GO!"

It was at that moment Nick Wilde decided he liked this kinkajou. He would really like to get Pepe's story sometime, but business before pleasure.

After the kinkajou was gone, of course; "I heard what you said, Marty. So…we're getting some good intel?"

At once the grin returned to the fisher's face.

"C'mon in and hear for yourself," he said, gesturing towards the interior of the van.

Inside, they found a tree kangaroo seated before a console table occupied by a laptop, a reel-to-reel tape recorder, a small mixing board, and several pieces of electronic gear that Nick could not identify. As they entered, the marsupial made no acknowledgement of their presence, not even so much as angling his head in their direction. Instead, he continued to concentrate on whatever he was hearing over the headset affixed to his ears.

"And the guy on the surveillance setup here is Art Borrea," Pennanti informed Nick cheerfully, adding in a dead-on Chico Marx, "He-a good listener, but he no speak."

That got the tree kangaroo's attention; he regarded the fisher sourly for a moment, and then went back to his listening.

Nick too was in a serious mood.

"Can we hear?" he asked, trying not to sound anxious.

Art Borrea said nothing, only moved the cursor on his laptop screen and clicked. At once they heard the lilting voice of Estvan, coming from a pair of speakers mounted high up in the right and left corner of the cargo-bay.

"…that may be Rosemary, but it still don't explain why the divvil that boy'd come back here, of all places."

"Maybe he figured with The Company outta the way, everything'd be hunky dory." The waitress replied. She was answered by a voice that Nick didn't recognize.

"She's got a point there, bub; it's been what, three years now?"

"And these days, the cops don't want t' know about The Mister no more." It was a deep, guttural voice, probably the bouncer.

The mention of that name sent the Wicked Mink crew into a reminiscence of the raid that had taken out Finagles—and The Company—once and for all. It was a discussion in which Martin Pennanti's name featured prominently…and not in an admiring fashion; references to the fisher's low character and unsavory habits abounded. Nick counted at least three times that the word 'traitor' came up in context with his name; as if by his dogged pursuit of the McCrodons—a family of sea-mink and therefore his fellow mustelids—he had committed an abject betrayal.

For his part, Pennanti remained unmoved; he'd probably been called a lot worse in his day…although he did choose that moment to opt for a change of topic.

"So…where'd you plant the bugs, Nick?"

The fox was only too happy to inform him

"Hid the first one in a wad of gum that I spit into the trash. The second one was in a 'penny' I put in the tip jar.

"Nice work," Pennanti nodded approvingly. By that method Nick had planted a listening device at either end of the bar, able to cover the entire length of the room

And not only that…

"And not only that, Nicky…wouldja believe, one of the bugs we planted, back when the Mister used to hold court in The Mink, is still working?"

"Wha…? No way!" the fox replied, equally delighted and flabbergasted.

The fisher immediately raised three fingers.

"Yep, swear to God. Blew me away too, when I heard it; four years later and it's still picking up conversations."

Right then, as if on cue, the discussion shifted back to the reason Nick had planted those devices in the first place.

"You sure it was the McLeod kid in that picture the red fox showed you?" It was another voice he didn't know…although he sure as heck recognized the one that answered it.

"Aye, boyo…it was him all roight; know them burnin' eyes anywheres. 'Twas him I says; not the sloighest bit o' doubt in me mind. An' I'll tell ye something else. S' not the first time Oi've seen that face inside The Mink. Saw it in the flesh an' fur Oi did, 'bout five months before the Finagles raid."

"What, really?"

"Yep…remember it loike it was yesterday."

In the back of the van, Nick and Pennanti were exchanging grins; Estvan was clearly warming to his subject.

"Well…? I told ya he likes to talk," the fisher winked.

"Didn't make the connection back then, moind ye," The platinum fox was saying; Nick could almost picture him, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. "Came in wearin' sunglasses, so's Oi couldn't see is eyes. But…"

"Ah, gimme a BREAK awready!" It was that same big voice again, the honey-badger/bouncer. "If that kid was really in here, how come nobody but YOU remembers it, huh? You blowin' smoke up our tails or somethin', fox?"

Nick winced; grateful it wasn't him the hulking mustelid was addressing…but the other fox's response was as calm as a windless morning.

"Aye, Crusher…'twas one o' them closed-door, back-room meetin's— ye know the ones; where even the wait-staff's not allowed inside without knockin' first. That's why no one else from outside the Comp'ny saw the boy…an' Oi must admit, Oi'm right surprised they didn't send me out 'o the room before 'e came in."

"Yeah, all right, so what happened?" It was another speaker Nick didn't know—although he certainly knew that tone of voice; get ON with it, already!

"They brought 'im in through the back." Estvan told them lowering his voice a little. His earlier jollity had long since departed, replaced by a tone of tense forbidding. "Lad didn't look too good Oi must say; really thin, loike he'd just got out of hospital. They brought 'im up to the Mister—The old boy could still get out of 'is chair then, if just barely—an' he spent a minute or two lookin' the kid over. His brother Gerry was there with 'im, and the two of them spoke for minute. Oi couldn't make out what they was sayin' to each other,'cept for one thing, The Mister tellin' Gerry. 'Wow, look at this! If Oi didn't know better meself, Oi'd swear this kid wasn't…' An' that was all Oi heard. Roight then Danny Tipperin gave me the look an' Oi backed off, fast as I could."

A hubbub of conversation followed, all of it frustratingly unintelligible. It lasted for nearly a minute, before the waitress's voice broke through the din.

"What'd that other fox…uh, Wilde? What'd he say the kid's name was again?"

"Uhmmm…ah, Lewis, Conor Lewis."

"Yeah right…You think that's true, or did he just make up that name?"

"Ahhh, it was probably the real deal," an unknown voice conjectured. "I mean…why change the kid's face, if you're not gonna change his name too?"

"Yeah, really," someone else agreed, "and coming up with a new moniker would have a piece of cake for Kieran McC."

"Oi, shame about that bloke…he din't belong with that lot."

"No kidding…but Betty's right…giving a kid a new identity would have been a snap for that guy."

"Maybe…except that's not the name he gave the kid."

Both Nick and Martin Pennanti started. It was a new voice, and clearly not that of a mustelid. It belonged to some kind of rodent, a very large rodent.

"Can you make out what part of the room that's coming from?" the fisher asked, speaking to Art Borrea, who typed a quick set of instructions into his laptop.

"Mostly from the device closest to the entrance," the tree kangaroo replied, speaking up for the first time since Nick's arrival.

'Close to the entrance'…that meant whoever was talking had just walked into the pub—or had been lurking near the doorway, listening in, up until now.

For the moment, the only reaction to the news was silence. Predictably, it was Estvan who broke it.

"An' just how would YOUSE know that, Bucky?" Nick hastily pulled out a pad and wrote down the name.

"Hey-y-y, you're not the only one who sees and hears things, Estvan. I spotted that kid you're describing once myself. Only I heard him being called by a different name."

"And where was this, then?" Again, it was easy to picture the platinum fox folding his arms; only this time beneath an indignant expression.

"In Finagles, on the morning of the raid," the newcomer replied…and again there was silence.

…A pin drop, deathly silence; not only in the pub, but inside the van as well. On his pad, Nick had written down a quartet of exclamation points without even realizing what he was doing.

"Y-You were in…Finagles…on the day of…?" someone finally asked.

"I was," the animal named Bucky replied simply. At the same time, they heard footsteps and the sound began to fade from one speaker to the other, as if the newcomer was taking a walk across the room. A squeak of wood against wood followed as he seated himself on a stool.

"Me and my guys was brought in to make a table and chairs for the big meet they were planning; we were s'posed to chew it out of this big huge log…right in the middle of the dance floor, would'ja believe?"

On his pad, Nick wrote down a single word, underlining it twice. 'BEAVER'

"What?" It was the waitress again. "Come on, Bucky; who the heck would be stupid enough to try a stunt like that?"

"I'll give ya one guess," the big rodent shot back smartly, and was answered by a chorus of groans.

"Junior!"

"That's what I said," the beaver answered them, "Anyway, while we were working, Danny T. showed up and got into an argument with little Jimmy about who was gonna clean up all the shavings and whatnot after we were done. None of us wanted to be asked later on which one of 'em started that, uh, 'discussion', and so we all kinda looked away, pretending like we couldn't hear."

"And then what…?" an exasperated voice prompted, another one that Nick hadn't heard before.

"I'm gettin' to that, I'm gettin' to that." Bucky groused at him, equally annoyed, "Cool yer jets, willya? So…I happened to look over by one of the service doors and saw this fox-kid watching us; silver fox."

"Was it him…the McLeod boy?" It was Estvan again.

"Nope…looked nothin' like him; his nose was almost perfectly straight and his fur was darker. Looked taller and a lot fitter, too; I never thought for a minute that it might be that kid." He let out a small cough. "Mindya though, I couldn't see his eyes; too far away and he was looking at Danny and Junior, not me."

"All right, but…"

"But then," Bucky rolled right over the interruption, "Then I heard Junior say, 'No problem, I'll have Dylan clean it up.' And when the fox-kid heard it, he looked like he was about ready to bite that sea-punk's face off. I knew right then that HE was the guy Tipperin and Jimmy Junior was talking about; had to be."

"Did you happen to get a last name?" Nick heard the waitress asking. He crossed his fingers and hoped.

"Nah, first name, Dylan was all I…"

"Aggggg, grrrr!" Nick growled and gnashed his teeth.

"…But then I heard Danny telling Junior that the Mister had more important things for Dylan to do…that he wasn't just their go-fer anymore. And that sealed it; how many other kids did the Mister have, runnin' errands for him, huh?" He paused for a second, and then went on, in a more cautious tone, "Anyway, Tipperin offered us an extra hundred apiece to clean up the excess after we finished, and I forgot about the kid for a minute. When I looked again, he was gone—and what them 'other things' he was supposed to do were, I got no idea."

"Hmmm," Estvan mused aloud. "Mebbe that Wilde fox was roight after all, eh? Mebbe Dylan…or Conor, or Sean McLeod or whoever; mebbe he was smugglin' diamonds fer the Mister. An' wouldn't it'd 'ave been just loike that filthy sod to press a KID into that sort o' job?"

He was answered by several unhappy growls; he might not have cared much for James 'The Mister' McCrodon, but the rest of the Wicked Mink's patrons clearly felt otherwise…even now, three years after his passing.

Luckily for the platinum fox, his statement had caught at least one of them by surprise.

"Wait, what? Other fox…what other fox?" It was Bucky speaking.

"Oi, that's roight; ye missed him didn't ye?" Estvan was clearly pleased…and completely unaware of how close he'd come to stepping in it. From there, he and the others proceeded to give the beaver a play-by-play recap of the red fox's visit to The Wicked Mink—during which he was described in terms at least as derisive as the ones reserved for Martin Pennanti.

Nick wasn't bothered; he hadn't gone into that pub to make friends. And if his little fishing expedition hadn't produced any lunkers, he still had plenty for the stringer…more than enough to justify…

Hold on, what was Estvan saying?

"Aye, but that other fox, Wilde; he's from Zootopia, in' he? So…probably that's where they sent the kid with the diamonds—and that brings up another question, dun' it? How the divvil was the Mister s'posed keep the boy from just takin' the money and runnin' after makin' the trade? A few thousand miles sounds loike a safe enough distance, t' me."

The answer came from the barkeep, short, terse and grim.

"Granite Point."

"Oi, what now?" Nick could easily picture Estvan's ears, reaching for the ceiling. And why not? So were his. "Granite Point," the platinum fox was asking, "what's that?"

"Juvie facility, over in Jersey," the grison informed him in that same harsh voice. "Real hell-hole…or it was back then anyway. But whatever; the Mister was always threatening to send the Mcleod kid 'back to The Point' if he messed up on an assignment or started talking to the cops. And it worked, too. That was all he needed to tell that boy to get him to fall in line; he was scared to death of that place."

"Granite Poinnnnt," another voice pondered. "Y'know…I could swear I know that name from somewhere..." Nick heard the sound of fingers snapping. "Oh yeah, wasn't that the joint where they had The Mister's nephew locked up—the one he was always trying to get sprung, but could never pull it off?"

"That's him," the barkeep replied, "Wesley McCrodon…also known as Crazy Wez."

"Also known as th' Bearfoot Bandit," Estvan put in, eager to recover lost ground, "before they pinched 'im, that is. Oi didn't know where they had 'im locked up, but Oi know that much at least."

The reaction the platinum fox received must have pleased him to no end.

"Whoa…that was the Mister's nephew? No wonder he tried so hard to get Jersey to let him go."

"He did?" Someone else asked aloud, "Then how come the kid didn't walk?" Nobody seemed to know.

"Whatever happened to him anyway?" it was the waitress…answered by another unknown voice.

"Ahhh, the word on the street is that Wez finally lived up to his prison handle; went flying off the deep end and never came back. Last I heard, he was stuck in a loony-bin, somewhere down around Trenton."

On his notepad, Nick had written, 'Crazy Wez…find out more, and where is he?'

"Anyway, the Mister basically washed his paws of the kid after he went bonkers; never mentioned his name again…and didn't want anyone else bringing him up either."

"No kiddin' Sherlock!" Martin Pennanti cat-called from beside Nick. He did not elaborate, nor was it necessary. The fox had already heard, from several other animals, that James 'The Mister' McCrodon never did anything out of the goodness of his heart. He had likely planned to make use of his nephew after freeing him from jail. But when the kid had turned into a basket case, that usefulness—and all of his uncle's efforts—had gone sailing out the window.

Still…Nick had to wonder how a mammal as powerful as The Mister could have failed at such a simple task as getting a kid out of Juvie? Mr. Big could have pulled it off between bites of his Grand-mamma's cannoli…so why had McCrodon been unable to do the same?

Well, he could think about that later. Right now, Estvan was speaking again.

"D'yer think maybe him an' the McCleod kid was hooked up on the inside? Explain a lot if they were, wouldn't it?"

"Ahhh, could be," the barkeep ventured, "That silver fox kid would have hadda be half-crazy himself, or else really desperate, to get involved with a cowboy like Crazy Wez—but I suppose it's possible."

"More than possible, if you ask me," someone else interjected, "Right after that fox kid showed up was when the Mister started ghosting his nephew."

"Aye, s' true." Estvan concurred. "An' Oi don't know 'bout the rest of ye, that's a moite too much of a coincidence fer my blood."

He was answered by a general murmur of agreement.

"Do you really think he'd come back to Zoo York?" Bucky, the beaver queried, bringing the conversation full circle. "The McLeod kid I mean…if I was him, this is the last place I'd want to be."

"Which makes it the last place the cops would come looking for him," the waitress repeated—except this time, someone begged to differ.

"Only it wasn't, was it?" Estvan reminded her pointedly, "That Nick Wilde bloke may be a jerk, but 'e isn't stupid, Oi'll give 'im that much at least."

"Hey, that reminds me," someone else asked, "what'd he put in the tip jar anyway. Didn't look like a coin,"

"Dunno, probably a button." The barkeep replied, "Lemme look."

Inside the van, Nick and Pennanti exchanged an uneasy glance; uh-ohhhh.

Meanwhile the grison was saying, in a voice much louder than a second ago, "Yeah…thought so…one lousy penny. And I don't think it's even a real one. Lessee…"

Nick realized at once what was happening.

"He's going to bite it; quick, kill the…!"

Too late; a screech like a thousand claws on a thousand blackboards filled the van, causing Art Borrea to rip away his headset and slamming Nick and Pennanti's paws against their respective ears. It lasted for perhaps five seconds before the tree-kangaroo found the switch and stopped it.

"That's going to cost you extra," he griped, speaking to Martin Pennanti—who promptly gave a look to the fox standing next to him; a silent reminder that HE was the one footing the bill.

Well, Nick reasoned, given what they'd learned, even Bogo couldn't find too much fault with the extra expense.

"Yeah, riiight," his inner voice rejoined sardonically, "And if you believe THAT, I know this bridge, right nearby, that you can pick up real cheap." What Martin Pennanti didn't know—or, at least, what the fox hadn't bothered to tell him—was that his little bugging operation had been completely unauthorized. In that regard, he had been working under the convenient theory that sometimes it's easier to obtain forgiveness than permission.

That…and if the operation backfired, it couldn't be laid at the feet of the ZPD. It had seemed like a piece of sound reasoning at the time, but now…

"You did WHAT, Wilde?!"

Nick pushed the thought aside and came back to the present.

"Anyway Marty," he asked the fisher, hurriedly changing the subject, "what'd you pick up on the bugs before I got here?"

As it turned out, the conversation had opened with several animals reminding each other of what Pepe Guerrero had said to Nick…that the McLeod boy was supposed to be dead. While no one had disputed the notion that The Mister could easily have arranged for his nephew Kieran to gin up a fake death certificate, there had apparently been an actual body to go with it—a trick that even the best hacker in the world couldn't pull off.

"If that wasn't the McLeod kid they took away from Bulleview, who was it?"

It was the platinum fox that started the conversation who supplied a possible answer.

"Betch'ye anythin' it was one o' them Stanley Folk wolves," he said, "After all, they wasn't long fer this world anyway after what they done, were they?"

"I think you mean the Stalniy Volki," the waitress had corrected him, "But yeah, I think it's very possible; and that'd be just The Mister's style, wouldn't it?"

The way she said it sent a chill down Nick Wilde's spine; her tone wasn't just admiring; it was almost reverent.

"For sure," Another voice replied with a laugh, "he'd call it poetic justice."

"And in that case, it almost was," Pennanti observed, smirking.

All right, this was too much; Nick waved a paw for Borrea to stop the tape.

"Okay Martin, I give up. I know the McCleod kid is supposed to be dead, but that's all I know. Just what the heck happened, and who the foxtrot are the Stalniy Volki?"

"Oh, right," the fisher replied, a little contritely; he had forgotten that as an out-of-towner, his guest would not be aware. "Roughly translated, the name means 'The Steel Wolves.' They were a street gang, made up of Russian kids out of Brighton Beach, all of them wolves, like the name says—and also a pack of complete head-cases. They used to wear pictures of Josef Stalin on the back of their jackets—that's the other place where they got their name—and get this, their favorite street-weapon was a hammer and sickle."

"Holy foxtrot," Nick gasped, staring wide eyed and then shaking his head. "What the heck could have prompted the Lewis kid to tangle with THAT bunch?"

"Probably didn't have much choice," Pennanti shrugged, "When he ran into them, they were beating up on Junior. And I don't think I need to tell you what his old mink would have done, if he'd found out the Lewis kid had been there and hadn't jumped in to help. Long story short, Junior managed to escape the fight and for once, he did the right thing, he ran to The Mink and got help. Danny Tipperin took out the Steel Wolves' leader and the rest of 'em all scattered," He slapped at his thigh and looked away for a second, "Stupid punks, they might as well have stayed put and got it over with quick, right then and there. From the moment they showed up on The Mister's turf, and laid a paw on his kid, they were dead mammals walking. By the time we heard about what had happened, they were gone—vanished like they'd disappeared off the face of the earth. We never found so much a strand of fur, from any of those wolf-kids."

"What about Danny Tipperin?" Nick asked, unable to catch it in time, and wanting to kick himself.

Luckily for him, Pennanti seemed to think it was a relevant question.

"Got off on a plea of self-defense…and for once, I think it was legit. The wolf punk in charge was going for him with a sickle when he pulled the trigger."

For a long moment, Nick said nothing. Nobody would ever accuse him of being a sentimental fox, and God only knew, the Stain…the Steel Wolves had brought their fate upon themselves; he didn't want to think about what would have happened to anyone pulling a similar stunt on Mr. Big's daughter, Fru-Fru.

For all that, Martin Pennanti's careless dismissal of them ran just a mite too cold for his blood. It was a side to the fisher he hadn't seen before—and he wasn't sure he liked it.

There was a lot more that Nick wanted to know…but not in front of that tree kangaroo, and so he asked, "Ahhh, is there somewhere around where we can talk privately?"

Pennanti seemed to have been expecting such an inquiry from the get-go.

"Yeah, follow me."

He led Nick into the church—pausing before the altar to kneel and cross himself—and then out through a side door, and into a cloistered garden.

"A-Are you sure this is okay?" the fox inquired, glancing nervously at the religious statuary all around him. He was answered once again by the flippant wave of a paw.

"No worries; it's all good. The prior and me go way back…we was altar boys together."

"What, you…an altar boy?" Nick was barely able to suppress a snigger. Trying to picture this animal in a lace-trimmed frock was like trying to picture a hippo in a tutu.

"Yeah, me," Pennanti replied, unfazed by the fox's amusement, "and wouldja believe that's how I came to carry a badge? Father Kohlmann, the priest we served with, was a former police chaplain…and also one heck of a role-model. It was thanks to him that Donnie Callahan ended up as Father Callahan… and I ended up as Detective Lieutenant Pennanti."

"Ah, I see," Nick answered, nodding.

And he did; there was nothing more that needed to be said—not on that subject anyway.

But on another topic, "What about Pepe Guerrero; what's his story?"

Oops, wrong question. Pennanti folded his arms, and his face hardened into a flint mask.

"That's…a story I'm not gonna tell you, Nicky; and please don't ask again."

"Well yes, okay…but that's not what I meant," the fox replied, hastily correcting his course. (In fact, that had been exactly what he'd meant.) "But…he's not going to get in any trouble for helping us, is he?"

"No…." the fisher sighed, looking slightly deflated, "As long as word doesn't get back to One Police Plaza that he was seen talking to me." he kicked the ground in frustration, "the reckless idiot," but then he smiled and perked up again. "Other than that, Pepe'll probably get an attaboy for rousting you in The Mink like that. How-w-w-everrrr…" He raised cautioning finger, "Fair warning, Nicky; you might get some heat from Commissioner Wagfinger when he finds out what went down in there."

"Let him," the fox replied, also folding his arms, "As far as I'm concerned it was worth it. But what I really want to know is, what did YOU get out of that tape when you heard it?"

"Ahhh, that's a very good question," Pennanti replied, motioning towards a nearby stone bench, "Let's sit down, and I'll tell you what I think." They did…and then the fisher's first observation turned out to be a question…one that harked back to the tape's beginning.

"Tell me the truth paisan; you thinking about having the McLeod kid exhumed, to make sure it wasn't him they buried?"

"Mmmmm, the thought did cross my mind," the fox admitted—although it had actually done a lot more than that.

"Ahhh, thought so," Pennanti replied with a knowing bob of his head, "And sorry, but it's not happening. First of all, I'm not a cop anymore, much less a lieutenant; I don't have the authority to order an exhumation."

"But I'M a cop," Nick reminded him…an impulsive rejoinder that he immediately wished he could take back.

"An out-town-cop," the fisher reminded HIM, "Which means you'd need to go through One Police Plaza to get the order…and even if you could, you know where they buried that kid? In Potter's Field, out on Hart Island, with something like a zillion other unclaimed corpses. And if The Mister really did fake the Mcleod kid's death—and after what I just heard, I think he did—the next thing he'd have done was have his cyberpunk nephew, Kieran, go in and alter the burial records—just to make sure we'd never find him. Like I told you before, that guy was nothing if not thorough."

"All right, all right," Nick raised his paws in irritated surrender. He'd been ready to drop the idea from the first objection. But, on the other paw, Pennanti was now fully on board with the notion that the McLeod boy hadn't been killed in that fight. That was good; very good.

Meanwhile, his host was picking up the thread again.

"As far as the kid coming back to Zoo York goes…well, it's not that likely, but yeah…it could happen. It's a place he knows, and like Estvan said…by rights, it's the last place he should want to come back to."

"…Unless he ran out of other options," Nick cocked a finger, and Pennanti responded with an approving nod.

"This is true…and there's one other thing." He leaned towards the fox and lowered his voice. "The Mister was rumored to have a hideout set up somewhere in the Five Burrows, his headquarters when he was in that gang war with those other two crime families. We never found it, and as far as I know, he never made use of it after that fight was over. Even so, I think it's for real, and still around somewhere. And if your Lewis kid has any idea about where it is…well, in that case, he'd have a BIG reason for coming back to Zoo York."

Nick thought for a second, and shook his head. "Maybe so, but I doubt very seriously that McCrodon would have let a kid know how to find that place."

"Maybe not intentionally," Pennanti conceded, "but your boy might have overheard something…and right now, he's gotta be feeling at least a little desperate." He offered Nick a small shrug. "Like I said, I think it's unlikely that he'll try to make for Zoo York, but you can't completely rule it out either."

"Right," Nick nodded, making a mental note. The fisher was only doing what any good cop would have done; making certain to cover all the bases.

That was when he threw the fox a curveball…from straight out of left field.

"But I gotta admit, the one thing that caught me off guard was that other name they gave the Lewis kid. Dylan…I never heard him called THAT before."

"No kidding?" Nick asked him, inwardly groaning. He had hoped Pennanti might be able to supply a last name to go with the first one; so much for that lead.

But still…

"Strange that they'd change his name again, when the one he already had wasn't known to the law."

"I know, right?" the fisher replied, making a frustrated gesture with his paw…and then a dismissive one. "Even so…he might go back to using it at some point. You should let the ZPD know, Nicky."

"I will."

It was then that they finally got to the meat of the matter.

"If your silver-fox kid was locked up with Crazy Wez, Nicky…it explains a lot about how he's been able to stay one jump ahead of the law. That sea-mink punk was the king of the artful dodgers. By the time the Zoo Jersey State Cops finally caught up with him, he'd made chumps out of every police department from Bunnykenport to Molebile Bay…and he was always more than happy to give out advice to whoever he was hanging with."

"Seriously?" Nick's ears stood up and pointed at each other. He had heard the Bearfoot Bandit knew a thing or two about evading capture…but he'd been that good at it?

"Yeah, seriously," the fisher replied, fanning a paw. "Lemme give you an example. One time, down in Ocean City Mareland, he broke into this vacation home, planning to hole up there for a few days before moving on. It was the off season and the place was empty; but what the kid didn't know was that the owner had just put it up for sale. Long story short, the realtor showed up right when he was getting out of the shower; he had nothing on but a towel and he'd just put his clothes in the washer…AND all the closets were empty."

"Wow!" Holy foxtrot, how the heck had that crazy sea-mink kid gotten out of that one? And he must have, because he hadn't finally been busted until much later than that.

What Pennanti told the red fox next left him completely awestruck.

"Oh it gets worse Nicky. The Ocean City cops knew the Bearfoot Bandit was around—he'd burglarized a Food Lion up the coast in Delahare, just a couple of nights earlier—and they were waiting for him. In something like fifteen minutes, they had the house where he was hiding completely surrounded." He shook his head for a second, lips compressing into a tight, flat line, "But by then, Wez had already am-scrayed. There was one thing about him that the local law had forgotten; he was sea-mink, a semi-aquatic species. He ran out the back, jumped into the water, and swam all the way across Bluefish Cove to another house, where he ripped off a sailboat and headed south." Another head-shake; "He'd never sailed in his life, but he made it all the way down to Furginia Beach, where he stole a car, drove it to Wilmington North Caroliona, dumped it and stole a cabin cruiser. They found it tied up to a dock at a yacht club, down near Charleston…but by then the kid was long gone…and that was the last time anyone heard from him until three months later, down near Boarlando Furrida…where he'd been holding house parties in this vacation home he'd burgled."

"All, right, fine," Nick was raising his paws, as if in surrender. "All right, I get it; that Crazy Wez kid was Houndini Junior when it came to escaping from the law. Only how the heck is that supposed to help catch the Lewis kid?"

"Ah yes," the fisher replied, speaking in the patient voice of a Zen master addressing a novice. "If your Conor Lewis got tight with Crazy Wez while they were locked-up together—and given his history, I think he did—then QED; that sea-mink kid is likely where he picked up a few of HIS evading skills. Ergo, if you study the McCrodon kid's MO, you'll have some insight into what the Lewis boy's next move is likely to be…capisce?"

"Ohhh, right, right, right," Nick felt as if a pair of scales had just dropped from his eyes. Yes, of course…and why hadn't he seen it for himself?

To his surprise, the answer came to him almost immediately.

"I hear what you're saying, Martin, I really do…but there's some big differences between those two kids. First of all, Conor Lewis may have some PTSD issues, but—take it from someone who knows—he's anything but crazy. He's smart, calculating, and steady as a rock under pressure. I mean it, you should have seen him the first time we interviewed him. He answered every question with a demand for a lawyer, and only raised his voice once…and that was only to make sure he'd have witnesses to his demand."

"Well, THAT'S something he got from hanging with the Company," the fisher pointed out, interrupting.

Maybe so, Nick reasoned, but it wasn't pertinent, and so he answered with only a cursory nod.

"And then there's that fake release order he used to get out of jail; he didn't come up with THAT on the spur of the moment. And then, when he snuck into the ZAPA auditions…."

"The…WHAT?" Pennanti was staring bewildered.

"The Zootopia Academy of the Performing Arts," the fox explained, "ZAPA…but the point is, he had that planned right down to the second…or that's what my former partner says. It's really just blind luck that she caught up with him in that theater—although don't ever tell her I said so. But that brings up something else, Marty; did that Crazy Wez kid ever attack a police officer?"

"Well, no, not as far as I know anyway," the fisher admitted, but then waved a dismissive paw, "but Wez never found himself facing down a lone cop, who couldn't call for back-up either…so it's not really a valid question."

"All right," Nick was willing to give ground on that point, but not on the argument as a whole, "but what I'm trying to say is, however much Conor might have learned from Crazy Wez, he's anything but a carbon-copy of him. And, as you just pointed out, that wasn't the end of his 'education,' either. He couldn't have worked as The Company's go-fer for as long as he did without picking up a thing or two; in fact, the more I learn about his life with that gang, the more convinced I am that he probably got his hacking skills from…from…uhhh, who was the Mister's other nephew again?"

"Kieran," Pennanti answered, cocking a helpful finger, "But yeah, I have to agree with you there. And that's actually a good thing, coz it just so happens you got someone back in Zootopia who knows more about that sea-mink's M.O. than just about anyone else on the planet."

"You mean Claudia Nizhang?" Nick asked him. He already knew but wanted to keep the fisher talking.

"The one and only," Pennanti smiled, "If there's anybody that can give you the lowdown on what the Lewis kid might have picked up from that guy, it's her—and I don't think I need to tell you that she'll be more than willing to help."

"I wouldn't doubt it," the fox replied, but then his face creased downwards in a quick frown. He was about to steer into some touchy waters…at least for him. "I don't know the full details Martin…but from what I've been told, the Lewis Boy was able to use the web to summon a whole platoon of kids to cover for him at the Academy Auditions."

"Only it backfired, and they rioted," Pennanti pointed out, raising another finger.

Nick nearly raised a rebuttal, but then stopped himself. No, he realized; the fisher was right. Conor wouldn't have wanted those kids to riot. "You know that kid better than you realize," he thought to himself, regarding his host pensively. That was when something else occurred to him, something he had yet to mention; potentially the biggest difference of all between Conor Lewis and Wes McCrodon.

"There's one other thing you may not know, Martin. Conor Lewis has a serious issue with anyone else taking the fall for something HE did. Was Crazy Wez anything like that?" Nick was more than willing to bet that he hadn't been.

He would have won big if he'd booked that wager…

"Are you kiddin' Nicky?" Pennanti replied, regarding him with a cocked eyebrow. "One time, up around Saragoata, him and this bear kid—I think his name was Toby something—broke into this summer cottage and were spotted by a neighbor, who called the cops. But first, he locked the kids inside the place; all the doors on that house were equipped with outside padlocks. Anyway, Wez found a way out through a furnace vent, but it was too narrow for his buddy to use. He promised to come and unlock the back door as soon as he made it outside, but he never did. He just ran off and left that other kid…and that's one of several examples I could give you."

Nick immediately raised a paw.

"Say no more, I get it Marty…and that's exactly the opposite of what the Lewis kid would have done. Here, let me give you an example for once." He went on to relate the gist of the fox-kid's threatening phone call to Lieutenant Tufts. Pennanti was suitably impressed, but not entirely for the reasons that the fox might have expected.

"Yea-ahhh, I see what you mean; Crazy Wez would never have gone to the mat for a friend like that." He aimed another finger, "But that's another thing your silver fox got from The Company. Those goombahs lived, ate, and slept blackmail."

"I know," Nick answered, immensely glad that he and the fisher were finally starting to operate on the same wavelength. "But let me explain what I was getting at a minute ago. What really has the ZPD worried is, thanks to all his escapades, the Lewis boy is rapidly becoming a cult figure with the other kids in Zootopia.."

"Ahhh no big deal, Nicky," Pennati fanned a dismissive paw. "Same thing happened to Crazy Wez; heck, he even had his own Furbook page. But when he finally went away, they forgot about him real fast."

"Furbook?" Now Nick was the one waving paw. "Who the heck uses Furbook anymore?"

"Well yeah, not anymore," the fisher shrugged, "but this was years ago, pal."

"Okay yeah," Nick agreed, "But tell me this. Did Wez create that page; did he ever log onto it—or was it somebody else's idea?"

"Ahhh, it was set up by some rodent kids out of Wildwood Zoo Jersey I think; Wez never posted on that page himself as far as I know." Pennanti was eyeing him curiously, "Why?"

"Because Conor Lewis sure as heck would have," Nick tapped the edge of the bench with a finger. "He's a junior cyberwarrior, that kid; even made some podcasts…and that last one…."

He went on to relate the story of the city-wide sing-a-long the young silver fox had initiated; "We're Not Gonna Take It." And, for the first time since they'd taken their seats—heck; for the first time, ever—Pennanti seemed genuinely stunned.

"Oh my GOD…and all the saints, too. Your silver fox kid has that much influence? Sheesh, no wonder you guys want his tail so bad. I had no idea, Nicky; wish you'd told me earlier."

"If I had, would you have believed me?" the red fox asked, assuming his most innocent expression.

The corners of the fisher's mouth turned downwards, "Hard to say, if you want the truth...and to be honest, even if I had believed you, I don't know where I would have gone with it." He leaned forward, clasping his fingers. "Speaking of which, I think that's about all I got to say about that tape. I'll probably think of something else later, but that's pretty much it for now."

"Uh-huh," Nick looked away for a second, tapping his index fingers together. Another awkward moment was coming, and there was no way to avoid it.

And sooo…damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.

"Martin, I don't think this is going to surprise you—and I know you're not going to like it—but I think I need to pay a visit to the Granite Point Reformatory."

"Urrrrgh," Martin Pennanti grimaced, making a noise like a stubborn lawn-mower engine. "Yeah, I kinda figured that was coming…but what you need to know Nick is that it's not gonna be so easy to arrange. Granite Point's a privately run institution, an AKER Correctional facility. And believe me; those guys don't take kindly to being scrutinized—especially by animals from an outside jurisdiction."

"Wha…?" Nick's ears went up and pointed at each other. "Private jail or not, aren't they answerable to the state of Zoo Jersey?"

Pennanti raised a cynical finger.

"Yeah…except you're not from Jersey, Nick; you're not even from the state next door. And even if you were, the honchos down there make it a point of not asking the AKER guys about how they do their business…not as long as the kids coming out of their facilities aren't going out and committing more crimes."

"Oh, right." Nick had forgotten all about AKER Correctional Management's rather enviable recidivism rates. Small wonder that the state of Zoo Jersey preferred to keep its nose out of their business. 'If it ain't broke, don't fix it,' as the old saying goes.

But then the fisher threw him yet another curve

"That being said Nick, I know a guy. I can't promise anything, you understand, but I'll see what I can do. In the meantime…uh, correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't AKER run some of the correctional facilities back in Zootopia?"

"Yes, that's right," Nick answered, with his head tilting sideways, "In fact, they run most of them; why?"

"Uh-huh," Pennanti nodded knowingly, but also a little bit uneasily. "Coz if that's the case, you can have your Chief put in a formal request for access through their office in Zootopia. Between the two we just might get lucky…although I wouldn't count on it."

Ouch, ouch, and double ouch; it was all the fox could do to keep from grimacing; his companion sounded about as confident as a condemned mammal, hoping for a last-minute reprieve.

Still, to quote another old saw, nothing ventured…and all that sort of thing…

"All right Martin, I'll mention it to Chief Bogo, when I make my report," he said, and then added silently, to himself, "If he doesn't jump through the phone and strangle me first."

Chapter 47: Everything You Know Is Wrong (Cont'd...Pt. 3)

Summary:

"Won't you come into my parlor...?"

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 8: Everything You Know is Wrong
(Part 3…Cont'd)

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ZPD Precinct-1, Savanna Central, Zootopia, 11:07 Hours, ZST

Judy Hopps never made it to Mammalcide.

Less than a heartbeat after she left Juvie Division, a velvet-brass voice came over her two-way. "Detective Hopps…Detective Judy Hopps; respond please."

Judy sighed and unclipped the radio from her belt. Somehow, she sensed, this was not going to be something she wanted to hear.

"I read you, Clawhauser; go ahead."

A crackle of static followed and then, "The Chief wants to see you in his office right away."

"Oh, Sweet cheez' n crackers!" Judy grumbled and thumped her foot. Yep, just as she'd predicted. But before she could thumb the switch to make a reply, Benjamin beat her to the draw…or rather Chief Bogo did, by proxy. "He's already notified Mammalcide, Detective."

At once her thumping foot gave way to a twitching nose. What the heck could he want to see her about that was more important than…?

"Roger that Benjamin," she answered, masking her annoyance. "Do you have any idea what he wants to see me about?"

She expected, as usual, a negative reply: Bogo was notoriously tight-lipped about the reason for his summonses.

Not this time; for once, the plus-size cheetah had at least a partial answer to her inquiry.

"I-I can't say for certain, Ju…I-I mean Detective, but some bigwig VIP went up to talk to him a while ago, and I haven't seen them come back down again."

"Okay, Clawhauser," Judy was more perplexed than ever. "Who the HECK…?" Well, there was only one way to find out—and she wasn't looking forward to it.

It wasn't so much the interruption that bothered her; she was used to that sort of thing by now. No, the problem was…paying a visit to the Chief meant having to ascend that long, winding concourse to his office. In times past, she wouldn't have given it a second thought. Now, still recovering from her injury at the paws of Conor Lewis, it was a different story. She'd either have to stop and catch her breath a couple of times, or else get someone to assist her. And since Bogo wanted to see her right now, the second option was pretty much the only option.

Not that she'd have any trouble finding that assistance; with all the post-riot camaraderie still permeating Precinct-1, it would be a slam-dunk for sure. Nonetheless, Judy was loathe to ask anyone to help her; ever the self-sufficient farm-girl. In the end, as always, she swallowed her pride and asked Officer McHorn to assist her up the ramp—although she balked outright at his offer to carry her upstairs.

When the door to Bogo's office opened, it wasn't the Chief she found waiting to greet her, but his visitor…a wolverine in a midnight-blue business suit. At the sight of him, Judy felt herself shrinking inwardly. Although the big mustelid carried not the slightest air of hostility about him, neither did he appear to have even the merest hint of conviviality. Truth be told, he was showing no emotion whatsoever. And, as if that weren't enough, this was not your average run-of-the-mill wolverine; even for a member of his species, he looked exceptionally fit and hard. As the old chestnut goes, this was not someone you'd want to meet in a dark alley.

There was also something vaguely familiar about him…although for the life of her, Judy couldn't remember where she might have seen him before.

Then Bogo spoke and the spell was broken.

"Detective Hopps…come in." His voice was both clipped and formal—even more so than usual, what the heck was going on here? "Sit down, please." He told her, indicating the smaller of two chairs in front of his desk.

"Do you need any help?" the wolverine asked, noting that the seat was still a bit high for her and extending a paw covered in dirty-white fur. Judy managed not to shudder while politely declining the offer.

It was only after they had taken their seats that Bogo explained his reason for having called for her on such short notice

"Detective Hopps," he said, indicating the wolverine in the chair next to hers, "this is Mr. Seth Whitepaugh, Chief of Field Operations for AKER Security Management."

"Detective," the wolverine nodded, reaching down to offer her that off-white paw again. This time, Judy took it, although she had to force herself not to turn away. And whoa—those pads of his were so hard and rough; it was like shaking paws with a belt-sander.

"Mr. Whitepaugh," she acknowledged, feeling her nose beginning to twitch. "Have we…met somewhere before?"

"Ah, we've never been formally introduced, Detective," the big mustelid replied, sitting back in his chair once again, "But I believe we may have crossed paths during the Carrot Days Festival earlier this summer. I was flown in following the, er, 'incident' with your Uncle Terrence, to deliver the antidote serum."

"Oh yes," Judy answered, forcing a smile. Good Lord, did this animal ever show any emotion? He might have been reciting from a textbook just now.

What she saw next did nothing to reassure her; turning to Chief Bogo and nodding as if giving him permission to speak.

"There's a reason for Mr. Whitepaugh's visit here today, Detective; and it has to do with last night's incident involving the Lewis boy—who, by the way, is now confirmed as having been on board the boat we were pursuing. I'll let him explain."

"Yes, well," the wolverine replied, still in that same toneless voice. "Last night, one of our hovercraft crews, on a training exercise in Zootopia Sound, made contact with the fugitive vessel and engaged in pursuit." He raised his paw defensively, an odd gesture, Judy thought…until she heard him go on.

"This was a completely unauthorized action on the part of the crew; they went after that boat without even so much as notifying Command of their action. And they did so in the hope of collecting the supposed reward being offered for the Lewis boy's capture."

Again, he spoke without feeling…but this time Judy could see his lip curl upwards and his fur spiking. Creepazoid or not, she could hardly blame him…especially in light of what he said next.

"I'll spare you the full account, Detective Hopps, but the upshot was the loss of a hovercraft worth six figures, and the threat of a seven-figure lawsuit by the Bearsk Shipping Company." His back straightened slightly. "Needless to say, the animals responsible have been dismissed with prejudice, and AKER intends to fully cooperate with the City of Zootopia should they choose to pursue any criminal and/or civil actions in this matter."

Cripes…now, he sounded almost robotic.

"That, of course, is a matter for City Hall and the Attorney General's office to decide," Chief Bogo interjected, nodding in the wolverine's direction "But there is another reason for Mr. Whitepaugh's presence here today; it seems that in the course of investigating the incident, AKER Security turned up some rather significant information regarding Conor Lewis."

Judy's ears shot up at once, her apprehension vanishing like vapor in the wind. All right, now we were getting somewhere

"Really, what did you discover?"

To her immense surprise, Mr. Whitepaugh began to fidget uncomfortably in his chair.

"Hm, yes, welllll…in light of…ah…recent events, we felt it unwise to relay this information via any sort of…erm, electronic means."

"Yes, of course," Judy nodded, wondering what the heck? Okay fine, no phone or internet, she got that; but here he was in furson, so…what was he waiting for?

His answer left her even more bewildered.

"My employer, Mr...La Peigne," he said the name as if it were being drawn from him with forceps, "wishes to relay that information in furson, Detective…at our headquarters office downtown. He…" His black eyes darted away for a second, "He specifically asked for you."

"What, me?" Judy was now completely flabbergasted. What in the name of all-git-out could Jack La Peigne have to tell the ZPD that was for her ears and hers alone? No use asking Whitepaugh, he probably didn't know either…although now at least she understood the reason for his discomfort; he was being forced to carry out a fool's errand.

She could almost begin to sympathize with him.

…Almost.

Instead, she looked questioningly at Chief Bogo, who responded by taking off his reading glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. It was a gesture she knew well; what the big Cape buffalo did when he didn't like something but was in no position to argue.

"Frankly, I'd rather hear it from Mr. Whitepaugh meself, Detective. However…" he raised a finger. "If those are Jack La Peigne's conditions, I see no reason not to accommodate him. This isn't the first time AKER Security has offered to share intelligence with the ZPD." He nodded briefly in the wolverine's direction. "And in the previous instances, I must concede, the information that they supplied turned out to be immensely valuable. To say nothing of their stellar record in managing Zootopia's Correctional facilities."

"Yes sir," Judy answered, offering a quick nod of her own. She couldn't think of anything else to say.

Chief Bogo could, however; the next few words he spoke were short, sharp, and to the point.

"Go with Mr. Whitepaugh. Talk to Mr. La Peigne, find out what he knows, and then report back here as soon as you're done."

"Yes, sir," the doe-bunny repeated, but then remembered something. She had expected to be on her way to Mammalcide again as soon as her visit with Bogo was over, but now… "Ahhhh, I'm supposed to report to…"

Once again, he was one step ahead of her.

"Yes, I know….and I've already notified Detective Sergeant Drescu that I need you for something else at the moment. She understands."

Judy allowed Seth Whitepaugh to get the door for her, but declined his assistance in descending the concourse. Not that she would have needed it anyway, being as this time it was all downhill. Likewise, when the limo in which he'd arrived pulled up, she allowed him to open the door for her. When he offered to help her inside however, that was where she drew the line, even though she could have used the assistance.

She did NOT want this animal touching her.

While Judy had long since shed her remaining prejudices concerning predators, there was something about this wolverine that set her teeth on edge. And it didn't help that the last time she'd taken a ride in a limousine, it had almost been the proverbial LAST ride. "Ice em!"

But when she finally managed to hoist herself inside—holy carrot sticks! This chariot made Mr. Big's limo look like a third-world rust-bucket. The floor was covered in Persian carpet; the lighting was LED, and…were those car-seats done up in…silk? There was a mini-fridge, there was a flat screen TV, and when Judy hopped into her seat, not only was it just the right size for her, it conformed to her body almost perfectly.

Ah, but then, why wouldn't it? Jack La Peigne might be a good deal bigger than the average bunny, but a bunny he was nonetheless. Oooo, she had never sat so comfortably; she wanted to live in this chair…

That was as far as her train of thought managed to get before Seth Whitepaugh climbed in after her, breaking the spell like a matchstick. And as the wolverine settled into his own seat, Judy became aware of another one of the limo's features; an option she hadn't noticed until now.

It was the windows. After three years with the ZPD, you had better believe this doe-bunny knew armored-glass when she saw it—and these panes looked thick enough to stop an anti-tank round.

When the limo pulled away from the curb, it moved like a blocky juggernaut, only gathering speed very slowly.

"Would you care for some carrot juice, Detective?"

It was her companion, indicating the mini-fridge with a wave of his dirty-white paw. He was trying to be gracious, but he was creeping her out again. That paw, where had he ever gotten that thing? He hadn't been born with it; that much was obvious.

Again, Judy managed a smile while declining the offer. Whitepaugh nodded and then removed a tablet from the side pocket on the opposite door, burying himself in an unspecified task and ignoring the doe-bunny as if she wasn't there.

No problem; that was perfectly fine by her.

They were on course for the Oswald Tower, the newest—and tallest—skyscraper in Zootopia. Opened the previous year, the building was known unofficially as the drill-bit for its geodetic, spiraling shape. Depending on who you talked to, it was either the most beautiful or the ugliest building in the city.

Judy had never been there, but she'd heard about it; the Oswald Tower was practically a city in its own right. There were shops, there were spas, there were restaurants and clinics; the food court supposedly took up an entire floor, all by itself…as did the 25-screen multiplex theater known simply as Cinetopia.

And if you still had doubts as to the size of the place, The Oswald Tower had not one but two zip-codes all to itself; one for the businesses on the lower half, and one for the upper floors—which were occupied exclusively by the offices of the various AKER Group firms.

These thoughts were cut off as she realized the limo was slowing to a stop. Hm, they must be coming to one of the checkpoints set up around Savanna Central Plaza.

No, wait…they had already passed through that area; the squat, sprawling architecture of the ZPD's home district was giving way to the soaring grandeur of downtown.

All right, but why were they stopping? The partition between the driver and passenger compartments was up, and it was impossible to see what was ahead of them. Nonetheless Judy was certain that they were nowhere near an intersection; policemammal's intuition.

"What's going on up there?" a voice beside her asked, in a soft, deadpan growl. It was the wolverine, Seth Whitepaugh, speaking into a phone receiver—presumably talking to the driver. As he listened to the answer, his face became even more expressionless; not just a mask, but an unfinished mask.

Without warning, he turned to Judy

"Stay here, I'll take care of this."

"Wha…? Take care of what?" she asked him, completely mystified.

But he had already opened the door, slipping away from the baffled doe-bunny as easily as a wisp of smoke.

Judy was sorely tempted to follow him, instructions or no instructions. Had it not been for her injuries, she would have. What the heck was going on out there? Wait…the phone he'd been talking on.

It was big for a bunny; she had to wrestle it from the cradle with both paws. The good news was that was all she needed to do. At once she heard the driver's slightly nettled voice. "Yes Detective, what is it?"

She decided to skip the preliminaries.

"What's going on; why are we stopped?"

There was no answer and at first, she thought he was ignoring her.

"Hey, listen…"

But then the front partition began to slide downwards, allowing her to see through the windshield. At once she had an answer to her question. Directly in front of the limousine was a double phalanx of tough-looking young mammals, and directly behind them was a crudely constructed barrier, a mash-up of dumpsters, trash-bins, ripped-up benches and what looked like the remnants of a bus-stop shelter. It was fitted with an even more crudely-rendered gate, really just a felled palm tree, sans leaf.

Ohhh-kay, now Judy got it; she'd been hearing about these things all morning. They had come to what the Precinct-1 Officers euphemistically referred to as an 'unauthorized toll-booth.' Cross our pawlms with silver, and you can go your merry way; otherwise…you don't REALLY want your car turned over, do you?

"As IF you could lift this vehicle!" Judy retorted, silently and tartly

Nonetheless, she felt her ears beginning to turn backwards. Dangit, why had Whitepaugh told her to stay put? A quick flash of her badge and those kids would be gone with the wind. And where in tarnation had that wolverine gotten to anyway?

Wait, there he was, standing toe-to-toe with…

Sweet cheez an' crackers; even for a full-grown grizzly bear, that kid would have been a big 'un. For a grizz his age, he was just plain ginormous, a walking, talking, walk-in refrigerator. His mode of dress wasn't exactly encouraging either; done up in biker duds and carrying an iron pipe—which he menacingly slapped into his other paw with slow, rhythmic, precision.

At the moment Whitepaugh was the one speaking, although she couldn't make out what he was saying. Ahhhh, stupid armored glass; if only Nick was here; he'd be able to read their lips…maybe.

Well, her former partner WASN'T here…and that wolverine hadn't said for her not to roll down a window, so…

She got it open just in time to hear the grizzly's guttural sneer.

"What're you gonna do. big guy…kick ALL our tails?"

He was answered by a chorus of laughter from the rest of his crew. Judy wanted to scream, "Run, get out of there!"

…at him, not at Whitepaugh.

"No," the wolverine responded coolly, offering an indifferent shrug, "just kill one of you."

All at once something was in his paw; it looked like a stalk of rebar. Judy missed what happened next; she blinked. But she did see the bar go shrieking through both sides of a dumpster—embedding itself in what was left of a wooden bench.

"I'll let you guess which one," Whitepaugh informed his adversary by way of conclusion—and that was the conclusion, because the grizzly kid wisely decided right then and there that this was not a good place to be.

Ditto for his homies. In mere moments, they were nowhere to be seen.

When the wolverine got back into the limo, he once again slipped into his seat like a shade.

For the next two blocks, Judy remained silent; too taken aback to speak. Whoa, she'd thought Conor Lewis was quick…but compared to Seth Whitepaugh, that kid was like a sloth on tranquilizers. And there was something else…something far more worrisome.

At first glance the wolverine had seemed to know exactly what he was doing. It's an old, established principle that if you put solid force on display—and show that you're willing to use it—chances are, you won't have to. And in this case, it worked to perfection.

Except…except…

Judy couldn't, for the life of her, shake the feeling that Whitepaugh had meant exactly what he said to that young grizzly, "…just kill one of you."

She couldn't wait to part company with this animal.

Her next surprise came when the limo turned down a driveway with the Oswald Tower at least a block away in the distance. (She could see it out the side window.)

"Private entrance," Whitepaugh murmured, having anticipated her question. He never once looked up from his tablet.

They descended down a shallow ramp and into a dimly-lit tunnel…which brightened noticeably as soon as the limo entered. As a burrowing species, Judy shouldn't have been bothered at being taken below ground and yet, she shouldn't help feeling creeped out again.

At the end of the tunnel, they exited into a parking garage; so cavernous, they might have accidentally driven into the Nocturnal District. Wheeling around the perimeter, the driver pulled to a halt before a bank of elevators, four of them with red doors, and four with blue doors.

The reds, Judy noted, were equipped with card-readers, and the one on the end was also fitted with a retinal scanner. Those, she guessed, were probably the ones that went up to the AKER floors.

And so, it came as no small surprise when Whitepaugh conducted her to a blue door instead.

"Taking you up to Reception to get your ID," the wolverine explained, having once again foreseen what was on her mind.

When the doors opened again, they found a smiling opossum waiting for them; an electronic clipboard clutched tightly in her paw. She was nicely dressed, but had a frazzled air about her. It reminded Judy of the time she'd caught up with Dawn Bellwether at City Hall, while seeking access to the 'jam-cams.'

"Detective Hopps," it was Whitepaugh speaking. "This is Ms. Polly Walters, Mr. La Peigne's fursonal assistant. She'll be taking care of you from here on in."

Judy wanted to cheer; she almost did. At last, she'd be free of this one-mammal strong-arm squad.

She settled instead for offering a paw to her new escort.

"Ms. Walters."

"Detective Hopps," the opossum responded, offering her own paw—and immediately dropping her clipboard. Oh Lordy, now she was practically channeling Zootopia's former mayor.

Judy bent down immediately to help her retrieve it. When she stood up again, there was no sign of Seth Whitepaugh; he seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

That was a little spooky, but also highly gratifying; goodbye—and good riddance.

"All right Detective, follow me please," Polly turned and beckoned with a pair of fingers.

Judy had no idea where the opossum was taking her. She might have, if she'd bothered to look where she was going, but she was too overwhelmed by her surroundings to take notice. Sweet cheez n' crackers; the Oswald Tower lobby was as big as a sports arena and as opulent as a luxury liner.

The ceiling—an ingenious hybrid of a gothic vault and a geodesic dome—seemed to soar to an impossible height, supported by a circle of spiraling, art-deco columns. Behind these, wrapping around the perimeter was a post-modern mosaic mural, depicting the history of the city of Zootopia. Here was the meeting of the Pred and Prey species at Council Rock, where they first agreed to set aside their differences. There was the construction of the Climate Wall, and further on, the dedication of Little Rodentia…although Judy couldn't help noting that Mr. Big was conspicuously absent from the image. Oh well, that was hardly surprising.

At the back of the lobby, there were two sets of escalators, one that went up to the food court and restaurants, and a second, taller pair, that led up to the cineplex. Good Lord, you could lose yourself for a month in this place.

Approaching the reception desk, which appeared to stretch for miles on end…Judy halted for a second with her nose twitching. What now? It was all of a uniform height…LARGE mammal height. There seemed to be no accommodations whatsoever for smaller species—much less rodents.

That was doubly surprising when you considered that the firm occupying most of this building was headed by a bunny…a king-size bunny to be sure, but the counter in front of her looked way too high, even for him.

She glanced curiously at her escort. "Uhhh, how am I supposed to…?"

"Just step up to the desk," Polly told her, looking almost…mischievous?

Judy was in no mood for games, but she did as the opossum suggested. At once there was a blue flash and she found herself being painted by a laser-scanner. A split second later, the floor beneath her began to rise upwards, while at the same time, the section of the reception desk in front her began to lower itself—until she found herself eye-to-eye with a big-horn sheep across a marble countertop; real marble not the processed stuff, a part of her couldn't help noticing.

"Good morning, Ken," the chipper voice of Polly spoke up from beside the doe bunny, startling her a little; she hadn't realized the opossum was there. "This is Detective Judy Hopps of the ZPD; she has an appointment to see Mr. La Peigne this morning and needs an ID badge."

"All right, then," the bighorn replied, nodding first at Polly, and then holding out a hoof in Judy's direction, "Detective Hopps, may I see your police badge please?" His tone was cordial but with just the slightest of edge to it.

"Yes, of course," she replied, laying it on the counter-top. Ken took it, placed it on a scanner and then returned it.

"Very good, speak your name please, last name first and middle initial last."

For a second Judy hesitated. She knew what was going on of course, he was recording her speech for voice-print…only, what the heck? She didn't see any microphones.

"Hopps, Judith L." she said…and then nearly started again when a snake-like object rose up from behind the counter; its singular red eye aimed directly between hers.

"Place your eye against the aperture please." The security ram told her, and again Judy hesitated—this time out of annoyance. A retinal scan; was that really necessary? Well…Jack La Peigne was a billionaire—and as such, a tempting target for kidnappers and/or extortionists.

She leaned forward and did as she was asked.

That was not, however, the end of her tribulations. Next, a device rose up from behind the counter; a gadget that looked like a cross between a microphone and a scaled-down blow-dryer.

"Hold your paw beneath the end please," the sheep instructed her. Judy complied, but her patience was rapidly ebbing.

"All right, but what the heck is this thingamabob?"

It was Polly Walters who answered her. "It's a scent reader," she explained quickly, having caught the impatience in the doe-bunny's voice. As if in response, the device whirred, sucking in a small plug of air. "And that's the last of it," the opossum said, hastening to reassure her guest, "you're now fully registered."

"Yes, just give me a second to get your badge, and you can go on your way," Ken, the bighorn sheep added, typing something into an unseen keyboard.

It literally did take only a few seconds before Judy heard a ping and saw him reaching over to his left. He came back with a laminated card, attaching it to a lanyard with a small flourish and then passing it over to her.

Judy took it but then frowned with her nose twitching. There was her picture on the front, but she hadn't seen any camera. And it had clearly been taken just now; there was that halo around her eye where the bandages had been.

Hmmm, she wasn't sure, she liked this…but then she felt herself being lowered back down to floor level; no chance to ask about it now.

Polly took her next to a security station between the banks of escalators…where a long row of metal detectors stood waiting. Unlike the reception desk, here there were passages for species of every size you could imagine. There was even an entrance that could have accommodated Mr. Big and/or Fru-Fru—and not much else. The entire affair was coded in bright, cheery colors; an effect somewhat muted by a starkly-lettered sign.

ATTENTION:

AUTHORIZED FURSONELL ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT!

Underneath the sign was a rolling display; presumably the same warning in a myriad of different languages.

Judy felt herself swallowing. By rights, she should have no worries; she certainly counted as authorized, and had the badge to prove it.

Still…there were at least half a dozen security guards minding the metal detectors, including another pair of wolverines. Lord a'mighty, the Zootopia Municipal Courthouse hadn't deployed this much security, even for the Dawn Bellwether trial!

Beyond the security station was a long bank of elevators, also color coded for the different floors. Polly ignored most of them and led Judy to the one in the far-left corner; the only one with a door covered in what looked like gold leaf.

"Let me guess," the doe-bunny smiled wryly, "Express elevator to the penthouse?"

It was meant as half a joke, but the opossum nodded instantly. "Mmm, something like that, Detective." She said, placing her eye against the retinal scanner

The door opened and they got on board.

But when it closed again, nothing happened; the elevator just sat there. It was on the tip of Judy's tongue to ask what was wrong when she happened to glance at the display panel—and saw the rapidly ascending floor numbers.

They were moving…rising at breakneck speed in fact. You just couldn't tell by the feel of it. And when they reached the top floor there was no sensation of stopping; the door simply opened as if this was where the car had always been.

Exiting in the wake of her escort, Judy found herself in a wide, curving hallway, illuminated by soft-spoken LED lights set in art-nouveau sconces. The walls were paneled in fine, dark wood, hung here and there with either a painting or vintage photograph.

And yet…something was off here, something the doe-bunny couldn't quite wrap her head arou…

Wait…yes, that was it; there were no doors along this corridor, at least none that she could see, just those endless, empty walls.

Empty, that is, until Polly brought her to the end of the hallway, and she found herself standing before a towering, teakwood double door, adorned with a simple, gold name-plate 'Jack La Peigne'.

For some reason, it reminded Judy of the entrance to a throne-room—an impression greatly enhanced by the dozen or so mammals seated around the foyer, presumably waiting their turn to see the big bunny. She even recognized one of them; Ray Louis, the muskrat who represented the Canal District on the Zootopia City Council. Hrm…it was no surprise to see him out and about today; last night's boat chase had taken place in HIS bailiwick. Only…what the heck was he doing here; shouldn't he be back in his office at City Hall right now?

These thoughts were interrupted when Polly Walters spoke, apparently to no one at all.

"Sir, this Ms. Walters; Detective Hopps is here."

"Good, good," the deep, familiar voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, "Please…show her in."

Polly reached for the door, but then La Peigne added, seemingly as an afterthought, "Oh…and please inform Councilmember Louis that I don't need to see him today."

It wasn't necessary, of course; the muskrat had heard it for himself. Letting out a squeak of frustration, he slid out of his chair and went stalking down the hallway, all the while muttering under his breath.

Watching him go, Judy couldn't help but be impressed—and not a little intimidated. She had known, from their first meeting, that Jack La Peigne was a powerful mammal.

But holy carrot sticks; she'd never imagined that he wielded enough clout to casually order around a member of the Zootopia City Council. It was quite the…

Oops…Polly was holding the door open and regarding her with a curious eye.

Judy strolled past the opossum and into the office. At once the impression of a throne-room vanished. This place was more like a cathedral; a high-tech cathedral—the First Church of the Next Millennium.

One soaring wall, for example, was occupied by a scrolling, holographic stock ticker, letters and number that meant about as much to Judy as a row of hieroglyphics. The overhead lighting was mounted on tracks, which, she suspected, could be moved with a simple voice command, or shifted to a different ambience. Here and there the mahogany paneled walls were graced with paintings; either brutalist, or expressionist, or a combination of both—exactly what you'd expect to find in the domain of a so-called 'Master of the Universe.' Ditto for the vault-sized refrigerator and well stocked private bar. There was no sign of a flat-panel display, but for sure there had to be one in here somewhere; probably concealed behind one of the walls. The most interesting feature of La Peigne's private sanctum was a small workout area, complete with treadmill, free-weights and a hard-bag that looked as if it had been pummeled on a regular basis.

And there, at the far end of the office, behind an Admiralty Desk, approximately the size of an aircraft carrier, sat the bunny whom she'd come to see.

Jack La Peigne might have been incredibly big for his species, but in this gargantuan space. he could almost have passed for a dwarf rabbit. For all that, he easily dominated his surroundings.

At first glance, there seemed to be nothing different about him from the first time he and Judy had met, the same dark eyes, the same blue-steel fur. If you were willing to discount his elegantly tailored, three-piece suit and matching tie, this was easily the same rabbit she'd initially encountered at the Carrot Days Festival.

And yet…

There was something different about him, something intangible…something the she couldn't quite grasp. Perhaps it was simply the fact that she was seeing him on his home turf for the very first time. Whatever the case, something told her that this was not quite the Jack La Peigne she knew from the Carrot Days Festival…and she wasn't sure how she felt about it.

At the moment, he was leaning back in his chair, tapping his fingers together while speaking through a headset.

"Very well…let's give the fox access, but make sure he's under escort at all times."

Judy felt her nose begin to twitch. Could 'the fox' he was referring to possibly be…?

Just then the big bunny happened to glance in her direction. At once, the tone of his conversation altered slightly. "Yes, I'm sure. We have nothing to hide, and this may have some bearing on what's been going on here in Zootopia." He paused, frowning as he listened; responding at irregular intervals with only a 'yes' or 'no' answer.

All the while, his eyes kept flicking in Judy's direction; at one point he raised an apologetic paw, spreading his fingers and mouthing the words 'four minutes.'

Judy nodded in response, more in resignation than understanding, but then her gaze happened to fall on the panoramic window, wrapping halfway around the office and offering a sweeping view of the city below.

For a moment she forgot why she was here. Whoa, she had never seen Zootopia from this angle before; she just had to get a better look.

Going to the window, Judy gazed in awe at the vista before her. She was instantly enthralled…except, why had the floor suddenly turned to a waterbed…and why was the scenery wavering in front of her? She tried to step back, but found that her feet had their own ideas about where they wanted to go.

A paw fell on her shoulder and she felt a tail wrap itself around her left leg, steadying her up again. It was Polly Walters. "Easy Detective."

Judy could have kicked herself—if her leg had been under control, she might actually have tried it; what a perfect way to start things off!

But then a voice spoke up from over on her left.

"Yes, I know; I've been in this office for more than a year now—and I still get dizzy when I look out that window sometimes."

Turning to look, she saw Jack La Peigne rising up from his desk with a wry expression on his face, "You know how it is, Judy; you can take the bunny out of the burrow, but you can't take the burrow out of the bunny."

That was almost good for a laugh; yes, they WERE both country rabbits. Instead, however, Judy frowned. She had not come here on a social call.

But the big bunny was already raising a paw. "Ahhh Detective…Detective; sorry, my bad." He went back to his chair and sat down again. "Please—have a seat, Detective Hopps."

He was gesturing towards one of the chairs in front of his desk.

"All right." Judy nodded and went over to it. It was a bit high, but nothing she couldn't…

Without warning the chair swiveled in her direction and lowered itself to the proper height. D'ohhh, after what she'd seen in the lobby—and since entering this office—she should have expected something like this.

Judy hopped into the seat, feeling it rise up to put her in eye contact with the big bunny on the other side of the desk. Polly Walters remained standing…but not outside the range of her boss's attention.

"Thank you, Ms. Walters," he said, consulting his watch for a second. "Hmmm, almost noon…why don't you go get some lunch, and then take the rest of the day off?"

Polly blinked…and then stared. "Sir, I still have to finish…"

"That wasn't a suggestion, Ms. Walters," La Peigne interrupted; his voice was sociable, but also firm. "Go on…get lost. We'll still be here when you get back."

"Very well, Sir." The opossum responded, sounding oddly stiff.

The big bunny watched her go and turned his attention to Judy, shrugging and sounding a little sheepish.

"I know, I know…I work her too hard; but what I don't know is how the heck I'd ever get by without her."

This time, he did manage to get a laugh out of the doe-bunny; quick but genuine.

But then she turned serious.

"Mr. La Peigne, you asked me to come here because…"

"Yes, yes, of course…business first." The big rabbit nodded and waved a paw. It disappeared for a second and then returned, holding an inch-thick folio, which he laid on the desktop in front of her. "Perhaps I'd better just cut to the chase, Detective…we've uncovered the Lewis boy's true identity."

Judy almost fell over backwards in her chair; in fact, she started to do just that, but it managed to catch her in time. Sweet cheez n' crackers, she'd been told that AKER had some valuable intel to share…but she'd never dreamed it could be this vital.

La Peigne, meanwhile, had his paw up again. "Before we go any further, Detective, I need to explain how it is that we came by this information; you'll understand when you hear."

He didn't say the next two words out loud, but Judy could swear she heard them just the same. "…I hope."

She sat back and folded her arms. "All right."

"It was Mr. Whitepaugh who made the discovery," the big bunny told her, indicating the file folder with a pair of fingers. Judy was mildly surprised; the wolverine hadn't said one word about it to her. Had he even mentioned it to Chief Bogo? Never mind, Jack La Peigne was still talking…with his ears laid back and his brow furrowing. "He made the discovery in the midst of the investigation into last night's 'incident' involving our hovercraft." He seemed to be barely maintaining his composure; hardly a surprise, but still… "As you know, Detective Hopps, our crew went in pursuit of that other boat in the hope of reaping a rather substantial reward for one of the animals on board, a young silver fox by the name of Conor Lewis." His foot began to thump like a kettledrum; so hard that Judy thought she could feel the floor, beginning to shake beneath her feet. "That reward, as I'm certain you're also aware, was nothing more than an online hoax, but anyway…" His foot stopped moving and he waved paw as if batting at a fly. "For reasons I'll explain momentarily, that information piqued Mr. Whitepaw's curiosity. He asked for, and received permission to examine the Lewis boy's police file—and discovered that he was living under an assumed name, and that furthermore, the ZPD was attempting to identify him by way of his DNA signature. While the lab had managed to isolate Mr. Lewis's genome, they'd, so far, been unable to match it to any other fox."

Judy felt her nose twitching and her own foot trying to thump. La Peigne saw her and spoke quickly with his next words.

"Please Detective…bear with me for just a few more seconds. On a hunch, Mr. Whitepaugh asked for a copy of the Lewis boy's genome file and ran it through the AKER database." His dark eyes locked with hers, "...and came up with a 99.8022% match."

What the…? Once again, Judy felt herself reeling backwards…but this time in disbelief rather than surprise. How the heck would the AKER group be in possession of THAT information? She folded her paws and waited.

But La Peigne said nothing more, only regarding her, silent and stone-faced.

All right then…

"Mr. La Peigne, with all due respect… how on earth could your company have come to have that information on file?"

He nodded at the folder again, "Because Conor Lewis, as it turns out, was a fugitive long before he ever set foot in Zootopia. Several years previously, he escaped from a youth facility in Zoo Jersey managed by the AKER Correctional Division—Granite Point, to be precise." He tapped a finger on the folder. "That's how we happened to have a copy of his genome in our data records."

"Ohhhh, sweet cheez n' crackers,'' Judy gasped under her breath. It was like watching someone throw a picture-puzzle into the air, and seeing all of the pieces fall perfectly into place. Oh, there were still a lot of questions to be answered. How the heck had Conor Lewis managed to pull off that identity change for instance; where the heck had he found the resources? It would have taken more than just the cash from those diamonds to make something like that happen…a LOT more

But at the same time…ah-haaa, so that was why he'd chosen to break out of jail when he'd had at least a decent chance of beating that assault case—and why he'd gone after her when she'd caught up with him in that auditorium. No matter what he did, he was on his way back to juvie….so what did have to lose by fighting her? It was as if the rabbit on the other side of the desk had pulled back a veil, revealing a dark and sinister world behind it.

And it was about to get a whole lot darker.

"I should mention, Detective, that Granite Point was—and still is—the proverbial end of the line in Zoo Jersey's youth correctional system. There's even a sort of joke about it. 'Q: how does a kid end up in Granite Point? A: He messes up everywhere else.'" He sighed and wearily shook his head. Judy was almost ready to do the same…except in her case, it would have been in disbelief, and perhaps even a little outrage. Okay, so perhaps that young silver fox wasn't such a good kid after all. That didn't make him a bad one and certainly not that bad. Craig Guilford…HE was that bad; bad to the bone and all the way through to the marrow—but not Conor, not him.

No!

Stinking!

WAY!

"I know Detective," La Peigne was all heart and sympathy. "He's the same young mammal that once saved you from being electrocuted." He reached forward and flipped open the file folder, pointing with a finger claw at a pair of photographs prominently displayed on the very first page.

Judy picked them up and looked—and immediately wanted to fling them away, wishing she could unsee the images before her—and once again grateful that her species was incapable of vomiting.

"Wha…what happened to those kids?" She asked, unable to stifle the tremor in her voice.

La Peigne's face became set in onyx.

"Alan…excuse me, Conor Lewis is what happened to them." He flipped the folder to the next page, pointing a second time. "On his first day in custody, he assaulted those other boys—and another young mammal who managed to escape without serious injury.

Judy felt her ears go up again. "Wh-Why would he do a thing like that?" she asked—and immediately wanted to bite her own tongue. Of all the dumb-bunny questions…!

Well, maybe so, but if that was the case, Jack La Peigne didn't seem to notice.

"For the same reason a lot of new inmates go out of their way to pick fights on their first day in jail—to establish themselves as someone you don't want to mess with." He shook his head again, looking almost disappointed, "Of course, it didn't quite work out that way. As you're no doubt aware, the Lewis boy ended up biting off more than he could chew—a LOT more." He took another sheet from the folder and offered it to her.

Judy took it only reluctantly, and even then, only because this time, there were no photographs.

What was written on the page, however, wasn't much better…a graphic description of how the young silver fox had come by his broken muzzle. Twice she had to stop reading, close her eyes and take a breath. She kept at it, though; horrified as she was, another one of her questions had been answered. There it was, right in front of her…

"…Grabbed him by the back of his neck…"

…And then…

"Ohhh, sweet cheez n' crackers, no wonder that fox kid went berserk when  I  grabbed him from behind like that."

It was almost enough to make her feel guilty; no, scratch that, she did feel guilty. What she didn't feel was, capable of reading through any more of that file. Who knew how many more Photographs from Hell awaited her in the following pages? Rummaging through her mind, she searched desperately for an escape hatch…and thought she found one.

"Mr. La Peigne, there seems to be a tremendous amount of material here; it would likely take us hours to go through all of it. Perhaps, it might be best if you just gave me a quick, verbal summary, and then we can study this information in detail when I bring it back to Precinct-1."

"Sounds like a plan," the big rabbit nodded sagely, clasping his paws atop his desk, "To be honest, I don't have a lot of extra time to spare myself today…Hmmmm." he rubbed at his chin with a finger. "Let's just start from the beginning. Al…Ah, let's just stick with Conor Lewis for now. The Lewis boy was initially arrested at a farmer's market in Pompton Plains, Zoo Jersey."

A…farmer's market? The news hit farm girl Judy Hopps like a kick to the midsection.

And it was only going to get worse. On the other side of the desk, Jack picked up the file folder and flipped through several pages before finding the one he wanted.

"He was caught stealing blackberries from a farmstand. The owner shooed him away, but didn't call the police or security." He looked up from the document, regarding Judy with a pair of hooded eyes. "That turned out to be a mistake on Mr. Bramble's part, because a short while later the Lewis boy returned and threw a makeshift Moletov cocktail into the stand."

"No!" Judy gasped and her paws went up to her face. No, no, no…that was exactly what Craig Guilford had done to that farmstand back in Bunnyburrow. Conor wouldn't…he couldn't have done a thing like that.

"Yes, I'm afraid so, Detective," La Peigne replied, a perfect portrait of more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger. "It was all caught by a security camera…you'll find it on disc, in here." He was tapping the folder again, nearly causing Judy to shrink away from it.

The big bunny noticed and gave her a moment to collect herself before moving on.

"Luckily, the bottle didn't break and Mr. Bramble was able to extinguish the fire before there was any damage. There's no camera footage of what happened next, but apparently the Lewis boy tried to resist when the officers took him into custody." His eyes met hers for a second. "Not violently, you understand; he just attempted to make a break for it. However, under Zoo Jersey State Law that counts as resisting arrest."

Judy could only nod dumbly at this, although she didn't want to. The Zootopia revised statutes said pretty much the same thing…and if she couldn't picture Conor trying to burn down a produce stand, she could easily imagine him running from the police; she had seen that for herself, after all.

"His booking and arraignment were more or less uneventful," the big rabbit continued. "except for the fact that he refused, point blank, to give his name. And as he carried no ID, the court had no choice but to assign him one." He picked up a document and consulted it. "Alannnnn…let me make sure…yes, Alan Murphy, there it is. Anyway, being as he'd been arrested for a violent offense, he was transferred to the Juvenile Medium Security Facility at Beardentown; standard procedure…and it was there that the assault described in those photographs you saw took place. From there he was transferred to the Juvenile Diagnostic and Treatment Center in Woolridge, Zoo Jersey and finally to the Maximum-Security Youth Facility at Granite Point." He regarded her with those hooded eyes again. "And that was where he really broke bad…and I must confess, AKER Correctional bears at least some of the responsibility for his downturn."

"How is that?" Judy's eyes were wide and her nose was twitching; she wasn't quite bowled over this time, but it was darn close.

La Peigne responded with a sound that might have been either a sigh or a grumble, and then heaved himself out of his chair. He seemed almost to be taking the weight of the world on his shoulders.

And then he turned to face the window with his paws behind his back.

"It's one of the sorriest episodes in the history of AKER Correctional Management, Detective Hopps." He turned and glanced over his shoulder for a second, "And as head of the corporation, I bear full responsibility. The long and short of it is that the mammals put in charge of managing Granite Point turned out to be corrupt to the core." He turned away again, and Judy saw his shoulders bunch—as if he was preparing to throw someone out through the window in front of him. "And I mean everyone—from the Superintendent's office, all the way down to the janitorial staff. Practically every single mammal who worked in that place was dirty…and it was the kids under their supervision who suffered for it." He turned to face her and she almost felt herself shrink again. It wasn't until Jack La Peigne stood up to his full height that you realized how truly colossal he was. "To put it bluntly, they turned Granite Point into a cross between a concentration camp and a gladiator school. I'll spare you the full details…except for one important item. They left much of the policing to the detainees themselves, specifically to a 'Goon Squad' of young offenders who were given extra privileges in exchange for keeping the others in line."

"And…the Lewis Boy," Judy almost choked on the name, "Was he…one of them?" She was praying hard that the answer would be no.

"I'm afraid so," the big bunny answered, shoulders slumping once again, "Though, if it's any consolation, he wasn't the ring-leader. That honor, if I could call it an honor, belonged to another young detainee; someone you may have heard of; Wesley McCrodon, aka The Bearfoot Bandit, aka 'Crazy Wez.' No sooner did the Lewis boy land in Granite Point than McCrodon brought him into the enforcer crew. Why he did that, I have no idea," He shrugged, "Except to say they didn't call that young sea-mink crazy for nothing. In any event, the Lewis kid eventually became his closest friend and confidant."

"I understand," Judy nodded. She didn't but she was beginning to; ohhhhh yes, she'd heard about that kid. "But when the Lewis boy escaped, did Crazy Wez go with him?" She knew he hadn't, or else the big bunny would have mentioned it already.

"Nope," La Peigne shook his head tightly; his expression was enough to put the 'iron' in irony. "The Lewis boy went off by himself and left him…which I thought was a sort of poetic justice, given that Wes McCrodon had done the same thing to a few of his 'partners' in the days before his arrest. In any event, that was what finally sent him over the edge. He just completely withdrew from everything and, as I understand it, he's been in that same state ever since."

"And Conor Lewis…what about him?" Judy asked. The information about Crazy Wez was all well and good, but it wasn't going to help her nab a certain fugitive young silver fox.

She was answered by yet another raised paw.

"I'll get to that in a moment, Detective—but for now, please indulge me."

"All right," Judy conceded, watching him take his seat again.

As if she had a choice…

Chapter 48: Everything You Know Is Wrong (Cont'd...Pt. 4)

Summary:

"...said the spider to the fly."

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 8: Everything You Know is Wrong
(Part 4…Cont'd)

"Strangely enough," Jack La Peigne had risen from his chair again, this time standing with his paw atop the antique brass globe, parked beside his desk. To Judy, he looked almost as if he was posing for a portrait. "In his own way, the Lewis boy was responsible for blowing the lid off the Granite Point scandal. It was in the course of investigating his escape that we learned of the abuses taking place there—almost stumbled upon them, really. The head of our Correctional Division was so horrified, he insisted on informing me fursonally…at two o'clock in the morning!" His paw fell away from the globe, clenching into a Gordian fist. "He was absolutely right to have done that Detective; I've never been so angry in all my life. I ordered the immediate closure of Granite Point and the suspension of everyone who worked there. The next thing I did was issue instructions that all files relative to the abuses taking place there were to be forwarded at once to the Zoo Jersey Penal Authorities…and hang the consequences. If there were going to be any civil or criminal penalties lodged against AKER because of Granite Point, then so be it."

"Except…WERE there any penalties?" Judy kept her thoughts to herself, but she couldn't keep them completely quiet. Had anyone gone to jail over that episode, had there been any fines to pay? What about lawsuits from angry parents? There must have been at least a few. She had no idea, but knew a couple of things, if nothing else. Granite Point was very much back in business, and AKER Correctional still had its contracts with the states of Zoo York and Zoo Jersey.

"…AND the City of Zootopia," her inner voice pointedly observed, nearly causing her to wince.

Well, she could talk about that later…maybe. That wasn't why she'd come here, and she'd given Jack La Peigne more than enough indulgence for one day.

"Yes, about the Lewis boy's breakout from Granite Point. He didn't pull off his escape from the Precinct-1 Jail without help from the outside—so may I assume that was also true of his flight from the AKER facility?"

La Peigne's reaction left her ready to be knocked over with a feather; he not only smiled, but actually grinned.

"Your assumption would be 110% correct Detective…and I'm glad you asked me that question. Were you aware that the Lewis boy's good friend, Wesley McCrodon is—or rather was—the great nephew of the notorious arms merchant, James 'The Mister' McCrodon?"

"I am," Judy answered, wondering what the heck this had to do with the price of carrots in China.

"All right, then." Jack sat himself down again, leaning across the desk on his elbows. He seemed pleased that she was aware of that fact. "But were you further aware that no sooner did Wez McCrodon begin serving his sentence, than his uncle started a campaign to secure his release?"

There was silence for a moment before the doe-bunny finally answered him…in a soft, flat voice.

"That, I didn't know." Actually, she thought she had heard something to that effect, although at the moment, she couldn't remember where.

"Yes," Jack was nodding soberly, "And we blocked his efforts every step of the way. Er, by 'we' I mean AKER Correctional and the State of Zoo Jersey. No way did either one of us want a kid like that let loose on the streets again. Eventually, the Mister decided that if he couldn't secure his nephew's freedom through legal means, he'd set up a jailbreak instead." His eyes found hers again, "and that's how the Lewis boy was able to escape from Granite Point, the only detainee ever to pull it off." He concluded with a wince; one that made him look as if he'd bitten into an unripe persimmon. For Judy it was a bit of a revelation. After all this time, it still rankled him that Conor had managed to put a blemish on Granite Point's otherwise spotless escape record. She might have made a note of it, except that she had other things on her mind. Obviously, Conor had been part of Wez McCrodon's escape plan. Jack La Peigne hadn't said so outright, but if the two of them had been that close, well…

Hold it, holllld it! There was something he wasn't telling her.

"But you must have seen it coming!" she protested. "You must have known that given his record, sooner or later, the McCrodon boy would try to make a break for it."

"We did," the big bunny asserted, raising his paws defensively, "And that's why he's still in custody. What we didn't count on was Conor Lewis. As you might have imagined, Wez only brought him along to serve as a distraction while HE made good on his escape. It almost worked—except the Lewis kid was smart enough to have figured out that he was being set up. He more or less turned the tables and then HE got away while McCrodon ended up back in his cell."

"And then a mental hospital," Again Judy thought but didn't say it. Considering what she'd heard about the cruelties going on at Granite Point, she strongly suspected that Wesley McCrodon hadn't gone off the deep end on his own. He'd been given a push…a big one.

But what about Conor, what had happened to him?

Even before she could ask the question, the answer was already on its way.

"As for the Lewis boy…honestly, we never expected to see that young silver fox alive again. Everyone agreed that when The Mister found out how he'd conned Wez into taking the fall for him, that'd be all she wrote. NOBODY double-crossed that sea mink's family and got away with it." He reached up to rub the back of his neck. "Only it didn't work out like that; when McCrodon got word that his nephew was locked up in a psych-ward, he just plain wrote the kid off and forgot about him." He lifted a paw and waved it. "That's the kind of animal he was, Detective; if you weren't any use to him, then as far as he was concerned, you didn't exist."

Judy started to answer, but instead formed her paws into a 'T' feeling her nose beginning to twitch.

"Wait, hold it; if you knew where Conor…where the Lewis boy was, then why didn't you simply go and get him?"

La Peigne clasped his paws together, regarding the view out the window for a moment.

"That's…complicated, Detective. First of all, like I said, we didn't expect him to last more than a week with The Company. It wasn't until sometime later that we learned differently; not only was that fox-kid still alive, he was working for the Mister as his fursonal bicycle-messenger. Second, and more important," His eyes found hers again. "We didn't have the authority. Once the Lewis boy was no longer in our custody, it was up to the Zoo York City Police to bring him in, and…" He stopped, drumming fingers into the crook of his elbows. "And you're not going to like this Detective, but it has to be said. The ZYPD isn't the ZPD—about as clean as a junkyard by comparison. And that's important, because look at who ended up having custody of that silver fox…The Company, one of the most powerful and certainly THE most dangerous crime cartel on the East Coast—with plenty of cash and even more leverage."

He stopped again, sitting back in his chair and bracing himself for the inevitable angry rejoinder from the bunny seated in front of him. How dare he besmirch her brother officers?

Judy might have delivered one too, except…

She had already heard from Chief Bogo about Nick Wilde's adventures in Zoo York; how the ZYPD brass stonewalled his visit to One Police Plaza. In that context, like it or not, what La Peigne had just told her was entirely believable.

And so, she simply nodded for him to continue…which he did.

"And—I'll admit it—our legal department wasn't so sure they wanted him back…not in the wake of the Granite Point scandal. "We're in for a bad enough time as it is, without that fox-kid becoming the star witness in a class action lawsuit,' is what they told me…Wait, no…" he was hurriedly raising his paws again. "I didn't like it any more than you, Detective; I had to practically hold a gun to certain animals' heads to get them to keep pressing for his return to our custody. In any event," he took in a breath and held it for a second, "it all became moot when he ended up getting killed in a fight with a Russian street gang."

Again, he paused, and again he seemed to steel himself…and again, it was superfluous; his bombshell was only a wet firecracker.

"Yes, I already heard about it from Councilmember Nizhang," Judy pointed a cool finger at the folder on the big bunny's desk, eyes narrowing a little, "Except he didn't die, and now we have the proof."

She had allowed her voice to become a tiny bit accusatory, just enough so that La Peigne couldn't fail to notice.

Indeed, he did not; bolting half-way out of his chair with his right foot thumping like a triphammer

"Take it up with the ZYPD; like I just said, it was their investigation, not ours! All right, yes, we did suspect that the Lewis-kid's death might have been faked. God knows, if there's anyone who could have pulled that off, it was The Mister…but there was nothing we could do to prove it. The city rejected every single one of our requests to have his body exhumed…and then they started hinting that, in light of the Granite Point Scandal, they might have to re-examine their contract with AKER Correctional…unless, of course, we stopped harassing them about 'certain other matters' as they rather indelicately put it." He rose abruptly to his full height. "And now you know why we moved our headquarters from Zoo York City to Zootopia. I don't like being bullied, Detective Hopps."

Judy only sat, looking up at him with an indifferent expression. She was surprised at how calm she felt in the face of such a vehement tirade.

But then he wasn't trying to intimidate her; he wasn't even angry with her, really. It was the Zoo York PD that was the target of his wrath. And if what he was saying was true, he had every right to be upset.

In any event, his ire was already beginning to ebb.

"Sorry, think I got a little carried away there, Detective." He took his seat again, at the same time smoothing down his suit-jacket. "But please…try to understand. Conor Lewis might be Public Enemy Number One right now—but at the time of his escape from Granite Point, he was more or less a nobody. Compared to what some of the other kids in that facility had done to be sent there, his offense was downright petty. And that's especially true when you stack him up against Wez McCrodon; believe me, if that escape had gone off as planned and HE'D been the one that got away, the ZYPD would have spared no effort to bring him back—Mister or no Mister."

"Hmmm," Judy stroked her ear, looking thoughtful. Conor…Public Enemy Number One? She didn't like the sound of that, but the rest of what La Peigne had said made perfect sense. After all, that was more or less the story of the fugitive young silver fox's escape from the Precinct-1 jail. Before that. what had he been, but a minor player at best? Heck, it hadn't been him the Attorney General's office wanted; it was the animal he'd been working for, the mysterious loan-shark known only as The Phantom. And even then, it wasn't until after the 'I-Fought-The-Law' graffiti plague had hit that he'd become such a high priority target. If not for that, his actual identity would probably still be an unknown quantity.

And, on that subject…

"Mr. La Peigne, do you have any idea what Conor Lewis's real name is? I mean his birth-name."

"Nope," the big bunny threw up his paws in frustration, "That's why we ran a DNA comparison on him in the first place. And it came up dry, no known relatives, at least none that were in any database."

Judy's nose began to twitch again.

"Well, yes…but didn't he ever…?"

"Nope, he never told anyone, not even Wez McCrodon," Once again, the big bunny had anticipated her question. "And believe me, if he had, we would have heard about it. There were no secrets in Granite Point, at least not in the bad, old days; back then, that place was a rumor-sweatshop."

At this, Judy couldn't help smiling. One thing you had to give this bunny; he for sure had a way with the words.

And there were more where those came from.

"One thing we were fairly certain of was that the Lewis boy was an orphan. He fit the psych profile so perfectly, it almost could have been tailor-made, just for him."

"Right," Judy nodded, jotting a mental note. At last, here was some information that might aid in apprehending the fugitive young silver fox. Something else occurred to her then; probably not relevant, but she felt she should ask it. "Tell me…did the Lewis boy ever show any sort of…er, musical aptitude while he was locked up in Granite Point?"

"None that I'm aware of," La Peigne answered and then lifted a paw. "But then he wouldn't have had much of a chance. Musical instruments aren't allowed in any of our high-security facilities…especially not a guitar." By way of demonstration, he raised his fists and twisted them in the air…pantomiming the act of garroting someone.

"Yes, of course," Judy nodded. That wasn't what she'd meant, but she decided to let it go. There was another, more important question to be asked….and the big bunny had unwittingly just provided her with an opening.

"Then, may I presume that there was no such thing as computer access for the detainees in Granite Point?"

"You may," La Peigne nodded. There was no defensiveness in his voice; only a crisp matter-of-factness. "They weren't even allowed to have cell-phones, although that didn't prevent them from being smuggled in every once in a while; back then, our correctional officers were, um, not immune to taking bribes. Someone even managed to sneak in a tablet once, although that was before the Lewis boy's time there." He lifted an ear, "But I have to wonder, why would you ask?"

Judy answered the question with one of her own.

"With a rule like that in place, would it be a safe bet that some of the kids locked up in Granite Point were there for computer crimes?"

"Hmmm, yes, but not that many," the big bunny answered tentatively, as if unsure where this was going. "The average hacker isn't violent by nature, as I'm sure you're aware." But then his other ear went up and he snapped his fingers. "Ahhhh, you're thinking that Granite Point may have been where the Lewis Boy first began to acquire his computer skills?"

"Not exactly," Judy fanned a paw, "I thought that Granite Point may have been where he first met…" She paused and switched gears. "Look, I know there's no such animal as The Phantom, but the Lewis boy was definitely working with somebody; somebody that—it's pretty obvious by now—was the REAL cyber-talent in that partnership. Even with the best mentor in the world, that fox-kid couldn't have acquired such a high level of computer savvy in the time he was with The Company…and the fake writ of release that he used to get out of jail? That wasn't his work, it couldn't have been. Someone else would have had to create it."

"Ahhh, I see." A slow light was flickering in Jack La Peigne's eyes. "You think they might have actually met face-to-face, and that Granite Point might have been where it happened." He sat back in chair, steepling his fingers. "That's an interesting thought Detective, but there's something else I think you need to consider; whoever the Lewis boy's partner is, it has to be someone he can trust—not just completely, but also blindly."

Now Judy was the bunny with a raised ear. "Huh, why do you say that?"

La Peigne pointed at the folder again. "According to what's in his ZPD file, the Lewis boy first came to Zootopia as a diamond courier for The Mister. And then, while he was here, the Finagles raid happened and The Company was completely wiped out—only two survivors, and both of them are locked up for good. That left him with something on the order of six figures worth of cash in his possession. Am I correct?"

"Ah yes, that's rightt," Judy's answer was a little unsettled. Whoa, this bunny knew a LOT more than she'd thought about the Conor Lewis investigation. The information he'd just cited was less than ten hours old.

"Right," the big rabbit was nodding tersely. "So, his partner might have had the computer smarts, but HE was the one with the capital—and I don't think I need to tell you what an excess of cash can do to an illicit partnership."

No, he didn't. Judy could feel her face hardening as she thought about it. How many times had she witnessed that scenario? A crook has a friend, a close friend, someone he's known since they were kids. Perhaps he saved his buddy's life once, or took the fall for him; heck, they could even be brothers. So, one day he gives his friend $50K in hot money for safekeeping—and the next thing he knows, it's gone, spent, stolen, or gambled away.

And then what's he going to do, call the cops? Oh yes, she knew exactly what the big bunny was talking about. As her former partner, Nick Wilde, had once wryly observed, "Blood may be thicker than water, Carrots—but nothing is thicker than cold, hard, cash."

And La Peigne had a lot more to say besides.

"And loyalty wasn't all that easy to come by in Granite Point—not back then, Detective. The detainees were always sticking it to each other…sometimes literally." His ears turned backwards again, "And that was exactly how the administration wanted it. As long as those kids were busy fighting amongst themselves, they would never pose a threat to their keepers."

"Riiiight." Yep, here was another principle that Judy understood all too well; divide and conquer.

But then…wait a minute.

"Okay, but what about the Wez McCrodon crew? From what I've heard, and from what you yourself said just now, they sound like a pretty solid group to me."

"That was different," La Peigne retorted, cocking a finger, "It wasn't loyalty that kept that gang together, it was fear…fear of the mammal in charge. When it came to holding a grudge, nobody could touch Wez McCrodon; he'd wait a hundred years to get back at anyone who crossed him. One time, he piped another detainee and got three weeks in separation for his troubles. Five minutes after they let him out, he jumped the kid a second time and piped him again—right in front of an officer; that sea-mink boy just didn't care, Detective." He rubbed finger under his nose and sniffed. "And by the way, that kid he attacked? He was a snow-leopard, nearly twice his own size." He sat back again, spreading his paws. "Like I said, they didn't call him 'Crazy Wez' because the name had a nice ring to it. Oh, and guess who he left in charge of the crew while he was away?"

Judy didn't want to make that guess and so she banished the thought instead.

"Ah, I get it," she nodded, and she did, too—including the part that the big bunny had left unsaid.

The McCrodon crew had been Granite Point's unofficial enforcers. And because of that, she was willing to bet that three weeks in solitary was a slap on the wrist compared to what any regular kid would have gotten for taking a pipe to another detainee.

But they were getting off topic again…and this time, she wasn't the only one to notice.

"Even so, Detective…I don't think we can completely dismiss the possibility that the Lewis boy may have met the…errr, Phantom, or whoever, while he was being held in Granite Point. I'll have a list compiled of detainees from that period who were incarcerated for computer crimes, and then have it forwarded to Precinct-1 by courier."

"Good, thank you sir." Judy was pleased to have made her point in spite of the big bunny's demurrals. It was a long shot of course, but…

…But then she felt her nose beginning to twitch yet again; something else had just occurred to her.

She straightened up in her chair and looked her host squarely in the eye.

"Mr. La Peigne, with all due respect, there's something I don't understand here." She reached up, tapping the folder with her finger. "Mr. Whitepaugh could just as easily have relayed this information during his visit to Precinct-1. Why did you feel the need to bring me here and tell me fursonally?" Her foot was trying to thump; she stopped it. "And…why ME?"

Judy sat back and braced herself, expecting a dodge at best, possibly some bluster, and at worst, a curt dismissal from the big bunny's presence.

None of those things happened. Instead…what the heck? He was practically squirming in his seat—looking even more uncomfortable than Seth Whitepaugh had, back in Chief Bogo's office.

"Yes…well," La Peigne reached up to tug at his collar. "I had hoped to save this for the end of our session, but…" His paw went under the desk and Judy heard a drawer slide open. A second later, it returned, holding a Manila envelope. "Before they crashed, the crew on board our hovercraft managed to get a good look at the occupants on board the Lewis boy's boat…or rather at one of them in particular." He slid the envelope towards her, adding, "The black box survived undamaged and we were able to access it via Wi-Fi." He lost her gaze for half a second. "I really hope I'm wrong about this, Detective, but…" He pushed the envelope the rest of the way across the desktop.

Judy stared at him for a second, and then at the thing on the desk. As she reached for it, she could feel not just her nose, but her fingers twitching. Taking hold of the envelope, she found that she was barely able to undo the clasp—and also barely able to stop herself from just tearing it open like a party-favor.

But when she pulled out the document…nothing. It was just a blank…oh, wait, it wasn't a document, it was a photograph, and it was facing the wrong way.

She turned it around—and felt her heart shoot into her throat. And that was not such a bad occurrence, since it was the only thing that kept her from screaming her ears off.

"Oh, my God…ERIN!"

No, no, no…this couldn't be right. Her sister would never…! And yet there she was in the flesh and fur, right in front of her. Okay, well then, she must have been brought aboard that boat against her will. Yeah, that was it…look, they had her belted up in some kind of restraining harness. Only…why was she holding a tranq-gun in her paws, holding it like she meant business? All right then; that picture must be a deep-fake.

"No, it isn't, and you know it!" Her inner voice shot back, archly.

"Nnnngh," a painful half-groan, half-sigh, came from the other side of the desk. The look on her face had not escaped Jack La Peigne's notice. "Ohhhh, I had so hoped it wasn't her; I'm truly sorry, Detective."

Judy looked up and saw him, he looked positively wretched…as if the bunny in that photograph was HIS younger sister.

But…how had he recognized…? Oh wait, he must have seen Erin at the Carrot Days festival.

An epiphany came to her just then…bringing with it a blinding flash of rage and a nasty suspicion. Ooooo, just what kind of bunny did this overgrown so-and-so think she was? He had better NOT have brought her here because…

"Mr. La Peigne," she said—in a voice that was very, very even. "Who else knows about this besides you and me?"

"Well, the crew on board the hovercraft, of course." He seemed put off by the question. "And the techs who processed it…but none of them have the slightest idea as to the identity of the bunny in that picture; as far as they know she could be anyone." He nodded at the photograph. "Other than that, no one's aware that this picture even exists, not even Mr. Whitepaugh."

He appeared to be attempting to reassure her, but instead, she felt her anger tick up a notch. When she spoke again, it was in the most formal manner she could muster.

"Sir, I appreciate you giving me this information…but not so much the manner in which you delivered it, going out of your way to keep it a secret from everyone else but me." Her eyes locked into his, "And I hope—I really hope—you did NOT do so with the expectation that I would want to cover it up."

In the blink of an eye, La Peigne was out of his seat again.

"Sweet cheez n' crackers Detective! Of course not, I know you better than that. I just wanted you to be the first to know, that's all, before…I…" He looked down and away, drumming his fingers on the desktop, his voice lowering to an uncertain murmur. "I…just didn't know what else to do."

That did the trick; the wind went out of Judy's sails as if sucked away by a vacuum. Yet again, he had responded with something completely unexpected…and dang, if he didn't sound completely sincere. Okay, maybe she had every right to be angry, but what right did she have to take it out on him?

She immediately lifted her own paws.

"Sorry, that was out of line. I'm just…kind of in shock over what I saw just now. Three days ago, my little sister was on her way to the Zootopia Academy of the Performing Arts. But now…" Judy sniffed and turned away, unable to say any more, not wanting him to hear her voice cracking.

But now what would happen to Erin? When the Performing Arts Academy got wind of this pic, they'd never admit her into their school, much less allow her to keep her scholarship.

"Ohhh sis, what's WRONG with you?"

That was as far as her train of thought managed to get, before she applied the air-brakes. "All right, that's enough; you can be mad at your sister later. Right now, you're a police detective and you're still on duty."

And Jack La Peigne was still talking to her.

"That's all right, Detective; perfectly understandable." He spread his paw across the center of his chest. "And you have my word, nothing you said just now will ever leave this office."

"Thank you," Judy answered him, in a voice that felt very small.

"No problem," the big bunny answered, offering the barest hint of a smile. And then, apparently sensing that she didn't want to talk about her sister any more, he moved quickly to another subject.

"I've instructed our Cyber-Security Division to see if they can track down the source of that fake reward offer. According to what my techs tell me, it was no simple prank. Somebody wanted the Lewis boy taken down."

"What…who?" Judy answered, nose twitching all over again. Yes, when you gave it a little thought, here was something else that made a great deal of sense. And La Peigne was certainly within his rights to investigate that bogus reward offer. After all, it had ended up costing his firm a hovercraft and possibly a lot more money in a legal settlement.

"No idea," the big bunny admitted, lifting his paws in a shrug, "Except…what it tells me is, whoever posted that fake reward, it has to be somebody that knows the Lewis boy." His eyebrow lifted and the corners of his mouth went in opposite directions. "Knows him—and doesn't like him very much."

"Hmmm," Judy hunkered into herself for a second, thinking hard. She couldn't imagine anyone hating Conor enough to pull that kind of betrayal on him. But then again…a week ago, she couldn't have imagined him going after her with a baton. And, let's be honest, the kind of life he'd led was very much the sort that bred enemies; there was another set-up she'd seen play out before. It didn't feel plausible…and yet at the same time, it felt almost inevitable.

"I would also not be surprised," La Peigne was speaking again, "if the animal, or animals, who posted that dummy reward were to up and try something similar in the near future."

Nuh-uhhhh…not this time…

"Not for a while, I think," Judy slowly shook her head and then looked up at him, "Not if they've got any smarts, anyway. That stunt seriously ticked off a LOT of mammals—and not very nice ones. Those Privateer gangs, the Chaungs and the Deguellos; they're mad at the Lewis boy right now, obviously…and each other. But what really has their dander up is that they got suckered into a goose chase; one that ended up with a bunch of their guys going to jail—and more than a few of their boats going to the bottom of this or that canal."

"Yes-s-s-s-sss," La Peigne's reply was like the hiss of a broken steam-line, "Yes, we weren't the only ones who lost a vessel to that…goose-chase, as you call it." He nodded and cocked a finger. "Good call, Detective…and yes, I think you're right. Our hoaxers would be very well advised to lay low for a while."

Just then, a pinging noise sounded somewhere in the office. Judy had no idea where it was coming from…until she noticed that the bunny behind the desk was studying his wristwatch.

"Ahhhh, 'fraid we need to wrap this up, Detective. I've got a meeting scheduled and just enough time to grab lunch before it starts." He rose from his chair with that tilted smile again, "I've never negotiated well on an empty stomach, you see." He seemed to fidget again for a second, "I'd…ask you to join me, but…well, under the circumstances…"

"No, that would actually be okay, Mr. La Peigne," Judy interrupted quickly, making a hasty exit from her chair; a little too hasty. She felt an instant tearing sensation in her side. It wasn't especially painful and for once, she was able to ignore it.

She wanted more information before she took her leave of this rabbit, a lot more.

Just the same, she'd need to be careful of her injuries if she didn't want to end up back in the ER again.

"All right then Detective," La Peigne's smile had changed from sardonic to genuine. "Let's go."

A short while later they were eight floors down in the AKER executive dining room, an eating space that made the Palm Hotel's Golden Oasis Room look like a fast-food joint; silk brocade on the walls, crystal chandeliers overhead, an intricately designed parquet floor beneath their feet, and the inevitable wraparound picture window. There was even a piano on a raised dais—two of them in fact; one for small mammals and another for those of medium-to-large size. At the moment however, both were unoccupied.

By now Judy understood the real reason why she had agreed to join Jack La Peigne for lunch—loathe as she was to admit it. She could tell herself that she wanted more info from him until she was blue in the ears. But the truth of the matter was, she was stalling; putting off the inevitable moment when she would have to inform Chief Bogo that her sister had been on Conor's getaway boat.

Or…never mind the Chief; how on earth was she going to break the news to her mother…or Violet? She knew she'd have to; they were going to find out for themselves, sooner or later. And then, what if they further discovered that she had known all along and said nothing to them about it?

"Errrrrinnnn! For God's sake…! And where the heck is the waiter with that chair?"

Entering the dining room, La Peigne had led her to his private table, situated on a glassed-in half-balcony overlooking Tundratown Ridge. And there they'd been obliged to wait, since both of the chairs were too large for a standard-sized bunny—and this time, they weren't self-adjusting.

While they waited, the big rabbit thumped his foot—although not impatiently; he seemed to be trying to make up his mind about something. When, at last, a goat appeared, carrying with him a long legged small-species chair and spouting profuse apologies, La Peigne insisted on helping her into it, as if to make up for the delay.

Taking his own seat, he informed the waiter, "My usual, please."

"Make that two," Judy piped up at once. She had no idea as to what Jack La Peigne's 'usual' was, but since he was another rabbit—and a Bunnyburrow rabbit at that—she figured it was a safe enough bet.

Well yes, but…

"All right, but appropriate portions, please," the big bunny amended for the waiter, indicating Judy with a nod of his head, "and mildly spiced for my guest."

"Yes sir, right away," the goat replied, bowing out quickly and silently.

La Peigne waited until he was gone and then turned to Judy.

"Hrm, I think, before anything else, Detective…"

"Ah, Judy's fine," she interrupted. They were no longer in a formal setting, so…okay.

"All right," the big bunny nodded, "and call me Jack. Anyway, what I wanted to say was that before anything else, I think we need to clear the air about something…about the elephant in the room." He indicated himself with an inward wave of his fingers. "Or rather, the elephant-sized rabbit in the room."

At this Judy blinked and tried to raise a finger. Oh, come on, he wasn't THAT large.

Well-l-l, maybe not but he was one step ahead of her.

"I know you'd never be rude enough to ask, Judy. But at the same time, I know you can't help wondering about it; everyone does. How the heck did a bunny ever get to be this size?" He leaned forward, pressing a finger into the tabletop. "And I've always found the best way to deal with it is to meet it head-on; get it out in the open, right up front. And so…" He rolled a paw in the air, leaving the rest unsaid.

"Sure, go ahead," Judy answered, trying to sound chipper. The truth of the matter was, she had been wondering how he'd gotten to be that big, ever since their first meeting. "So, let's get it out of the way and be done with it." He was right about that too.

Good idea or not, it wasn't easy for him; he spent the next few seconds scratching at the base of his ear, as if trying to figure out how best to put it.

And then at last, he looked at her.

"Perhaps you may have heard the 'unofficial-official' version of the story, that my ancestors were Flemish rabbits who bred themselves to great size in order to fight off the Roman invaders. No? Just as well; only the part about my family coming from Belgium is true. The rest is a nice, convenient story, but a complete fabrication. The truth, in fact, is just the opposite." He leaned forward again, this time with an elbow on the table. Bad manners, but under the circumstances, Judy didn't mind.

"Believe it or not, I was actually the smallest in my family, the runt of the litter, if you like. Everyone used to tell me that one day I'd grow out of it, but it didn't happen. Even after I hit puberty, I didn't start to put on any size. In fact, for a while there, it looked like I was going to grow up to be a pygmy rabbit. Finally, as a kind of a last resort, I was put on growth hormones." He sat up and spread his arms, "And, as you can see, they worked—a little too well. In less than two years, I went from being the smallest to the biggest bunny in my family."

"Wh-What was that like for you?" Judy asked him. She couldn't begin to imagine. On the surface, it sounded like a good thing…a little too good to be true.

La Peigne's elbow moved from the table to the back of his chair.

"At first I was thrilled," he said, heaving the words like a sigh. "At last, I was as of a size with my schoolmates. Now, maybe, they'd stop teasing me and let me hang with them. When I grew to be a little bit bigger than they were, I thought I was the luckiest bunny in the world, but then…" He turned sideways in his chair, his mouth becoming a tight, flat line. "But then I KEPT growing…until, all of sudden everyone in my school was scared of me. And not just my classmates, the teachers were put off too. I had to sit all the way in the back with the bigger-species kids; none of the other bunnies in my class could see the teacher, the chalkboard, or anything, if my desk was in front of theirs."

There was no self-pity in his voice, no bitterness; he spoke the words as a simple statement of fact. Nonetheless, Judy couldn't help but feel some sympathy. She had heard from Mac Cannon about what the Burrow County Sheriff's Department had found when they'd entered the Guilford home—formerly the La Peigne family warren. All of the tunnels and doorways had been enlarged to more than double the standard dimensions for a rabbit. Several walls had been knocked out as well, to increase the size of a number of rooms.

At first, Judy had assumed—and now she wondered why she had—that the alterations had been made to accommodate the former rabbit-warren's new tenants, a family of coyotes. Now, she knew differently; it had all been done for the bunny sharing her table…and knowing that, it was impossible to keep her heart from going out to him. She searched her mind for some words of reassurance, latching onto the first thing that came to her without really giving it much thought.

"You must have been great at sports though."

THAT woke up her inner voice in a hurry.

"No, no, nooooo…dumb, Dumb, DUMB bunny!"

La Peigne only gave her that lopsided smile again.

"You'd think…except you know how you get all awkward when you go through your growth-spurt? That was me, a hundred times over; I could trip over a crack in the sidewalk, I was so clumsy. It wasn't until later, when I discovered martial arts, that I finally got a handle on it." Without warning, he sat back and spread his arms. "Anyway, that's my story and I'm sticking to it." He said this while clapping his paws together and, in that instant, he looked more like a rabbit out of Bunnyburrow than Judy had ever seen him—even during the Carrot-Days Festival. "And please, no sympathy." He raised a paw as if being sworn in on the witness stand. "Whatever kind of past I may have had; I have NO reason to feel sorry for myself now."

Judy wanted to cheer; good for him. She might have done it too—except the waiter chose that moment to return with their food.

It consisted of a variety of different veggies, grilled and garnished with a chunky-green sauce. Judy had no idea what she'd just been served, but whatever it was, it looked and smelled delicious.

"Chimichurri vegetables," La Peigne offered helpfully, having noted her curious expression.

"Ah, okay." Judy looked up and nodded, repeating the name. "Chimi…Churi; Uhhh…Japanese?"

"Peruvian actually," the big bunny chuckled, "I ran into it on a business trip some years ago and I've been hooked ever since." He picked up his fork and pointed, "Go on, try it."

Following the suggestion, Judy took a tentative bite…and then immediately wanted to tuck in, full force. Sweet cheez n'…wow, it really was that good.

For the next few moments, she almost forgot why she'd come here…that is, until La Peigne hit her with a surprise curveball.

"I met him once," he said, setting down his glass after taking a short sip. "The Lewis Boy I mean. It was on an inspection tour of Granite Point, about four months before his escape."

Judy nearly dropped her glass.

"And you didn't notice anything out of the ordinary?" She found that VERY hard to believe. From what she'd seen of him so far, her tablemate was a sharp as diamond-blade scalpel. So how the heck could the conditions at Granite Point have gotten past him?

"Nope." He answered, waving his fork in a circle. "Oh, I would have noticed for certain if it had been a snap inspection…but it was just a routine review, scheduled months in advance. The Granite Point staff had all the time they needed to get the place scrubbed down and put everything in order for my arrival; good food, new bedsheets and blankets, paint where it was needed and all of the staff on their best behavior. They even restocked the library. None of us—neither myself, or any of the Zoo Jersey Corrections officials accompanying me—had even the slightest inkling that anything was amiss." He raised a fist as if to pound the table, stopping himself just before completing the move. "Sorry, but that's the part that really makes me mad; bamboozled by my own mammals—and I think you can guess what they were saying about me after I left."

Oh yes, Judy had no difficulty figuring that one out. First word, dumb; second word, bunny.

It was convincing, but not entirely convincing; one nagging question still remained.

"Didn't any of the kids…?"

"Not a word," Le Peigne shook his head, sounding even more incredulous than she felt. "They never even tried to slip a note to anyone in our group. I found out later that the Deputy Superintendent had threatened to turn the McCrodon crew loose on anyone caught trying to blow the whistle. And that, of course, would have been just for starters."

"Right," Judy nodded lamely. Her appetite had fled and that was no surprise; it's hard to stay hungry while trying to absorb an indigestible fact.

La Peigne hadn't mentioned it, but she knew. Conor Lewis had been part of the Crazy Wez crew…so, in a roundabout way, he had helped to stonewall the abuses taking place at Granite Point. Oh sure, they had come to light in the wake of his escape, but had that been his intention?

Not at all…he had only cared for himself. Granted, he had only done to Wez McCrodon what the sea-mink would have done to him, but still…

She was beginning to like that young silver-fox less and less.

And, speak of the devil…

"But getting back to the Lewis boy," La Peigne was saying, looking almost sorrowful, "I probably wouldn't have noticed him, if it hadn't been for that crooked muzzle of his. He looked just so pitiful, I felt I had to say something. So, I went over and introduced myself and asked him how he was doing. He said he was doing okay—but the way he said it, I knew wasn't going to get anything more out of him. So, I just wished him well and went on my way." His eyes turned upwards for a second.

"But, to this day, I've never forgotten that broken face—and I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out what a kid like that was doing in Granite Point." His expression shifted from mournful to rueful, "That is, until I took a look at his records; then I understood. But even afterwards, I never expected him to make a break for it."

"For what it's worth, neither did the ZPD," Judy answered him, punctuating her words with a gesture that fell somewhere between a wave and a shrug.

"Well, yes," La Peigne countered, "but then you didn't know his history…not his real one anyway. And—correct me if I'm wrong, Judy—but didn't he have about a 50/50 chance of beating that assault case against him?"

"Yes, he did," the doe-bunny sighed. What could she do but admit it? It wasn't exactly a secret. "AND he had Vernon J. Rodenberg representing him, if you know who that is."

"I do," the big rabbit stiffened and his voice became arch. Sooo…he didn't care much for the rat-attorney either. Judy had no idea why, but what she was seeing was practically a carbon-copy of the way Chief Bogo's reacted whenever he heard that name.

La Peigne, meanwhile, was spearing a stalk of asparagus with his fork.

"You know what's really ironic about the Lewis boy's escape from Granite Point? If he hadn't broken out like that, the state would probably have let him walk. Maybe half the kids detained there had to be turned loose in the wake of that abuse scandal."

"But if Conor HADN'T made that escape, you'd never have  found out  about those abuses."

That was what Judy wanted to say—except she knew a conversation killer when she met one. And so, she opted for a different tack.

"What about Wez McCrodon? If he hadn't needed to be confined to the psych ward, would The State have let him go free?"

"Oh no, not THAT boy." La Peigne had thrown up his paws in mock horror. "He had so much on his sheet, no way was Zoo Jersey going to let him out. And even if they had, he had charges pending against him in nearly a dozen other jurisdictions. No matter what the state decided, Wes McCrodon wasn’t going back to the street. Worst case scenario; he'd have ended up in a juvenile facility in some other state."

"Ohhh-kay, but what about Conor…Lewis?" Judy asked the question as if she were defusing a bomb.

The big bunny fell silent for a moment, turning the query over in his mind.

"Ahhhh yes…him, we would likely have had to set free." His words were low and grudging. "Those convictions for attempted arson and resisting arrest were pretty much the only things he had on his sheet; the state never charged him in the attack on those other three kids." He lifted his fork, and dropped it like a microphone. "And then there was that crooked face of his…guaranteed to melt the heart of any judge. We'd have had to let him go all right, and it would have been a huge mistake." His eyes met hers across the table, dark, and deep, and endless. "Because, as you found out for yourself, the hard way, Judy…behind that fox-kid's nice-boy façade, there's a violent streak a hundred miles long."

"AND HE HAS ERIN WITH HIM!"

The shriek of her inner voice seemed to come straight out of nowhere—so deafening that she looked furtively around the dining room, hoping she hadn't screamed it out loud.

No, she hadn't, thank God, but the realization that had prompted it still remained.

Why hadn't she seen it; why hadn't she realized until now? Her kid sister was in a dangerous place; in the company of a sociopath—a young silver fox with a side she didn't know about—and that she absolutely wouldn't WANT to know about if she ever saw it. Never mind everything he'd done for Erin; he could turn on her in a heartbeat; there was something else Judy had seen before…more times than cared to remember.

"He went for YOU with a baton after saving your life, remember?" her inner voice icily reminded her.

Setting down her knife and fork, Judy let her paws drop beneath the table; felt them knotting into fists like mauls. Jack La Peigne was staring at her, and possibly so were some of the other diners.

She could not have cared less; right now, she had someone else to talk to.

"Conor Lewis…I don't know where you are right now, but you listen to me. All bets are off, fox-boy. I don't care if you saved my life or how much you helped my sister. I'm coming for you, kid. Whatever the cost, whatever it takes, I will find you, and I will bust you…and I WILL get Erin away from you. And if even a strand of her fur gets hurt because of you, then so help me…"

She left the rest of it hanging; even in her thoughts, she wasn't prepared to go that far.

…not yet!

Chapter 49: Everything You Know Is Wrong (Concluded...Pt. 5)

Summary:

Meanwhile, what's up with Conor and Erin?

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 8: Everything You Know is Wrong
(Part 5…Concluded)

Undisclosed location, Zootopia Sound—Monday, 17:47, ZST

At first, Conor was unfamiliar with the tune; he had heard it maybe one or two times before—and that had been years ago.

But …where the foxtrot was he? He could see his arms; he could see the bed…a hospital bed? Yeah, okay, but beyond that, he could see nothing; nothing except a ring of haze surrounding him, perhaps the size of a traffic circle.

And after that—zippity; just an endless, empty black void.

Yeah, and what about that music? It seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere; from beyond the darkness and, at the same time, from somewhere inside of his head.

But now he finally recognized the melody; it was the opening synth-riff from the old Alan Purrson's Project tune, "You Can't Take It With You." Hmmm, how did that first verse go again?

♪ "Well, I sympathize completely
But there's nothing I can do
I am just a humble servant
With a message here, for you." ♫

Whoaaaa, wait a minute—that wasn't any synthesizer. Someone was whistling those notes; repeating them over and over again, in a closed loop.

That was when he heard the voice…deep and soft and smoky.

"Hello, boy. So…we meet again."

Conor looked…and fox-screamed.

Skittering backwards, he pressed himself into the mattress and pillow with all his strength—as if trying to bury himself inside of them.

Standing at the foot of the bed was an enormous wolf, with fur like an arctic glacier. The astounded young silver fox recognized him at once, although …n-no, it couldn't be…not him.

He was big, mean, and hulking; with deep-set, burning eyes, embedded in a mask of ash-grey fur. The most familiar thing about him was his mode of dress; a baggy shapeless tunic with Slavic overtones, a relic of Soviet Russia.

But it was the object in his paw that drew the bulk of Conor's attention; a crescent-moon, razor-sharp sickle. The sight of it was enough to turn his tail into a bottle-brush and make his fur stand on end as if charged with static electricity. He felt a bolt of searing heat slice across his back. It wasn't real, but only a memory—of what the leader of the Stalniy Volki had done with that thing the last time they had met. He'd been about to finish the job with his hammer when…

When…

"No, no, no! You're dead; Danny blew you away, I saw it." Conor had done more than see it, actually. It was another memory he couldn't get out of his head, no matter how hard he tried.

The wolf rolled his eyes for a second and then looked at him. He seemed almost disappointed.

But…where had his tunic gone? Now he was wearing a hooded cloak. And what was it made of, oilcloth?

"Ohhh, you think I'm THAT animal? Well, I suppose it's understandable, considering, but…"

He reached into his cloak and pulled out…not his hammer, but another sickle, at the same time drawing himself up to his full height. Holy foxtrot, this dude was HUGE.

"You know, boy," he was scratching at his cheek with the tip of one implement, "someone once said that 'with strange eons, even I may die.' Mmmmm, who knows? But, whatever, let me tell you something that isn't going to happen…" Without warning, he leaned swiftly across the bed, getting right in the terrified young silver-fox's face. At this distance, Conor could make out every single one of his teeth; pearly and translucent, with edges like daggers.

But why couldn't he feel the heat of the big wolf's breath—or even smell…?

"I am not, repeat, NOT going to die and leave you boss!" His snarl was like something from a deep, dark well.

"Wha…? " Conor gasped and tried to push away again. "Wh-What the heck are you talking about?"

With hard, unflinching eyes, his visitor stepped back from the bed, face suffused by a look of pure contempt.

"Ohhh, I think you know, boy." Tossing one of his sickles onto the floor, he gestured towards it with the other one. "Pick it up."

"What? No way!" Conor didn't even want to touch that thing…and anyway, they'd have to get him out of bed first, and…. Wait a second, he was already out of bed—crouched on the floor in a three-pointer; when the heck had that happened?

"I said…pick…it…UP!" The wolf showed his fangs as he spoke.

Conor looked at the sickle…and then at him.

"Nuh-uh, no wa—waaaaa, what the foxtrot?"

The wolf was gone; standing in his place was a young coyote…another animal easily recognized.

…Craig Guilford!

"Come on, boy. I thought you wanted to get some payback for your friend…don't you? Well, here I am; come and take it." It was Craig, but he was speaking in the wolf's voice. Perhaps that was why the fearful young silver fox was unable to make a move.

Or maybe it was something else.

"What's the matter, son?" the wolf-yote taunted, flashing a toothy smirk "Afraid you'll get a boo-boo? Here, let me make it easy for you," By way of explanation, he hurled his other sickle away. Conor watched as it sailed off into the void and was gone. "There, I'm unarmed." his adversary growled, flipping upturned fingers in the traditional martial arts challenge, "Now get over here and finish what you started."

Unable to resist, the young silver fox turned his eyes towards the object on the floor…oh, so sharp and gleaming.

"You do, and I'll never speak to you again!"

"Huh?"

Conor looked again and saw that Craig was gone. In his place was Erin Hopps.

She was there for only a second, before she dissolved into an ethereal cloud—a cloud that expanded and got bigger and bigger, at last coalescing into someone that the fugitive young silver fox knew only from a picture on his laptop. Her expression was tender—and also heartbroken.

When she spoke, it wasn't in the wolf's voice, but her own. "This isn't you, kid…because if it is, you're not my son!"

Before Conor could even begin to think, the figure changed again.

Now it was Saad al-Zaqir, his neck and one of his arms twisted at a hideous, unnatural angle.

"What about me then?" The sand-cat was also speaking in his own voice. "Look at what that coyote did to me." He pointed towards himself with an odd, jerky motion; a marionette handled by an incompetent puppeteer.

"That's right, boy." Craig was back again, and so was the voice of the wolf. "So, what are you going to do?" he bobbed his head and sneered "just stand there and let me get away with it?"

Conor stared at him for a second…remembering. Not just about Saad, but how the animal standing before him had tried to help dump a load of defoliant on the Carrot Days Festival. And now this lowlife dirtbag thought that…!

Slowly…almost deliberately, the fugitive young silver fox's ears began to rotate backwards—until they appeared to have been glued to the back of his scalp. At the same time, the neck fur in between them, had risen up into hedgehog quills.

"No, I'm not," he snarled…and then lunged for the sickle, snatching it up, and flinging it away into the darkness.

When he turned around, the wolf was back. Good; he had some choice words for this loudmouth punk.

"Nice try, wuffie…except Saad would never have…wanted…me to…to…"

His voice faltered as he realized…he had just been played, played like a Jeff Buck guitar solo.

For just a hint of a second, a grin flitted wickedly across the white wolf's features.

And then his arms shot out sideways and the pair of sickles came whirling out of the blackness and into his paws.

"Then here's what's gonna happen," he growled—and raised the weapons high above his head, preparing to…

"NO…!"

Conor snapped up into a sitting position, his arms crossed protectively in front of his face.

When he lowered them, the wolf was nowhere to be seen…gone, along with the darkness. Now the bewildered young silver fox found himself in a softly-lit room with lime green walls. a room that seemed to be swaying just ever so slightly from side to side. He was panting rapidly, so rapidly that he thought he might pass out again. Hmmmm where was he? Wait, that sound, an all-too-familiar, rhythmic peeping. Turning sideways, he saw his vital signs, scrolling across a flat-screen display in pixelated form.

All right, now he knew where he was; he'd better know. After all, this was…what; only the fourth time in his life that he'd awakened in a hospital room—even more if you included the instances when someone else had been the patient.

He shifted his gaze left, towards the nearest wall. Oops…no, this wasn't a hospital; the last time he'd looked, hospital rooms had windows, not portholes.

Oh-kayyy then, where was he? Wait, he was on board that floating clinic, the…what was it called again? The…something star, the MERCY Star; yeah, that was it. Whoah, so they'd made it after all, they had gotten him here in time.

Uhhhh, who had gotten him here again? Erin Hopps…he remembered her, but…

But…?

But why wasn't she here? Where was she? He needed to see her; he needed to talk to her. Where…?

The door swung open and a minkesse in scrubs entered; a nurse, not a doctor. Conor recognized that fact from his previous medical experiences.

"Ohhh, you're awake, Mr. Lewis," Her tone fairly screamed 'about TIME! "Hang on, I'll go get Dr. Xiang."

She turned on her heel like a drum majorette. Conor reached out a paw as if to grab her sleeve. "Wait, where's Erin…the bunny that came with me, is she…?"

But the mink-nurse was already out the door.

Grumbling at nothing, he fell back against his pillow, trying to think. His head felt like a jigsaw puzzle that was trying to reassemble itself.

How long had he been out of it? It seemed like less than a minute, but again; being no stranger to surgery, he knew better.

Billy! Billy Mackenna; that was who had been piloting the boat that brought him here…was that right? No, there'd been another boat, and had…Mr. Rodenberg shown up at one point? He hadn't caught so much as a glimpse of the rat-attorney…and yet, he could have sworn…

And a hovercraft; there was…something about a hovercraft, something that made his skin crawl when he tried to wrap his head around it.

The door opened and the mink-nurse returned, followed closely by a female pangolin in a less-than-spotless lab-coat. Hmmm, that must be the good doctor. Conor dearly wanted to ask her what had happened to Erin, but again, from experience, he knew better. He wouldn't get a thing out of her, or Nurse Minkie. until AFTER she had completed her examination.

Dr. Xiang's manner was neither aloof nor affable as she gave him the standard once over, temperature, blood pressure, pulse, reflexes, penlight-in-the-eye; 'okay, deep breath,' and the rest of it.

"Well, everything looks good, so far," she said, jotting memos on a clipboard. And then, taking note of the look on the young fox's face, she told him. "We will destroy these notes after you're gone…but until that time, we'll need them."

"All right," Conor nodded, in no mood for an argument. "But what's the prognosis; how'm I doing?"

The pangolin gave him a sharp look, as if surprised that he knew the definition of the word. Then she offered him just the barest excuse for a smile.

"You're going to be fine; a full recovery. And you'll be surprised at how quickly it will happen." She frowned, pointing with a finger claw. "I mean…the abscess; your leg is another matter. That should also heal completely, but it's going to take a bit longer, at least a couple of weeks. You'll need to stay off it until then, as best you can. I've got some meds prescribed for you, and I've had you fitted with a brace…a real one. You will also need to get yourself a set of crutches." Her final sentence dripped with lye—meaning he'd have to find those bad boys for himself.

In another time and place Conor might have come back with something snappy. Instead, he allowed the remark to go in one ear and out the other. Stuck-up snob or not, Dr. Xiang had probably just saved his life.

And besides that, he was in no position to antagonize her.

So, instead he asked, "What time is it? How long was I out?" He knew better than to check his watch, it wouldn't be on his wrist.

"About ten after six…uh, six in the evening." It was the nurse who answered, at the same time passing a syringe to the pangolin, who took it and began probing his arm, looking for a vein.

"All right, little poke," she said. And, as always, it was more than just a little poke.

Conor didn't bother to ask what was in the shot he'd been given. Recovering from an abscess as he was, it was probably some sort of antibiotic. He was more interested in the time; a little after six pm. Whoa, he'd been out a lot longer than he thought—and no wonder he felt so hungry. No point in asking for anything to eat though. Judging by the 'tudes he was getting in here; he was lucky they'd even let him on board this tub.

Only…why; why the heck were they treating him like a party crasher? Were they scared that the ZPD was gonna bust down the door at any second?

For some odd reason, that thought reminded him of something else; if he remembered correctly, the Mercy Star had been scheduled to weigh anchor at 8:30 that morning. Wherever they were now, it was nowhere near Outback Island. Hmmm, was that a chill in the air he felt? Yes…yes it was; that put them somewhere off Tundratown. Where they were, exactly, the fugitive young silver fox had no idea, but it didn't matter. It was highly unlikely that the ZPD would be searching for him in this neck of the woods…at least for a while.

The ZPD…

It was all coming back to him now; the events of the previous night. DAY-ang—the cops had known exactly where to set their ambush…and it hadn't been any improvised operation either, not with practically a whole task force of police boats lying in wait. That pointed to only one possible explanation; someone had tipped them off—but who? He would need to discuss that with his lawyer, when he...

Hey, wait a minute. Where was Mr. Rodenberg? And what the heck had happened to Billy?

And, especially, where was…?

"Was there a bunny that came on board with me? White fur, with black…"

"Yes, she's here," Dr. Xiang interrupted, her frigid manner thawing just ever so slightly.

Erin Hopps was, in fact, just then drying herself off after exiting the shower. She had already showered once after coming on board, but after being pelted with all sorts of munchies last night, she had felt the need for another one as soon as she'd awakened. Even then, it hadn't made her feel completely clean—but it had helped.

Luckily for her, the Mercy Star just happened to have an onboard laundry. And so, while she'd been sleeping, the staff had washed her things for her. Pulling them off their pegs and starting to put them on, the white-furred young bunny noted that THEY weren't completely clean either; calicoed with stains of varying colors. Oh well, at least they smelled fresh.

She had just finished fastening the hasp of her bra, when she heard a knock at the door.

"Are you decent Ms. Carr?" a female voice asked, addressing Erin by the name she'd given after coming on board last night.

"Just a second," the young doe-bunny answered, reaching for her top and slipping it on. "Okay, c'mon in."

The door opened, and it was the mink-nurse she'd met the night before.

"Your friend's awake; he's asking for you." Her manner was far more congenial than it had been with Conor.

Erin managed a smile as she answered, "Oh? Great; tell him I'll be there in just a minute." She held the expression until the nurse made her exit, letting it drop only after she heard the retreating footsteps fade away. Clasping her paws, she pressed them against the wall, shutting her eyes and leaning into them with her forehead.

"Ohhh, God…what am I going to SAY to him?"

She had not forgotten why Conor had needed to be brought here in the first place; because she had dropped him fifteen feet to the asphalt. Not only that; by now, Craig Guilford was either back in police custody, or else he'd managed to dig his way to freedom from beneath the dumpster where they'd left him trapped. Either way, that coyote jerk was now officially beyond her companion's reach…and he wasn't going to like it.

With a heavy sigh, Erin pushed back off the wall, turning to face the mirror, mounted on the wall behind her. "Okay," she said, brushing a strand of fur from her eyes, "let's get this over with."

When she entered the room where Conor was waiting, she found him fingering the stitches in his flank. She grimaced and almost gagged, remembering the nurse's description of what had happened when they'd lanced his abscess. 'Like a garden hose full of eggnog.' Ewwwww…that was way more information than she'd needed to know right then—or at all!

But then he saw her and waved, "Hey Erin!" And she almost burst into tears.

They had said he was going to be alright—but only now did the young doe-bunny dare to believe it. He sounded way stronger than he had last night; like his old self again, and then some.

"H-Hi Conor," she answered, offering a half-hearted wave. If they'd been alone, she would have been tempted to run over and hug him.

"Ahhh, you guys got a chair she can sit on?" The young fox queried. He was speaking to the nurse, who responded with a jaundiced look before going to fetch one from across the cabin. Conor watched her with a curious expression, as if wondering what the heck everyone was so down on him for? Erin could have explained it…but not with all these other ears in the room.

The chair turned out to be either a little bit too low—or the bed a mite too high—for her to make eye contact with the injured young silver fox. But with the addition of a pair of folded towels that problem went a considerable way towards being rectified.

"Thanks," Conor nodded, sounding like he meant it. And then to Dr. Xiang he said, "Can you give us a few over here?"

"Yes, we're finished," the pangolin replied, sounding more tired than angry. Turning on her heel, she motioned for the nurse to follow her out through the door. When she closed it behind her, she almost slammed it.

Conor tilted his head for a second and then looked at Erin.

"Mmmm, I don't think they like me very much, bunny-girl."

She didn't hug him; that moment had come and gone—but she did take his paw.

"I-It's not you so much as Mr. Rodenberg." The young doe-bunny explained, timidly. "You, uh, weren't what they were expecting when he brought you here."

"Meaning I'm not Cosa Nostra," he muttered, speaking mostly to himself. For some reason, he seemed to find the news a little disturbing.

But then he reached out and took her other paw, giving them both a little squeeze.

"Erin…I-I don't know what the heck to say, except…thank you."

A pair of burning flowers bloomed on her cheeks, and then rose up into her ears. She nearly pulled away from him, but somehow managed to resist the urge.

"No Conor," she shook her head, barely able to look at him. "Don't even thank me. You almost died, and it wouldn't have happened, if I hadn't grabbed you from behind, and then kicked you off that fire-escape…"

He immediately cut her off.

"Erin, that's what I'm thanking you FOR."

"Huh, what?" Her nose was twitching so hard, it felt like it was going to detach itself. Sweet cheez n' crackers, was he hallucinating or something? Or…was she hallucinating?

His eyes turned downwards, towards the bed-sheets. "Like I said before, I've done some things in my life that I'm none too stinking proud of, but…" His gaze abruptly locked into hers, "what I almost did back there would have been a zillion times worse than any of it—and you stopped me. So…thank you, bunny-girl." He squeezed her paws again, "Thank you…"

She just stared with eyes like moon-pies. "B-But I almost killed you," she stammered, and immediately wanted to take it back. What a great way to put it, DUMB bunny!

"Yeah, I know," he told her quietly, his amber eyes softening as he spoke. "But do YOU wanna know something? I'd rather be dead than a murderer."

Now, Erin did pull away from him, or, more correctly, she yanked herself away. "You mean…you really would have…?"

"I…I dunno," Conor sounded like an engine that doesn't want to start. At the same time, he seemed to have become fascinated with the view outside the nearest porthole. "I…wanna think that…when I met Craig face to face…I would've got cold feet, and backed off on him; wouldn't have been the first time I did something like that…but…" His shoulders straightened, and he looked at her unflinchingly. "But when you caught up with me outside the museum—yeah, I was ready to off that punk. And I knew exactly how I was gonna do it."

"How?" Erin asked him breathlessly—immediately wishing that she could take back the question.

She needn't have bothered.

"Tha-a-at's…something you don't wanna know," he answered, in a voice like boots crunching gravel, at the same time shaking his head. When he stopped, he had an actual smile on his face; wan, but genuine. "What's important is that it didn't happen," he reached for her paws again, "Because of you, Erin."

She let the young fox take hold of them but she was thinking. She could almost believe that yes, he would have stopped himself from hurting Craig when they'd finally confronted one another.

But…only almost; this was still the same young silver fox who'd drawn first blood in that fight with her sister.

Out of nowhere, his words came back to her, 'You don't KNOW what kind of kid I am.' And only now was she beginning to comprehend the truth of that statement; there was so very little that she actually understood about him. Look at the way he was reacting to her now; tail-between-the-legs penitence—the last thing she would have expected after the events of last night.

But then he let out a cough, but not a real one—he had something else to say and wasn't quite sure how to put it.

"Listen Erin…I think you already know that I was seriously zoned for a while last night; I have no idea how I got here. Can you…fill me on what went down while I was out of it?

Erin studied him for a second with her nose twitching.

"Ummmm, okay…what's the last thing you remember?"

"The police boat hitting that sandbar," Conor spoke without hesitation, but then hurriedly qualified his words. "That's the last thing I remember clearly. After that, it all gets kinda blurry, though I still remember some stuff…like somebody else shooting at us and…w-was there a hovercraft chasing us back there?"

"Yeah, there was," Erin shivered a little at the memory, "and yeah, they were shooting at us, Conor!" Her voice rose a good two notches as she spoke; the impact of having been subjected to deadly force was only just now beginning to make itself known.

"Okay," he seemed confused by her reaction…as if he considered it an over-reaction "But that wasn't the first time someone took a shot at us, bunny-girl. What about that cop on the jet ski?"

"That was different!" she insisted. "She just kind of went crazy or whatever…but the second time was like, I dunno, calculated or something. That wolverine was deliberately aiming for Billy."

She felt her paws clench as she readied herself for the fox's rejoinder. What was coming, she wondered, a laugh…or a sneer?

It was neither.

"Wolverine, did you say?" Now his voice was like a pond on a chill, windless day; cold, icy, and still. "Did you…get a decent look at that hovercraft, by any chance?"

"Yeah, a real good look," Erin wondered if her nose was EVER going to stop twitching. "They turned sideways when Billy tried to dodge them and it was really close, they were only like about three car-lengths away from us. That's when I saw that one guy was a wolverine." She bit her lip and clutched at her elbows. Ohhh, she did not want to have to ask him this. "Why, Conor…do you know who they were?" For her own part she had no idea—except for sure, they hadn't been ZPD.

He sucked in a hiss of air between his teeth. "I…might; were there any kinda markings on that hovercraft, bunny-girl?"

"Yeah," she nodded, "Some kind of—hmmm—a monogram I guess you'd call it. I saw an 'A', maybe an 'X' or a 'K,' I'm not…Conor, what's wrong?" He was doubled halfway over and grimacing, as if she'd just planted a foot in his gut.

"I'm fine," he answered quickly, straightening up again. He didn't look fine at all; he was looking frantically around the room. "Where's my laptop?"

"Wha…?" What the heck did he want that for, all of a sudden. "It's right over there," she pointed, "on that wall hanger."

"'Kay," the young silver fox replied, taking a breath. He seemed to be trying to force himself to calm down. And then he pointed. "Go bring it here, okay?"

Alllll right…that was where Erin Janelle Hopps drew the line. Folding her arms and lifting her chin, she thrust it forward, like a dare. "Hey Charcoal Boy…just who do you think you are, giving me orders? I'm not your house-maid…"

"Fine, I'll get it myself." He snapped…and then threw back the sheets and swung sideways off the mattress.

Erin immediately turned away from him, yelping and covering her eyes.

"Agggghhh, grrrr!" Conor groaned, or maybe growled, "NOW what?"

Still not looking, Erin pointed and shrilled.

"Dumb fox, you're naaaaked!" She drew out the last word like chewing gum.

Now it was his turn to yelp, frenziedly covering himself with tail and throwing himself back into the bed…while the doe-bunny in the chair beside him started laughing so hard, she nearly went tumbling to the floor. Ooooo, yum-MEE! As sweet revenge went, this was a double carrot-cake sundae.

But then his voice became a plea. "Erin, listen…I could be in some way serious trouble over here—and so could you."

She looked at him for a second…and nooo, she didn't feel guilty, of course not. Slipping down to the floor, she went over to where the backpack was hanging. It was too high up on the wall for her to reach, even on tiptoes. Fortunately, it was well within hopping distance, and a moment later she was passing it over to Conor.

He spent the next few seconds rummaging around inside of it. "Ahhh, at least, no one else has been in here," he grumbled, as if he'd been expecting to find it turned inside out and sideways.

Erin wasn't about to argue; he was right to have thought that way.

"Mr. Rodenberg told them to leave it alone—or else," she said. He hadn't put it quite like that, but being an experienced attorney, the grey rat had a knack for making threats without actually saying anything.

Conor's head tilted sideways as he pulled out the laptop from his pack.

"Yeah-h-h, where IS he anyway?"

"He had court today; he said he'll be back this evening."

"Oh…okay," Flipping open the laptop, the young fox booted it up and typed a few instructions. And then he swung it around to show her the screen. "Is this what you saw on the side of that hovercraft?"

Erin looked…and saw a picture of a military command vehicle of some kind. Peering closer, she noted an emblem on the door, and pointed to it.

"Yeah, that's it."

"Nrrgggh!' Barely stifling a fox-scream, Conor grimaced and turned hurriedly away—as if he couldn't bear to look at the image on his laptop screen. And then his paw slapped between his eyes with a sound like a flyswatter killing a wasp. "Oh, God…they're on to me." His voice was both hollow and breathless.

"Wha…WHO'S onto you?" Erin asked him, frightened and bewildered. He seemed even more distressed than a moment ago. It made her want to bolt for the door and just keep on running.

With the slow, mechanical movements of a wind-up toy, he turned to look at her again.

"Did they…see you, Erin? Did THEY get a good look at you?"

"Y-Yes they did." The young doe-bunny admitted. Ohhh, she had never wanted to lie so badly in her life—and had never felt less capable of it. "They…had me in a spotlight. There's no way they couldn't have seen me."

She expected this to bring on another violent reaction, but the young fox only clasped his paws together, tapping them against his forehead while apparently trying to think.

After what might have been a thousand hours, he let out a breath and turned to her with weary, hollow eyes.

"Erin, remember what you said about wanting to stay with me?"

She studied the floor for a second.

"Yeah…well…since you're just about all better now, I thought…maybe I should go ahead and turn myself in."

There, that should make him happy.

No such luck.

"Sorry bunny-girl," he was shaking his head and looking grim. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me now."

A moment ago, that would have brought her rocketing out of her chair, demanding to know where the heck he got off talking to HER around like that?

Now, she just wrung her paws, barely able to maintain eye-contact with the fugitive young silver fox.

"Why?"

His eyes darted upwards for a second.

"Erin…you're either gonna believe this or you won't, but…" he swung his gaze upon her; eyes like wasps, trapped in amber. "Those guys on that boat…are part of an outfit that's been after me for a long time." With the speed of striking rattlesnake, his paw shot out and took hold of hers; she seemed to go numb at his touch. "These are not nice animals bunny-girl… and now they know that you were with me last night; you follow what I'm bringing out?"

Not this time…

"No, I don't!" The question seemed to rejuvenate the young doe-bunny and she snatched her paw away again. "Some…'outfit' I never heard of is chasing you? WHY? What for? Who they heck are they?" She shook her head, almost violently. "Ohhhh, forget about them, who the heck are YOU?"

"Wha…who am I?" Conor reeled back, wide-eyed, so bewildered, she could almost see HIS nose twitching.

She spun in her chair showing her back to him.

"You know what I mean, Charcoal-Boy. Conor Lewis isn't your real name, it's a name you made up…and I don't care if that's what you WANT to be called." She flicked her feet backwards, casting a baleful eye over her shoulder. "If I don't even know that much about you, then how the heck am I supposed to believe anything you just told me?"

"Yeah, Erin…okay, I get you." He tried to reach for her again, but she shuddered a cold shoulder, deflecting the move. "I promise, I'm gonna tell you everything,"

That tore it; she wheeled on him with her ears laid back. Oooo, as IF she'd fall for that old dodge.

"WHEN, Charcoal-Boy? When were you planning to tell me huh?" Ohhhh, brother…and now he'd come back with some vague assurance; 'soon,' or 'later', or whatever.

"When Mr. Rodenberg gets here," he said, "I promised him too, remember?" There was no raised paw, no paw over his heart, just a plain, simple statement of fact.

And how was she supposed to argue with that? She folded her arms and sniffed.

"Ohhh-kay Conor—or whoever you really are—but when he does get here, I'm going to hold you to that promise, 'kay?"

"Fair enough," he nodded, scratching at his muzzle for a second before looking her way again. "Listen, Erin…I know I can't make you stay with me; I'm not even going to try. All I ask is that you hear me out. And then…" His gaze fell away from hers for a second. "And then, if you still want to take a hike…well…then that's what's gonna happen."

"All right," she answered quietly—although she honestly couldn't think of anything he could say that could get her to change her mind. All right, yes…it had been her idea to stick by him. But that was when he'd needed medical help—which he'd finally gotten—and before she'd been chased through the canal district by two different gangs of thugs and shot at TWICE. "Thanks for the ride, Charcoal-Boy, but I'm getting OFF this roller-coaster."

"So, uh…can I ask what else happened while I was out?"

Conor's question snapped her instantly out of her reverie. Oh well, she had nothing better to do at the moment, and so she proceeded to fill him in on the rest of what he'd missed. Mostly, he just listened—until she got to the part where Billy Mackenna's dad and uncle had shown up, along with…

"Whoa, whoa, whoa…Mr. Rodenberg was on their boat?"

"Yeahhhh, that's right," Erin answered him uncertainly—and with good reason. How the heck could he be unaware of the fact that…? "They're his clients, too—or they used to be or something." She felt one of her ears rise up. "You…didn't know?"

"Nope," the young fox answered, shaking his head and giving her a 'sly-fox' smile, "And I'm glad I didn't. Coz if he never mentioned their case to me, then it's a slam-dunk that he never talked about MY case with them—or anyone else." He stopped smiling and looked at her seriously, "That's what a good lawyer DOES, Erin."

"Oh yeah," She nodded, trying to remember, "Ahhh, attorney-client privilege, is that what it's called?"

Yeah, that's right," the young fox answered, narrowing his eyes and smirking, "and it goes double for a guy like him. If a mob lawyer breaks that rule, he doesn't just get disbarred, he gets whacked!" His head dropped between his shoulders, as he sniggered at the witticism.

Erin wasn't laughing; she was appalled. How the heck could make light of something like…like murder? No way was she going to stick with him now. She'd bail this instant, if a promise wasn't a promise.

Hold on, he was speaking to her again, at the same time working his paws uncomfortably.

"Yeah, okay…that's not funny, I'm sorry." Dangit was he reading her mind or something? When he looked at her again, he reminded the young doe-bunny of a beggar, rattling a cup. "All I can say is…you don't grow up around the kinda violence I've seen, without getting at least a little bit used to it."

"…Or without some of it rubbing off on YOU." Erin kept the thought to herself—but with it, came an epiphany. That much, at least, had to be true. There was violence in this young silver-fox's past. There had to be; it was the only good explanation for him having nearly gone after Craig like that. Or…forget that crazy coyote, what about the attack on her sister?

Her sister…ohhhh, sweet cheez n' crackers, what would Judy say if she could see her right now? What would Mom say? How on earth was she ever going to explain herself to her family?

…And for what? For THIS mangy jerk? All right, maybe he wasn't mangy, but still….

"But still he was there for you at that Carrot Days Talent Show and your audition." The rebuke from her inner voice was sharp enough to sting. "And Craig Guilford would have made it out of that hole and been all over you if HE hadn't been there to help. And what did he ask in return for any of that, huh?"

"Nothing," it came out as almost a croak

"Huh?" Conor's ears were up and his head was tilting sideways.

"Nothing," Erin repeated, in a slightly different tone of voice. It made no difference; her inner turmoil had not escaped the young silver fox's notice.

And it hadn't exactly put him in an upbeat mood, either.

"Oh God, bunny-girl…I'm so sorry—for everything." He slapped his paw against the bed, so frustrated that his claws were exposed and tore tiny, ragged holes in the sheet. "I shoulda stayed away from that audition…let myself be seen in another part of the city. Tuff-guy Tufts would have pulled his guys out of the Academy, and…"

"So, why did you come?" the question was out before the young doe-bunny even realized she'd asked it.

His eyes came level with hers again. She could tell right away that he was forcing himself to look at her.

"Coz I promised you I'd be there, okay?" he said, and then turned away embarrassed—as if he'd just made the stupidest statement in the history of mammalkind.

Erin looked at him with her ears falling backwards. They didn't plaster themselves against the back of her neck, but only hung there, limply.

And then she threw her arms around Conor's neck and hugged him tightly. "Thank you," she said, trying not to let her voice crack. It lasted for maybe three seconds, before she pulled back with a look on her face of 'What-am-I-DOING?'

The silence that followed was as awkward as a hippo attempting to roller-blade.

It was the bunny that finally broke it, coughing into fist and then continuing with her narrative.

"…And then Billy's dad told him to hide the boat in the tunnel where he picked us up and get it cleaned up."

"Hmmm," Conor bit his lip, looking concerned. "I hope he got it done okay."

"Me too," Erin answered not a little worried herself, "His father was SOOOO mad at him."

"Ahhh, Billy'll be okay," The young fox waved a dismissive paw. "His dad's a decent guy; he won't come down too hard on him." But then he sat up with his paws on his hips, looking serious. "What I'm more worried about is that the animals who own that hovercraft are gonna be looking for that boat—and so is the ZPD. Colin's gonna have to get rid of it if he doesn't want majorly trouble. That's prolly why he's so torqued at Billy." His shoulders rose and fell in a dismissive shrug. "Honestly, the best thing he can do is part that bad boy out and send the hull to the shredder; just make it disappear."

He seemed almost to be musing to himself. But what really drew Erin's attention was the cool detachment with which he delivered his assessment…as if he knew exactly what he was talking about.

Who the heck WAS this fox?

But just then, his coolness melted into a rapid-fire near-panic

"Ohhh Crike…Billy! Why didn't I think…? How could I forget…? Did those guys on that hovercraft get a good look at him, Erin He turned to her with…cripes, he looked as if he'd just remembered leaving the stove on in a fireworks warehouse.

"No," she answered quickly. "He kept his head down 'cause of the shooting, and he had a full-face helmet on, remember?" In truth, she wasn't entirely certain if the young thylacine had been spotted or not, but what good would it do to tell Charcoal-Boy THAT?

"Oh? Good…thank God." He let out a breath that seemed to last for hours…and it was then that Erin finally realized something; he really was that scared of whoever had owned that hovercraft.

And now, she was beginning to feel afraid as well. Ohhh, she needed a change of subject and pronto. Now, what would be…? Ah yes, the question she'd been wanting to ask him since Saturday.

"All right…WHAT?" He was looking at her with his ears laid peevishly backwards. Hmmmm, her thoughts must be showing on her face. Oh, well…who was she to turn down such a juicy opening?

"Sorry Conor, but I just remembered something; you never did tell me what you thought of my audition performance." She had no idea what he'd say to this; if she didn't know by now to not second-guess his reactions, she'd never figure it out.

He responded by reaching for her paw again…stopping halfway there, in case she decided to pull back again.

She didn't…she didn't want to.

"If I could get outta this bed right now, I'd be down on my knees, going, 'I'm not worthy! I'm not worrrrtheeeeee!'"

"Really?" Erin felt her ears go up, and her mouth attempting to pull itself into a pout. Pooh, this silver-fox kid was no fun at all; really sweet, but still no fun. Couldn't he be at least a little bit jealous?

"Heck yeah," he said, giving her paws a squeeze, "I always knew you were good enough to get accepted, Erin…but holy foxtrot, The Gazelle Scholarship…!" That was all; he seemed to have completely run out of words.

Well, she hadn't. "You won it last year," she pointed out, instantly wondering why she had.

"Uh-UH!" Conor was wagging a finger at her. "When I tried out for the Academy, I didn't have near as much competition as you…and it wasn't nearly as good, either. I saw at least two other kids on that stage who were better than I was last year…or that's what I thought anyway."

A reminder might have struck the white-furred young bunny right then—with the force of a runaway wrecking-ball. Her scholarship was gone…and she probably had about as much of being admitted to the Performing Arts Academy right now as of finding a treasure-chest while pulling weeds.

And she was going to be doing a LOT of weed-pulling when her mother found out where she'd been for the last two days. And Judy…yep, HER again. Sweet cheez n' crackers, Conor was the fox who'd sent her to the ER…and then guess who had helped him to get away from the ZPD?

Mercifully, none of these thoughts came knocking on Erin's door right then. Something else was distracting her, causing both of her ears to stand up and pay attention.

"What…what is it?" Conor watched her with a tilted head.

"There's another boat pulling up alongside us," she said, cocking an ear. She listened more closely for a second…trying to get a lock on the noise of the engine.

"Is it…Colin's boat?" the young fox asked her. He could hear it for himself now, although his ears weren't nearly as sharp as hers

Erin understood the question. If it was Colin Mackenna out there, he would almost certainly have Vernon Rodenberg with him.

Unfortunately…

"It's…not him," she half-heartedly shook her head, "Or anyway it's not the same boat that picked us up last night."

Conor fanned a paw. "Ahhhh, it could still be Mr. Rodenberg." He sounded even less hopeful that she did.

The next few minutes lasted for weeks; they heard the boat bump up against the Mercy Star's hull, heard the engine fade, and then a painful, interminable silence.

Then, somewhere up above, a door opened and they heard feet descending a set of stairs.

They came down quickly and now the young fox and bunny could hear them strolling in their direction.

Conor looked at her sideways. "Is that…?"

Erin only shook her and shrugged; she might be able to recognize an animal by their footfall…but only if it was someone familiar. And Colin Mackenna was someone she knew barely, if at all.

But then a set of knuckles rapped on the door, and they heard a familiar, high raspy voice.

"It's me, kid."

Erin let out a fast, relieved breath and saw Conor do the same.

And then he cupped his paws around his muzzle.

"It's open, c'mon in."

The door swung on its hinges and there was Vern Rodenberg, perched on the shoulder of Colin Mackenna—who did not look happy. Seeing him. Erin felt her flight response trying to kick in again. Perhaps it would have if the bulk of the Tasmanian Tiger's displeasure had been directed towards her rather than the fox in the bed beside her.

…As Colin immediately proceeded to make clear, aiming a quivering finger in Conor's direction.

"I appreciate what you did for me, boy…but you'd best be understandin' summat. My gratitude only goes so far. You've made more trouble for me and mine than that loan can even begin to excuse, y' get me?"

"I'm sorry; I know I have." The young fox's expression was quiet and solemn, "But I hope you understand that I had no choice. I'd be dead right now if Billy hadn't helped me get away."

Colin let his jaw fall open in the familiar thylacine threat-gesture, dropping it all the way to the center of his chest. When his mouth finally closed, it left behind a face etched in stainless steel.

"Don't gimme that foxy; you'd still be alive if my son hadn't been there. In jail yeah, but yer'd still be alive, wouldn't yer?"

"No," Conor fielded the thylacine's look and gave it right back to him. "No, I'd be dead…or as good as dead anyway; on my way to a place that makes Four Corners look like an amusement park."

"Wha…?" Erin felt an ear go up and then her nose began to twitch. She had no idea what the fox was talking about.

But Colin Mackenna sure as heck seemed to. At the mention of that name, his eyes went wide and he took a clumsy step backwards…nearly spilling Vern Rodenberg onto the floor.

"Hey, watch it, booby!" It was first thing he'd said since entering the room.

"Mr. Mackenna," Conor pulled himself up on his elbows, "You have more right to be mad at me than you know. Mr. Rodenberg there," He acknowledged the rat with a nod of his head, "will fill you in after we're done. But right now, I need to speak to him in private—and I'm not kidding."

For the next few seconds, Colin glared icicles at the fugitive young silver fox. And then, reluctantly, he held up his paw to his shoulder, allowing the rat-attorney to climb onto it.

"I've got him," Erin responded at once, holding out her own paw for Mr. Rodenberg. He hopped onto it, and she saw Colin turn and make for the door. At the threshold, he stopped and jabbed another finger at Conor.

"If my boy gets into any sort of trouble f' this…"

"Sorry," The young silver-fox looked almost shattered, "but it's too late for that I'm afraid."

Colin snarled, stepped through the door and slammed it so hard the portholes rattled.

One thing you had to give Vernon J. Rodenberg; he was not one for beating around the bush. No sooner was the Tasmanian tiger gone than he was regarding his vulpine client with a raised eyebrow.

"Four…Corners?"

"Youth detention center in Northern Australia; Colin did some time there when he was my age. Their favorite restraining method was a thing they called 'folding up'; hurts as bad as it sounds. They'd lock your legs into a figure-four and then sit on you."

For the second time in less than a minute, Erin wanted to flee the room. If not for the rat perched on her shoulder…

Sensing her distress, Rodenberg motioned towards the bed.

"Ahhh, you wanna set me down on the mattress there, kiddo?' Erin did as he asked, and when he stepped off her paw, he turned and looked up at Conor.

"And that place you said makes Four Corners look like a party…Granite Point; that so?"

"Yep, that's the place," Conor nodded. He seemed neither surprised, nor perturbed that his attorney was aware of that name.

"Like I thought." The grey rat nodded back…and then turned and looked up at Erin

"Okay, kiddo; you can go now."

"No!" Conor's voice split the air like the blade of a knife-thrower. "She needs to hear this Mr. Rodenberg; like it or not, she's in it now."

"And I'm not?" His paws went swiftly to his hips and he stared up with his teeth clicking.

"No, not yet," the young fox told him flatly, "But you will be soon—unless you change your mind about this." His mouth set hard and he shook his head. "You got no idea who you're dealing with, Counselor. Tell me, did those guys in The Company scare you at all?"

Rodenberg's tail began to shiver…not with fear but with anger.

"They scared everybody, kid! And quit trying to dodge me; a deal's a deal!"

"Nahhhh, not quite. Counselor," Conor raised a finger and wagged it. "There was one animal even the Mister couldn't scare; the guy who took out The Company in less than one day—and no, it wasn't the ZYPD; forget about those guys, they were only the front."

"Now listen here, ya little shmendrik…" Now Rodenberg's teeth were clicking so loudly, it sounded like a stapler. Erin thought he was one step away from quitting again. When Conor interrupted him, she was all but certain he was going to bail.

"I'm not trying to talk you out of anything over here. I promised to tell you everything, and okay, I will…but guess what? 'Everything' isn't just the stuff that you want to hear. I'm serious, Counselor; if you get involved with me again and if that guy finds out, there won't be anybody on the planet that can protect you, not the ZPD, not your other clients, NOBODY!" He laid back on his pillow, arms folded, and eyes on the ceiling. "So…what's it gonna be?"

The grey rat eyed him moodily for a second, and then rolled his paw in the air.

"I'll take my chances, kid…let's hear it."

Chapter 50: Conor's Story (Part 1)

Summary:

Life begins for Conor Lewis

Notes:

This chapter is dedicated to the memory of Alp Sarsis, author of the Guardian Blue fanfic series. Godspeed, brother.

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Part 1)

♪ "I was born in a crossfire hurricane
And I howled at my ma in the drivin' rain…" ♫

The Rolling Stones - Jumpin' Jack Flash

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Erin Hopps had never been more irritated.

"See?" She said, indicating the space beyond the door with a sweep of her paw, "I told you there was nobody out there."

Conor only raised his nose and sniffed. "Just coz you can't hear 'em—and I can't smell 'em—doesn't mean there's nobody out there, Snowdrop."

Oooo, the 'S' word! At once the insides of her ears turned red as stoplights

"Don't…even…!" the white-furred young bunny hissed, jamming a finger upwards while her right foot commenced to thump like a sewing machine. It was bad enough when he called her that in private—but in front of his stinking lawyer? She was halfway ready to drop him off ANOTHER fire-escape. And speaking of Mr. Rodenberg when she looked his way for a reaction, she noted that the rat-attorney appeared far more sanguine than her about the current state of affairs.

"Sorry kiddo; for once, I have to agree with your boyfriend…"

That brought an instant rejoinder—from both of them.

"He's NOT my boyfriend!"

"She's not my girlfriend!"

"Yeah, yeah…all right, my bad." The grey rat shrugged and waved a paw, "But he's still right, Ms. Hopps; you can't be too careful in a situation like this." He thumbed his chest and nodded at the doorway, "Believe me, I know; I've been in similar places, a lot more times than I care to count." And then, waving an inviting paw at the chair beside the bed, he said. "Now c'mon and sit down; let's hear what this silver-fox kid has to tell us."

Without waiting for Erin to comply, he turned and put his paws on his hips, looking straight up at Conor with a piercing gaze.

"Oh…and Booby?"

"Yeah?"

Halfway closing his left eye, Rodenberg widened the other one until it looked like a glittering black marble. And then, flashing his incisors, he angled his nose even further upwards.

"I haven't lasted this long as a mob attorney without being able to tell when someone's lying to me. You follow what I'M bringing out?"

Conor said nothing for a second, and then took a deep breath…as if preparing to go off a high-dive for the very first time.

And then he nodded, "I getcha," and launched into his story.

---

Okay, I need to start from the beginning over here—and I mean the beginning. Sorry, but a lot of what else I have to say isn't going to make any sense unless I do.

Yeah, yeah…roll your eyes all you want, bunny girl; but now listen…

Officially, I'm fourteen years old…but honestly, I don't know how old I am. Heck I'm not even sure about my birth name. I think it's Caden, or…something; begins with an 'C', that's all I know. It's a big reason why I picked Conor as the name I use now. And don't even ask me about my last name; I've been trying to figure that one out since, like forever. Yeah, seriously.

All right, now this shouldn't surprise you; after all, there's only about a zillion other kids in the same boat. I got no idea who my father is. I never met him…and mom only mentioned him once. And believe me, it wasn't a positive review. I don't know what the heck he did, but it must have been something pretty awful.

Yeah…about my mother. I don't remember a whole lot about her either. I was only three when I lost her—I think. I don't know what she did for work, who her friends were…I don't even remember her name; I always just called her 'mom' or sometimes 'mommy.' I know the city we lived in—Hartfurred Connecticat—but I couldn't tell you the name of our street, our apartment building. or anything else.

Uh-huh, yeah…I see that look on your face, Mr. Rodenberg. No, I didn't just happen to forget all that stuff. When I took that beating on my first day in Jersey Juvie, a coupla teeth weren't the only thing I lost.

Ohhhh…yeah, that's right; I told Erin, but never told you. I'll give you the down and dirty later, but on my mother's grave, a whole lot of my memory from that time is like a scrambled egg—and the further back I go, the messier it gets. Heck, I have to keep a picture of mom on my laptop, just so I won't forget what she looked like.

Yeah, sure…you can see it; hold on a sec.

There, that's her.

Uh-huh, yeah…she was really pretty,

Ahhh. yes…there's a few things from back then that I can remember pretty good. Like, there was this margay lady who ran a daycare center in our apartment building; Mom used to leave me with her while she went out to work. Ummm, I think…I'm not sure, but I think it was an unlicensed operation. I remember one time when the cops came by and she made us all hide in the furnace room; her apartment was downstairs in the basement. I didn't know what the heck was going on at the time, but I get the idea now. I also remember that she took really good care of us…though I couldn't say how exactly. The only other kid I remember from that time was a beaver-kid named Bobby-Something. I dunno why; we weren't really friends, but for some reason I remember him…or at least I remember his name.

Another thing I know from back then was that my mom loved me, very, very much. Whenever she'd come to pick me up, she'd always give me a great big hug. No matter what kind of day she had, she was always happy to see me.

But the thing I remember most about her was the way she used to sing me to sleep every night. She'd put me to bed, go grab a guitar, and then come back and sing to me. Ahhh, she had the most amazing voice. And the songs she sang to me weren't the usual bedtime stuff; I remember that too.

Ahhh, lessee…Moonshadow by Cat Stevens; for years I thought that was written as a kid's song. Then there was Blackbird by the Beastles, and, uh…this kind of reverse psych tune called Stay Awake. I dunno where she got that one from, but it always worked, turned me out like a light whenever she sang it. Another couple of songs I heard a lot were I'll Stand by You by Purrtenders and 'When the Night Comes' by Joe Cockroar.

Yeah Erin, I know; that last one's a rocker—but not the way my mother sang it. The song she sang that'll always be a part of me though is, 'Who Knows Where the Time Goes?' by Furport Convention. I'll explain why in a minute.

Hrm? Ahhh, yes and no, bunny-girl. That might be where I first got interested in playing the guitar, but…honestly, the 6-string was never my mom's instrument. Don't get me wrong, she was good on guitar—but she was way better on the piano. I didn't find that out for a while though, since we didn't have one. And anyway, heh, even if we did, how ya gonna lug one of those things into your kid's room? I only heard her play the keys once that I can remember; it was on a public piano—at this flea market, I think. But that's one other thing that I'll never forget. The tune was Kashmir by Led Zeppelion and she just up and crushed it.

The day that everything changed didn't hit me like a freight train; it just sorta crept up on me. I think mom may have been feeling bad for a while, but I can't be sure. And it's not just my memory, pancreatic cancer has a habit of not letting you know you've got it until after it's too late.

Uh-huh, that's right, guys; that's what she had. Yeah…thanks. I didn't find out what it was until later, after she was gone, but thanks…I appreciate it.

But, getting back to my story, one day, mom didn't come to pick me up at day-care after work. I wasn't worried about it; she'd done that before. Except, when Mrs—ah, I still can't remember her name—when she came to tell me about it, she was crying. That spooked me real good. And it didn't get any better when my mother finally showed up the next morning. She'd been crying too; I could tell. And when she gave me my hug, she started bawling all over again, holding me so tight that I thought she was going to break something and just smothering me with kisses.

For a week after that, everything seemed to go back to normal. The next day, mom dropped me off at daycare, and went off to work like usual—or, that's where I thought she was going.

But then—I think it was on a Saturday—she dressed me up in my good clothes, and took me on the bus to this big, red-brick building. We were met inside by this raccoon lady, who seemed really nice, but then mom told me I was going to have to stay there awhile while she 'went to the doctor.' I didn't understand at first; going to the doctor didn't take all that long, right? When I finally got that this place was gonna be my home for a while—and that my mother wasn't going to be staying there with me, I cried and begged her not to leave. I remember that she got down on one knee, took me by the shoulders and told me to 'be strong' for her. "You're a tough kid, son. You can do this."

I know that coz I heard that kinda talk from her a lot in the next couple of months…whenever she came to visit me, and then later, when I went to visit her, she would always give me a pep-talk, making me promise to 'stay strong' for her.

Anyway, the place where she'd left me was basically an orphanage; I can't remember the official name, but the orphanage is what I call it. The room where I was staying was okay, and the staff was nice enough, though they'd always change the subject or something when I asked about my mom. The kids were another matter. A lot of them were there either coz their folks had abandoned them or, even worse, they'd been taken from their homes after being abused. I don't think I need to say how badly that can mess you up.

To be fair though, they kept the hard-cases in a separate wing, away from the rest of us. I remember because I was always being old to stay out of that part of the building. Just the same, it was while I was in the orphanage that I first got grief because of my species. It wasn't anything big…not at first, anyway. It was little things, liiiike…ohhhh, none of the other kids ever called me by my name, it was always by my species.

Yeah Erin, there were one or two other foxes there, but I was the only silver-fox. So that's what they called me, Silver-Fox, or sometimes just plain Silver. Another thing I noticed was that none of the other kids ever wanted to share with me. They'd share with each other, but not with me…not unless a staff member made them do it. Nobody wanted to play games with me either. I could never figure out why—until one day…ahhhh, I don't remember her name either, but she was a wild goat. Anyway, this jackrabbit kid, sorry Erin, but that's what he was—didn't want to play hide and seek with me, and Ms. I-Can't-Remember-Her-Name tried to talk him into it. At first, she was nice, but then she put her hoof down. And when she did, the bunny-kid started crying his eyes out. When she asked him why he bawled at her, "If he catches me, he'll EAT me!"

Hold it, time out…don't apologize bunny-girl. I don't blame your species for that, so don't you do it, okay?

Okay…but that was the first time a prey kid ever said they were scared I was gonna eat them. And that's something else I'll always remember. No predator kid ever forgets the first time somebody lays that fear-of-being-eaten thing on them.

Nope…I never got to play much with the other pred kids, either. No…they weren't scared I'd eat 'em, they were sure I'd cheat 'em. That was another first…the first time I ever got ran up against that foxes-are-shifty-and-untrustworthy 'tude.

What about the other foxes in the orphanage? Nah, that wasn't happening either; they were both way older than me, at least four years. And even if they hadn't been, fox kids weren't allowed to…

Ahhh, I'll get to that later.

While all of this was going on, my mom kept up with her visits. At first, I was glad to see her. But after a while, I started to notice that she wasn't looking too good…and it just kept getting worse and worse. Her fur was falling out in clumps—like she had mange or something—and she was losing weight like you wouldn't believe. She couldn't handle the cold either; used to come bundled up like there was a blizzard going on, even when it was t-shirt weather outside. I know now that it was coz of the chemotherapy, but I didn't know it then.

The worst part, though, was the pain. Every time that mom came to see me, I could tell she was hurting, even though she tried to cover it up. It made her super-touchy, too; she 'd snap at everybody over every little thing—but never at me. She never lost it at me, no matter what. She never gave in to the blues either, she was a fighter all the way. Only once did she let her feelings get to her; but that didn't happen until later.

As time went by, her visits got less and less frequent; from every other day, to twice a week, to once a week…and then she stopped coming altogether.

No, Counselor…not yet. Instead, they started bringing ME in to see her. It was the first time I'd ever been to a hospital. And lemme tell you, it scared the livin' heck out of me, especially the smell. You know what I'm talking about; you can smell it right now, in this room, that stinging, bitter thing that goes up your nose and stays there. Uh-huh…so imagine what it was like for a fox-kid who'd only just turned three, or maybe four. If I hadn't been there to see my mother, I would have run back out to the car and locked the doors.

When they brought me into her room, she was lying in bed and hooked up to an IV and one of these monitor things—same as me, right now. Later, she was hooked up to a lot more stuff. But, holy foxtrot, if I thought she'd looked bad before… I've seen dead bodies since then that looked better.

Yeah, Erin…yes, I have. But the thing that really got to me was the way she smelled…as if that hospital smell wasn't bad enough, all by itself. I'd noticed it before when she'd come to see me at the orphanage, but now it was hitting me in the face like a firehose. I had no idea what it was, but now I know.

No, I'm not gonna say it; I think you can guess.

I didn't want to go into her room at first, but then mom saw how scared I was and held out her arms to me. That was it, I went running to her, and let her hug me; I could never resist when she did that.

I don't remember everything she said to me. But basically, she told me again to be strong for her…that she knew I could be strong coz I was her son. It was something she said to me every time I saw her after that; be brave, be strong, and never give in without a fight, no matter what. Several times, she made me promise to always be a good kid. And I…I…

Yeah, I'm okay…it's just…like I told you before Erin, I broke that promise to my mother—more than once.

No, Mr. Rodenberg, I don't think you do. It wasn't just my mom I made that promise to; a fox is never s'posed to break their word to another fox…period. And now, bunny-girl, now you know the big reason I got involved with that loan-thing; I was trying to make it up to her.

Ahhh, I'll get to that in a minute, but right now…Lessee, where were we?

Right, okay… Well, I know now what mom was trying to do, she was trying to prepare me for when I'd have to go on without her. I like to think that, when it came to being strong and standing up for myself, that's one promise I kept.

Then one day, when I went to see her, I remember asking her to sing to me. "I haven't heard you sing for a long time, mommy."

She took me in her arms and held me while she sang. I remember that her voice was all thin and papery, but it still sounded beautiful to me.

'Across the evening sky, all the birds are leaving
But how can they know, it's time for them to go?
Before the winter fire, I will still be dreaming
I have no thought of time

For who knows where the time goes?
Who…knows where…the…?'

All of a sudden, she stopped singing…and I felt her shivering. When I looked up, I saw that she was crying.

"Ohhhhh, I'm going to miss you so much!" she sobbed, and then held me tight, stroking my head. "My little boy," she whispered, "my little silver fox. I love you, kid—more than…"

But then a nurse came in and made her let go of me; she was in an oxygen tent at the time.

Noooo, that wasn't the last time I saw my mother. When I went back to visit her the next week, she actually seemed to be getting better, and she was even better the week after that; they even took away the oxygen tent.

But then, the week after that, they took me to see her at a different place, not a hospital but something called a 'hot-spits.'

Yeah, right…a hospice. What can I say, I was three years old or whatever.

Mom didn't look any better that day, but she didn't look any worse either. I remember it as pretty much a routine visit; her telling me to be strong and all the usual whatnot.

But then, three days later at the orphanage, I was having breakfast and got called into the director's office. 'Son, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but I'm afraid your mother's gone.'

I didn't cry, I didn't know what the heck he was talking about. Gone…what did he mean, gone? Had she gone to another hot-spits, or what?

Even at the funeral, I didn't know what had happened. That couldn't be my mom in that little urn. Yeah, I know; she'd been cremated…but just try explaining that to a three-year-old kit.

The one thing I remember about her memorial service is how few animals were there. Some of the hospice staff showed up and a couple of folks from the orphanage came, but that was it. None of mom's family were there…but then I don't think she had any. For a while, I used to wonder why my dad never showed. Now, I think, most likely, he didn't know that mom had passed. I mean, she never heard from him, never tried to get in touch with him—at least, not that I knew. And then there was that one time she talked about him. When I think about it now, I think that, prolly, she wouldn't have wanted him there.

When the service was over, they took me to this place called Ferry Landing Park and had me scatter her ashes on the river. Even with someone helping me, I nearly dropped the stupid urn into the water.

When I got back to the orphanage, I couldn't understand why everyone was being extra nice to me…or why I felt so sad all of a sudden. I skipped dinner that night and shined on breakfast the next morning, too. I just plain wasn't hungry. I had no idea what was going on, but somehow, I knew that something really bad had happened.

Two days later, I was called to the office and told that I'd be leaving at the end of the week. My first reaction was 'Yaaaay!' I thought I'd be going home with mom again. I think someone may have sat me down to explain things, but I'm not sure. Anyway, if they did, it didn't work…right up until the day I left, I kept looking for my mother to come and bring me back home.

When the car came to pick me up, needless to say, she wasn't in it. And it wasn't a car, it was a minivan…or that's how big it would have been for a deer, or…

Yeah, okay… But anyway, I have to jump ahead a little bit here; this is some stuff I didn't find out until later.

Now that my mother had passed, I was eligible to be sent to a foster home. In those days, they were segregated by gender, boys with boys and girls with girls. That's changed now, but what's still the same is putting kids of the same size species together. In my case, small to medium-size mammals.

What? No Erin, when I say foster home, I don't mean like being adopted by foster parents. This place was like a way station between the orphanage and adoption. It was privately run, but got money from the state to operate. That's important for a reason I'll explain in a minute.

I didn't know where I was being taken at first…only that I wasn't going to visit my mother again. I found out later that it was a town called Danbeary. They took me to this big, gray house with kind of a weird roof, a lot longer on one side than the other; what they call a salt-box. It sat pretty much all by itself; the nearest neighbor's house was at least a block away. It was an older place but well kept. I think it must have been around early November when they brought me there; all the trees were bare, but there hadn't been any snow yet. I later learned that the house had originally been home to a family of caribou, but had been renovated by the new owners to accommodate smaller mammals. For instance, it now had three stories instead of two.

They brought me inside, and that was when I first met the Kaneskas, the European badger couple that ran the place. They were nice enough, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong here.

Anyway, after they introduced themselves, they took me downstairs to my room, which turned out to be in the basement.

Nahhh, I didn't mind that at all. Foxes are a denning species, don't forget—and the day care center where mom used to drop me off had been down in the basement, too; it felt almost like I'd come home.

Almost…I was gonna have to share that room with two other boys, and it wasn't much bigger than my room back home.

And that brings me to something else I didn't find out until a whole lot later. My first impression of that house had been of a ware-house. And that feeling turned out to be exactly right; the Kaneskas were in it for the money. They got a quarterly allowance from the state for every kid under their care—and so, they tried to cram as many kids as they could into that place. Including me, there were twelve of us, the maximum number allowed for a house that size, and they provided only the most basic services…just enough so that The State wouldn't bellyache. Meanwhile, Mrs. Kaneska drove a Lepus, and her husband had a boat that he liked to take out on weekends—none of us kids were ever invited along.

We were never abused, you understand. They never beat us or starved us; that came later, when I landed in Granite Point. Their usual method of discipline was this thing they called the 'time-out room.' It was this really small room, 'bout the size of a large-mammal closet, with nothing inside but a bed. And I mean nothing; just four bare walls, a single, overhead light, and no windows. There was this button you could push when you were ready to say you were sorry, or if you needed to go to the bathroom, but that was it. And if you pushed it coz you were bored or angry or whatever, you were given some extra 'time-out time'. Except for once that I remember, nobody lasted more than a day in there. Me, I usually broke after an hour or two.

If I had to use a single word to describe the Kaneska's attitude towards us, I'd say indifference. They just didn't care one way or the other. We got three square meals a day, decent food, but we hardly ever asked for seconds. And what the heck is this thing you call 'dessert?'

No, they didn't run the place all by themselves, Mr. Rodenberg. They had a couple of part-timers helping them; unpaid interns, I think. All I know is that none of them stayed on for more than six months. Anyway, it was the kids who did most of the chores, mopping the floors, vacuuming, cleaning, and keeping our beds made. Mrs. Kaneskas did all the cooking, but we had to do the dishes afterwards.

Yeah, yeah…pretty much the same arrangement YOU have at home, bunny-girl; did I say I had a problem with it?

One thing I have to give those badgers—they worked their tails off to get the kids under their care placed with a family. For the longest time, I was sure they got a bonus for every kid they placed, but later on I found out that wasn't the case; go fig.

Of course, and I didn't know it at the time, being a fox, I had a big strike against me in that regard. The whole while I was in that foster home, I never once had anyone show up, looking to adopt me.

Not that I really noticed, not at first; I was waiting for the day when my mother would come to bring me home. I used to drive the Kaneskas nuts, asking when I was going to get to see her again. When was she coming to get me; when I was going to go visit her again? To their credit, they never got mad at me over it.

But then, after I'd been there for about a year, they got this new girl to help out. She was a Mara by species; big rodent from South America, looks kinda like a cross between a donkey and a rabbit—no offense there, Erin. Her name was Becky-something. I don't remember her last name, but lemme tell you—she put the 'tude in attitude. Always grouchy, never smiled, never lightened up. What I remember most about her is that she always wore black and never stopped chewing bubblegum; had like sixteen rings in her ears and two more in her nose. Oh, and there was one other thing; she used to give the Kaneskas the finger sometimes when their backs were turned. It was the first time I ever saw anyone make that gesture. One of my roommates asked her what it meant one time, and she told him, "Mind your own business, punk!" Eventually one of the other kids asked Mrs. Kaneska what it meant, and got an hour in the time out room for his troubles. By then tho', Becky was long out of there.

It was late spring when it happened. I remember, coz I'd just finished shedding out my cub fur for my grown-up coat. Becky had been given the job of cleaning out this garden shed, and I'd been assigned to help her. Or rather…they'd had me and two other kids draw straws for the job; I lost.

Becky was in a really bad mood that morning—even for her. It wasn't anything to do with her job; she was having some kind of trouble at home. I know, coz the whole time I was helping her, she never stopped griping about her folks—especially her mother. Something about the upcoming weekend and her boyfriend; I'm not exactly sure. Whatever, she was seriously torqued at her mom.

And then…I remember she was taking out some old bottles and stuff out to the trash in a wheelbarrow. She had way overloaded it, and halfway across the yard, it tipped over on her. Ho-leee foxtrot, I was no stranger to temper tantrums back then—heck, I'd thrown one or two myself—but I'd never seen anyone her age up and lose it…and I'd never seen anyone, period, totally lose it. No kidding, it made me want to run back inside the house and lock the door.

Her meltdown didn't last very long, though. It stopped right quick when Mr. Kaneska threw open an upstairs window and called, "Hey, is everything all right down there?" Becky said yes, and he closed it up again

But she was still mad; I remember her grabbing the stuff she'd spilled and just throwing it back into the wheelbarrow. I grabbed a rusty can and started to help—and that was when she said it. "You're lucky, fox-kid; you don't have a mom!"

"Yeah, I do," I said grabbing a wadded-up cardboard box, "she's coming to get me later."

Ohhh boy...BIG mistake. Like I said, Becky was ticked at her mother, not me. But her mom wasn't handy and I was. I remember her putting her paws on her hips and looking at me like I'd just crawled out from underneath a rock.

"Coming to get you? What, is she a zombie or something?"

"What?" I asked her, all confused, "What are you talking about?"

Well remember, Erin, I was only like four, going on five, back then. The only thing I knew about zombies was that they were some kind of monster.

Anyway, the next thing Becky said to me was. "What do you think I'm talking about, you stupid fox kid? Your mother's DEAD, okay?" She had a bottle in her paw and I remember her throwing it hard into the wheelbarrow, breaking it into a zillion pieces, "Like I wish mine was!"

There were a lot of things she could have said to me right then, but…

"No, she's not!" I was starting to cry, "She's coming to bring me home, you'll see!" But even as I said it, I knew it wasn't true. It was more than a year after my mother's passing, and I had long since stopped asking about when they were taking me to see her. I was finally starting to get a handle on death and dying, too. But I still hadn't made the connection between that, and my mom not being around.

…Not until now.

So…I did what any fox-kid that age would have done; I went straight into the first of the so-called five stages of mourning—anger and denial.

"My Mom's alive!" I insisted. "And she's coming to take me home—soon!"

"Oh, for crying out loud!" Becky threw back her head and laughed. Ewwww, I liked her better when she was mad. "What's the matter with you, kid? Didn't you go to her funeral, didn't you see her laid out, dead?"

No, I hadn't; my mother had been cremated—but of course Becky didn't know that. Anyway, that was when I really blew up on her.

"She's not dead, you're lying!" I fox-screamed. "Lying rodent! LIAR! LIAR! LIAR!" That set her off too.

"Stupid kid, your mom's dead. She's not coming to get you, she's dead…dead, Dead, DEAD!"

"BECKY!"

We both looked up and there was Mr. Kaneska, leaning out of the window again. For some reason, I remember that he had a pipe in his mouth. And from the look on his face, it was pretty darn obvious that he'd heard everything Becky had said to me; "I'll see you in my office, right NOW!" he growled, meaning her, not me.

I don't think it'll surprise you guys that she blamed the whole thing on me. "You little jerk; look what you…"

"I HATE YOU!" I screamed, and I almost bit her. I didn't, thank God. Instead, I went running for the house and down to my room.

Becky was fired on the spot of course—but the damage was done. I stayed down there in the basement for two whole days; didn't want to eat or talk to anyone, I couldn't sleep either; all I wanted to do was cry. I found out later that they almost took me to the Emergency Room; they were that worried.

It wasn't just her meltdown at me that got Becky canned. It was anything but the first she'd messed up; heh, don't think that'll surprise you either. But looking back on it now, I gotta admit something. As mean as she'd been to me, SHE was the one who finally put me on the road to moving on from my mother's death; at last, I was coming to accept it. If I ever see her again, I might even thank her.

Noooo, funny-bunny…that's not the drugs talking.

Don't get me wrong guys, my mom's still with me in spirit—but only in spirit. I keep her picture on my laptop, and I try to do what she would have wanted with my life. But you'll never catch me trying to have a conversation with her, not even in my head. She's gone, and that's how it is.

Ohhh-kay, I'm gonna hit the fast-forward button here. One morning, Mrs, Kaneska put me in the minivan and drove me to this big, brownstone building. I had no idea where I was going or why we were going there, but I think you can get the idea; it was my first day at kindergarten.

That was the only time Mrs. K ever drove me to school; the place was easily within walking distance of the foster home. After that, she had some of the older kids go with me. Someone still had to come pick me up though, since kindergarten let out earlier than the other classes. Usually, though, they had one of the part-timers do it.

I loved kindergarten; you would too, if you'd been me. Back at the foster home, I had practically nothing to do all day. No one ever read to me or told me stories; no one ever sang to me—tho' with a voice like Mrs. Kaneska's, that was probably a good thing. I hardly ever got to watch cartoons on TV; the older kids always had dibs. The only diversion was reading and I didn't know how yet.

So, do you get it now? Kindergarten was like a whole new world for me. There were games, there were stories, there were sing-alongs; I saw my very first movie in that classroom, Pirates of the Caribbean, Curse of the Black Pearl. For the next two years, Jack Sparrow was my hero.

Oops, you're right Erin, my bad; Captain Jack Sparrow.

Anyway, I used to try to make excuses to stay after whenever class let out. I only managed to pull it off once or twice, walking home with the older kids when they were done with school.

Oh yeah, Mr. Rodenberg…I was the angriest little fox on the planet when school let out for the summer. Some of the older kids even teased me about it, pretending school was over for me, for good.

Of course, it wasn't, but when classes started up again in the fall, things were way different than before. Now school was mostly work, not play. Honestly, once I got the hang of it, tho', I turned out to be a really good student. I picked up fast on arithmetic, and even faster on reading. Part of the credit, I have to admit, belongs to the Kaneskas. They used to practically sit on us kids and MAKE us do our homework. It wasn't so much that they cared about us; that was The State's big marker for how well a foster home was performing—the grades that their kids got in school. Even without that, by the time I was in second grade, I was at the head of my class.

But…you know what they say; nothing in life comes without a price; I found that out real sweet quick, maybe two months after I started my third year.

The kid's name was Tony Camano, a bush dog, if you know what that is.

Ahhh, if a bear and a wolf had a kid together, and it was about as big as a coyote…that's pretty much what a bush dog looks like. If you want to find one in Zootopia, the best place to look would be the Rainforest District.

Anyway, Tony was the second grade's resident thug; him and his stooges—can't remember their names, but they were a maned wolf and a wild boar—they used to hit on the smaller kids for their lunch money, you know the drill.

Now, being as I was a fox, they didn't like me to begin with—and Tony had been held back a year; once he figured out that I was the class brain, he zeroed in on me like a heat-seeker.

I remember that it happened in the boys' room; I was just about to leave when I found myself surrounded by Tony and his buds.

"Hey fox-kid!" he said, and shoved me into the wall. After this introduction, he proceeded to demand that I hand over my lunch-money.

"I don't have any money," I protested—and I didn't. The foster home had an account with the school district and paid them for our lunches directly. I didn't know that back then though, and, of course, neither did Tony.

Or maybe he just didn't care.

"Okay, kid…then let's see what you got in here," he growled, and then grabbed my backpack and began pulling it off my shoulders.

And I bit him on the shoulder.

Why'd I do it? That backpack, and everything in it was literally all I had in the world right then, a charity donation to the foster home. That's part of the reason I fought back; the other part…I'm pretty sure came from my mom.

I-I-I couldn't tell you how exactly; maybe it was all those times she told me to be strong and stand up for myself, maybe it was something in my blood. Whatever, when Tony C. grabbed my backpack, I went for him and sank my teeth.

You can guess how it ended, I got the snot kicked out of me and then got treated to a swirly. They dumped my backpack on the floor, too…but at least they didn't steal or break anything.

My teacher wasn't stupid. When I showed up in class a while later, she took one look at my face and the bite on Tony's arm, and put two and two together. Boom; straight to the principal's office for both of us!

Now, you need to understand something here…I was in at least as much trouble as Tony, maybe more. The one thing they absolutely didn't tolerate in that school was biting another student, especially if you were a predator. And, whatever kind of reasons I'd had, I was the kid who'd attacked first. Never mind my good grades, I was looking at being expelled for what I'd done.

I was called into the office first…which I thought was kind of unfair; Tony had started it, after all. Anyway, the principal was an impala, and he had a picture on his wall that scared the living heck out of me; an otter-kid, getting busted by a cop while playing hooky; made me think that this was a guy who enjoyed dishing out discipline. I don't remember his name; that painting, I can't forget.

But if that pic on his wall was making me afraid, there was something else that scared me a whole lot more. Even back then, I knew that snitching was a one-way ticket to being ghosted by every kid in the school and then some. And being a fox, I had trouble enough making friends as it was. So, when the principal asked me what had happened, I told him I'd fallen down the stairs.

Yeah, Erin…that old thing; gimme a break, willya? I was like seven years old at the time. Anyway, my school was in a two-story building, so it was something that could've happened

No, of course he didn't buy it…but I still refused to tell him what really happened. When he asked me if the kid that beat me up was Tony Camano, I pretended like I didn't know who the heck he was talking about. Finally, he gave up and sent me back outside, 'but stay right there.'

Tony went in next…and when he came out again, he just kind of gave me a look, but didn't say a thing. I was sure then that I was toast, about to be kicked out of school.

It didn't happen; we each got two weeks detention, served separately of course. Turned out Tony had refused to give me up, too; told the principal that he'd gotten those bite marks on some broken glass. There'd been no witnesses to our fight, and so detention was the worst thing the school could give us. I didn't get off quite so easy as him, though. When the Kaneksas heard what happened, I ended up confined to my room after dinner, every day until my detention ended. But hey, who cared? I hadn't been thrown out of school.

I learned two big lessons from going head-to-head with Tony C. Number one, I'd been 100% right to keep my fox-trap shut when the principal tried to lean on me. Number two, I'd been even more right to stand up for myself when that bush-dog and his crew tried to shake me down. My second biggest fear, next to being expelled, was that Tony and his guys were gonna come looking for some payback on me—but that didn't happen either. In fact, it was just the opposite. Not only did him and his boys never bother me again, neither did anyone else, not for a while, anyway.

No Erin…it wasn't coz I'd refused to snitch on him, or out of respect for my having stood up to him.

Yep…that's it, Mr. Rodenberg. Why pick on someone who's nutty enough to fight back, when there's a zillion other kids available who won't stand their ground?

From then on, that was my rule; always stand up for yourself, never back down. But later on, when I got older, it backfired on me, big time.

Ahhhh, that's another thing I'll get to later. Right now, I want to jump ahead a little and tell you about Jimmy Sanchez.

About a year after my encounter with Tony C., the city opened up a new library branch, within walking distance of the school. I used to go there on rainy days, after classes let out. It was the place where I first started to learn how to use a computer.

And it was also where I first met Jimmy Sanchez.

Now back at the school, they had a strict rule about foxes not being allowed to associate with other foxes. Put two of my species together and they'll start scheming to hustle somebody; that was the attitude. The Kaneskas felt even more strongly about it but I didn't know that…not yet.

I mean, why should I? The whole time I was there I was the only fox-kid in residence. I'm pretty sure they'd had that rule in place at the orphanage, too; I never saw those fox-kids I mentioned earlier hanging with each other.

I'm telling you this because Jimmy was a fox; in his case, a gray fox. If it hadn't been for that library, we might never have met. He went to a different school than me, and lived in a different foster home…or foundling home as he called it, run by an order of nuns, the Sisters of the Precious Blood.

We met one day, when he sat down at the table where I was reading. I had my face buried in a book at the time, and so he didn't notice me and I didn't notice him.

When I did, tho', we became best buds, just like that. Not only was he my species, but he was also another orphan; oh yeah…we were gonna hit it off all right.

When Jimmy and I got to talking, I found out that he knew even less about his background than I did. He'd been dropped off at the foundling home before his eyes were even open and didn't know his dad or his mom. He didn't know HIS real name either. The Sisters had given him the one he went by now. And about the only thing they knew about him was that he came from Hispanic parents; the note they'd found in the box with him—yeah, that's right, a cardboard box—had been written in Spanish. And all it had said was, "I can't take care of him, I'm sorry." That was it, nothing else.

In some ways, Jimmy had it better than I did. The foundling home wasn't nearly as crowded as my place and the kids had lots more activities than we did. The food was better, too.

That was the upside; the downside was that The Sisters were way stricter with their boys than the Kaneskas. For instance, at the foundling home, everyone had to wear uniforms; docker pants in dark blue, and light blue button-down shirts with the foundling home emblem on the pocket. Jimmy said they always itched like crazy during the shedding season. And in the winter-time, they had to wear these, like, sport coats that were pretty much useless at keeping out the cold.

But the worst thing about that place, according to Jimmy, was that they were strictly Old Skool when it came to discipline—meaning yeah, you guessed it., corporal punishment. More than once when I met up with my bud, he had his knuckles bandaged. A couple of times, he had trouble sitting down.

Yeah, Mr. Rodenberg…it was because of his species, at least in part. There was this one nun at the foundling home, a marmot named Sister Mary Louise Carloccia. She hated foxes, and would look for any excuse to lay some hurt on my friend. Jimmy used to tell me that it could've been worse; at least he wasn't a weasel; she liked weasels even less than our species.

Anyway, before too long, Jimmy and I were hooking up on a regular basis. If it was raining or otherwise nasty outside, we'd go to the library. If it was nice, we'd go to the park.

Oops, yeah right, I didn't mention that did I? There was a city park only a few blocks away from the library. Nice place too; it even had a little outdoor theater. I never would have known it existed, if Jimmy hadn't taken me there.

Jimmy wasn't sure about his age either, but I think he was probably older than me. As a rule, gray foxes are smaller than us reds, but he and I were pretty much the same size. Anyway, his big thing was stickball, and he was good at it. Whenever we'd go to the park, he never had trouble getting picked, fox or no fox. Even after a session with Sister C, he could own that game. After we became friends, he started putting his foot down. If you wanted him on your team, you had to pick me, too. After a while though, he didn't need to make that pitch. Though I was never as good at stickball as him, I eventually got the hang of it—enough to be chosen without any outside leverage.

My game, though, was Ringolevio—what I think they call Bush Chase here in Zootopia. It's pretty much a game for predators only.

How does it…? Okay, the kids divide up into two teams, 'hunters' and 'prey.' And then…

Oh, quit looking at me like that, Snowdrop, it was just a game. Besides, don't you bunnies play 'Munch' all the time?

THANK you… Now, if a hunter-kid catches a prey-kid, he grabs hold and chants 'Ring-o-LEV-io, 1-2-3; Ring-o-LEV-io, can't-get-free.' The prey kid then gets taken to 'jail', and they're outta the game. But if he or she manages to break free before the hunter kid finishes the chant, they're not out and can keep playing. And the kids in jail can get back in the game again if a member of their team grabs 'em and yells "Olly-olly oxen free!' The game ends when all of the prey kids are caught, and then the two teams switch sides. That's a really basic version of how it's played, but I think you get the idea.

No Erin…only with your paws. Grabbing a kid with your teeth was strictly cheating and could get you kicked outta the game if you did it more than once.

As for me, I took to Ringolevio like a bat takes to flying. Not to toot my own horn, but I was killer at it; one of the few kids who could play equally well on either side. So could Jimmy…tho' he wasn't quite as good at it as me. No big surprise, really, I suppose, since both of us were foxes.

Well, you have to understand something Mr. Rodenberg. Calling a fox a predator species is only kind of a half-truth. Back in the days before we evolved, foxes used to catch and eat other mammals, chipmunks, mice, squirrels, and—yeah, I'll say it—rats and rabbits. But at the same, don't forget, there were plenty of animals out there ready to make a meal out of us; bobcats, bears, cougars, wolverines, and especially coyotes. So, as time went by, us foxes not only developed some serious hunting skills; we also got good at evading predators.

Yeah, okay…now, like I said at the beginning, Ringolevio was my game. After a while, whenever me and Jimmy would show up to play, kids would fall all over themselves, arguing over which side would get to pick me. I was harder than heck to catch, and every bit as good at making catches. I would rarely, if ever, chase another kid, though. What I liked to do was set up an ambush, get downwind of a guy, get as close as I could, and then pounce when they weren't looking. And if I was on the prey team, and another kid grabbed me, I'd try to hustle them into letting me go before they could finish the chant.

Ohhh…like, I'd look at the jail and yell, "Now!" The kid who had hold of me would think I'd let myself get caught, on purpose, as a distraction. He'd turn and yell to one of his guys to that someone was making a jailbreak—and when he did, he'd loosen his grip a little. No idea why, but it almost always happened, and THAT that was when I'd make my break. Or—I did this a lot—if a hunter kid grabbed me, instead of trying to pull away, I'd start pushing against him. The natural reaction when someone does that is to push back, and when they, I'd make my move, and pull free.

One time though, my hustling skills nearly got me and another kid killed. There was this road running through the park, and this lynx-girl grabbed hold of me right in the middle of it. Right then, just our luck, a car came along. I yelled out 'Car!'…and I think you can guess what happened next.

Yep…made it by the skin of our teeth. No hard feelings though, it was just one of those things. We did make up a new rule, right then and there. No yelling 'Car!' unless one was actually coming

My specialty, when it came to Ringolevio, was breaking other kids out of 'jail'. Yeah, yeah…I see that look on your faces...Nyuck! Nyuck! Nyuck! I really was that good at it though. One time, the hunters managed to take down every kid on the prey team but me—and I managed to set free every single one of 'em.

But then, one day, this new kid showed up at the park to play—and everything changed.

His name was Mark Wemba, a brown hyena kid. Him and his family had just moved into the neighborhood, but he was no stranger to Ringolevio; really good at it.

But it wasn't until the day he was made captain of the hunter team that he really began to strut his stuff.

What he did was convince the guys on his team to play AS a team. Up until then, it had been pretty much every kid for himself.

To make a long story short, Mark's guys wiped the floor with us. I was the first prey-kid to go to jail that day. As good as I was, I didn't have the skills to get away from three guys at once—and I never got out of there, none of us did. When we switched sides, and the other team became the prey-kids, the game ended without a single one of their guys in jail.

When I went home that night, I was one seriously ticked off little silver fox I can tell you. That new kid was a dirty cheater, he was gonna ruin the game for everyone, blah, blah, blah…

I complained about it all through dinner and ended up getting sent to the time-out room, coz I wouldn't shut up about Mark, even after being told three times.

For the next two days it rained, and so it was library time. The next day, when I met Jimmy at the park, the game of the day was stick-ball.

But when Ringolevio finally came up again, this time I got picked for Mark's team. And that was when I finally stopped grouching.

Gotta say it; I never made friends with that 'yeen-kid. In fact, I could barely stand him, even when we were playing on the same side. No, not because of that first game; because the guy was, like, totally arrogant. I used to wonder out loud to Jimmy Sanchez how the heck he kept his balance with a head that big. Even so, I took away one very important lesson from being around him; you don't have to LIKE somebody in order to learn from them—which I did. The next time I played against Mark's squad, I asked to be made captain and managed to get our guys to play as a team. We still lost, but it was a way closer game than that first one. And the next time I went up against him, my team won.

That was it; after that, every game of Ringolevio played in that park was organized team against organized team. And while Mark always won more times than he lost, he never came to dominate the game.

Neither did I, but I didn't care. Win or lose, I always had fun—until winter came along and pretty much shut things down.

No…you can still play Ringolevio in the snow. In fact, it's even better in a way; you can build an actual jail for the kids who get caught.

What I mean to say is…by then I had bigger problems.

Notes:

Author's note:

For those who don't know, Ringolevio is a real game, going back to the 1800s; popular in New York City and other cities in the Eastern US. You can learn more about it by Googling Ringolevio and Game.

The effects of chemotherapy, described earlier in this chapter, are based on personal experience.

The game of 'Munch' was created by Alp Sarsis.

Chapter 51: Conor's Story (Continued...Part 2)

Summary:

I-I-I wouldn't do that, if I were you.

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

---

The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Continued…Part 2)

♪ "The season rubs me wrong
The summer swells anon
So knock me down, tear me up
But I would bear it all, broken, just to fill my cup…" ♫

The Decembrists - Down by the Water

Conor Lewis was a fox, not a wolf—but you'd never have known it from the way he was wolfing down his submarine sandwich.

Mind, he was still capable of displaying some foxy tendencies—such as asking for something to eat right after dropping a cliffhanger…with the implication that he might not be able to continue until he got some food in his belly. "I don't talk too good on an empty stomach," he'd pleaded, offering up a pair of big, innocent eyes.

And then… it had turned out the Mercy Star's galley was closed for the evening, and they'd been obliged to send ashore for some grub.

"Oooooo, it's a good thing we're not up on deck," Erin Hopps grumbled, silently, as she watched him eat. Otherwise, she'd have been sorely tempted to pitch this silver-furred so-and-so into the drink.

Glancing down at Mr. Rodenberg, she could see that the rat-attorney wasn't any happier about the state of affairs than she was—even if he was tucking into his hoagie with a gusto nearly equal to that of his client.

For her part, the young doe-bunny had left her sandwich untouched. How was she supposed to eat, when her two companions were chowing down on…on THAT?

As if on cue, Conor chose that moment to take notice of her reticence.

"Relax bunny-girl," he said, holding up his hoagie like 'Exhibit A', "It's not real meat, it's plant-based."

Erin didn't care what the heck it was made from; it looked real enough to her that, once again, she was glad that bunnies were incapable of vomiting.

"You know what the next big thing is gonna be; lab-grown meat," Vern Rodenberg offered. Unlike Conor, he seemed oblivious to the young doe-bunny's queasiness—surprising, in an animal with sensibilities as keen as his.

Or maybe he just wasn't interested.

"They've already approved it for sale in Israel," the grey rat went on, tapping his kippah cap for emphasis.

"Yeah, I know," Conor answered him, taking another bite. And then he said, "The Impawssible Meat guys are already working on their own version

Slowly, almost gingerly, Rodenberg set down his sandwich, looking up at the young silver-fox with curious eyes and quivering whiskers.

"And you know this…how?"

He had to wait until Conor finished another bite before getting an answer.

"From Mike Daehan; I go to…" For a second, he paused, and then went on in a voice tinged with sadness, "…uh, that is, I went to school with him. He's…I mean he WAS my best bud."

Rodenberg's whiskers instantly ceased their twitching.

"Daehan…as in…?"

"That's right, Mike's his son." Conor answered, quickly…a little too quickly, as if he'd given away a secret not meant to be revealed. Searching for a qualifier, he settled instead for a change of subject. "You're not the first rat I ever made friends with, y'know."

Whoops, wrong answer; Rodenberg's paw came slamming down on the tray table where he was sitting, making a noise like a saucepan dropped on the floor.

"Get this through your head, Booby." His voice was a high, guttural hiss, "I am not, repeat, NOT your friend, I am your lawyer—and even that's still subject to review, you got that?"

Conor said nothing for a moment, only gazed at the grey rat in stunned silence. So did Erin.

Rodenberg let this go on for only a few seconds before baring his incisors again.

"That was NOT a rhetorical question, kid. Do! You! Get! It?"

When his answer finally came, it came in a stammering rush of words. "Y-Yes Mr. Rodenberg; s-sorry."

And then hastily finishing the last of his sandwich, the fugitive young silver fox returned once more to his narrative.

---

It all went down about the middle of January. I'd been cooped up for like two days in the foster home because of an ice-storm. When it finally ended, it still was way too slippery to do much outside, but at least I could hook up with Jimmy at the library.

When I got there, he was sitting at a table, reading a book…or, I oughta say, pretending to read. That should have been my first red flag; the second one was that he looked about as happy as a kid waiting to get a rabies shot.

I didn't notice either one—what the heck, I was so glad to finally get out of the house, I wasn't paying a whole lot of attention to anything else. Instead, I waved and started to go over to where he was sitting.

Jimmy immediately waved back…but it was a very different kind of wave; and why was he grimacing and shaking his head like that?

I found out when someone laid a paw on my shoulder.

When I think back on it now, that's the part where I really feel like an idiot. You'd have thought, after all my success at Ringolevio, I'd have known there was someone behind me, but noooooo! If it happened now, I'd know in a heartbeat…but not back then.

Anyway, I got spun around like a fidget spinner…and then guess who it was? None other than her holy uprightness, Sister Mary Louise Carloccia. I had never met her before, never even seen her picture—but I knew right away it was her.

She was small for a marmot, not much bigger than a prairie-dog, but what she lacked in size, she more than made up for in righteous wrath. She was older than I expected; had almost no fur left on her face, and more wrinkles than a wadded-up newspaper. Other than that, she was exactly how I'd always pictured her. She wore these steel-rimmed glasses and the deepest frown I'd ever seen in my life.

Ignoring me for a minute, she looked over at Jimmy.

"So," she said, "Just as I thought, James." Sheesh, from the look on her face right then, you'd have thought she won the lottery or something. "I'll see you outside, right now, young mammal." And then she turned to me, "You, too."

Remembering my rule, I tried to protest. "Hey, I'm not…Owwww!"

Dang, for such an old rodent she owned some seriously fast moves; had me by the ear and was hauling me and Jimmy to the entrance before I knew what was happening.

I know, right? But I didn't know it then, Mr. Rodenberg. Someone else did though; I'll get to that in a second, but anyway…

One of the librarians, a brush tailed opossum who knew us both, tried to intervene, but one look from Momma Lou—that's what the kids at the foundling home called her—one good look was all it took to make him back off real sweet quick.

She dragged us outside to the front porch where she finally let go of us, literally shoving us in opposite directions. It was then that I knew what was happening. In hindsight, I should have expected it.

It must have been just above freezing outside that day, and the wind was blowing something fierce, but it didn't seem to bother Sister Carloccia even one little bit. It wasn't affecting me all that much either. By now, I had recovered from my shock and was getting seriously steamed. Jimmy was shivering so badly his teeth were chattering; sounded almost like one of those old teletype machines—and it wasn't just from the cold.

Ignoring me again, Momma Lou pulled herself up to her full height, and spoke to him.

"James Michael Sanchez…what is the rule regarding foxes associating with other foxes?"

Jimmy didn't answer for a minute, he only kind of sniffled. So, she asked him again, this time in a voice that said, 'answer-me-or-else!'

"WHAT…is the rule regarding foxes associating with other foxes?"

"We…we're not supposed to…play with each other." Jimmy looked at the ground while he said it. I remember that I could barely hear him, "or even be around each other."

"That's right," Momma Lou nodded, and then turned to me.

"What is the rule regarding foxes associating with other foxes?"

Yep; right. She was out of line AGAIN—but this time I did know it. Back then, I wasn't the smartmouth fox-kid I am today, but still….

Yeah, yeah…too bad the rest of me isn't that smart. You're just a barrel of laughs tonight, bunny-girl, you know that?

Anyway, I came that close to saying something snarky. And I would have too, except for the look on Jimmy's face…just begging me to keep my fox-trap shut.

And so, I played dumb—don't say it, Snowdrop—and told her, "We don't have any rule like that where I live; I'm the only fox."

"Well-l-l, we DO have that rule at the foundling home," Sister Momma Lou sneered, "And it doesn't just apply to the children under our care!"

Hoo boy, that was the closest I came that day to giving her the claw. The only reason I didn't was coz I was as mad at myself as I was at her.

Dangit, but I should have seen this coming. As strict as The Sisters were with their kids, of course they'd have that rule about foxes staying away from other foxes.

Anyway, she told us both that from now on we were to have nothing to do with each other. Of course, she had no power to enforce that rule where I was concerned, but she did with Jimmy. And…well, you guys know how much I hate seeing someone else get in trouble over me. And so, I agreed to keep away from my bud…but with my fingers crossed behind my back.

I thought at first that Her Righteousness hadn't noticed, but I found out differently when I got back home. Soon as I walked through the door, I got pulled into Mr. Kaneska's office for a question-and-answer period. Sister C. had called him right after I left the library.

Nah, I wasn't in any real trouble; those badgers may have been lousy foster-parents, but even they weren't going to punish me over a rule I didn't know existed. Besides, it became pretty clear, and pretty fast, that Momma Lou's call had been anything but friendly. I found out later that she'd basically given Mister K. a lecture on the proper way to treat foxes—and being a predator himself, he hadn't much cared for it.

But when I told him about how she'd grabbed me by the ear and dragged me out of the library, that was when it hit the fan—at a hundred miles an hour.

"She did…WHAT?!"

He sent me out of the office and back to my room—my room, thank God, not the time-out room.

I later heard that when he finally got hold of Sister Carloccia, she not only admitted to what she'd done, but even bragged about it. I don't know how true that is, but I do know they got into the mother of all screaming matches. It was so loud, I was able to hear part of Momma Lou's end of the call from inside my room—which, by the way, was on a different floor. I found out later that she went so ballistic, she ended up losing her voice for a couple of days.

How…? Oh, I overheard some of the other kids from the foundling home, talking about it.

Anyway, that call turned out to be the beginning of a range war. The Kaneskas threatened to sue the foundling home over Momma Lou having put her paws on me, and The Diocese retaliated by threatening to have their license revoked. Nothing came of either of those threats, except that Jimmy and I were told, in no uncertain terms, that we couldn't hang out any more.

I tried…I really tried to suck it up and move on, but by the time spring was about ready to sprung, I'd had it. Like I said, Jimmy or no Jimmy, I could still go to the park to play—and I couldn't help seeing him there; same thing for the library, too.

Trouble was, now there was almost always one of The Sisters hanging around. Sometimes Momma Lou herself would be there, and she always spotted me right away. Used to give me 'the gesture', you know the one—where you point two fingers at your eyes and then at the animal you're watching. And even when there weren't any nuns around, I didn't dare hook up with my bud.

You see, the word on the street was that Sister C. had found out about Jimmy and me from one of the other kids at the foundling home. We never did find out who snitched on us…or even if anyone HAD snitched; it was only a rumor. But what it meant was, we couldn't be seen together by anyone, period.

But if we weren't able to meet face-to-face, we could still send messages back and forth. I wasn't the only kid from my school who used to hang out at the park, and if Jimmy had no idea who had snitched on us, he DID know which of the kids at the foundling home were guys that he could trust.

And so, for the next few weeks we communicated second-paw. I remember that in the beginning, we used to open the messages in the bathroom and then flush them after reading. Once, though, that almost backfired, big time. I was leaving the restroom after reading Jimmy's latest note, and almost walked right into him.

Uhm, he was on his way inside to...'do his business.' I thought, for sure, that we were both gonna get it, but nothing happened. No one at the foster home ever even mentioned that close encounter; same thing for the foundling home.

But then, something else went down with me.

It was right before springtime—when a surprise warm spell hit Connecticat. It caught the Kaneska's completely by surprise; they'd been expecting it to stay cold all weekend and had the furnace turned way up. Because of that, it was like a sauna in my room.

Oh, right, right, right…I forgot…

By now I was old enough—and I'd been at the foster home long enough—to have my own room. It was upstairs, on the second floor; not a whole lot more space than I'd had in the basement, but at least it was private.

I also had a window…one that looked like it hadn't been opened since CB radios were a thing.

What are…? Uhhh, some other time Erin, okay?

But anyway…I was desperate to get some air into my room. It took me like half an hour to get the window-latch undone and I nearly broke two finger claws in the process. But when I went to push it open—what do you know, it slid up easy-peasy. I spent the next couple of seconds with my head stuck outside, just enjoying the fresh air, and hoping I wouldn't get in trouble for this.

Now, it so happened that my window opened up onto the roof; remember what I said about how it was longer and lower on one side than the other? So…I climbed out and lay down on the shingles, looking up at the stars. It was really clear that night; I could even see the Milky Way. Dang, but I wished that Jimmy had been there with me right then.

But when I happened to look left, I noticed this big, old, beech tree that we had in the yard…and that some of the branches were hanging really close to the higher part of the roof.

"I could reach that big one," I remember thinking, "I could get up there and then climb down to the ground."

No, I didn't; not in my pajamas, but the idea wouldn't go away. The next day, I made a quick survey, and saw that the part of the roof closest to the tree was over the storage-attic—where nobody lived, YES!

Two nights later, I made my move, and it turned out to be even easier than I expected. I could jump down onto one set of branches to get off the roof, and jump down again from the next ones up to get back onto it. Climbing down to the ground turned out to be almost a cakewalk, even for a red fox. That tree had a big, twisty trunk that made it really simple.

The second my feet hit the ground, though, I had to wonder what the heck I was doing out here? I didn't wait for an answer, I beat it back up to my room, as fast as I could.

That answer to that question came to me the very next day—when I spotted Jimmy playing stickball at the park. That was when I finally understood what I'd been up to last night…and what I had to do next.

It took me two more days to get a note to him; by then we had a system. After writing out our messages, we would fold them up and seal them with scotch tape. The rule was, if you got a message that looked like it had been opened already, you were supposed to toss it without reading it.

Heyyy, don't shake your head at me, bunny-girl; that actually happened a couple of times. Anyway, my note said, "If you can, meet me over by the swing-sets at the park, Midnight, Saturday."

Then I waited…and waited. I waited all the way until the weekend, and never got a reply. Not only that, there was supposed to be a chance of rain Saturday night. I almost called the whole thing off, but when it didn't rain after all, I decided to go ahead and go through with it.

It took me like forever to get where I was going. Every time a car went by, or if I thought I heard somebody coming, I had to duck out of sight until the coast was clear. Not only that, when I finally made it to the park, it turned out I wasn't alone. A group of high-school kids was there, hanging out by the picnic tables. I almost bailed again…until I noticed they were passing a bottle around. Ohh-kay, no worries; these guys weren't gonna snitch.

Just the same, I took the back way around to the swing-sets; got there more than half an hour late.

But when I came out of the bushes, there was Jimmy…and I'll never forget the first thing he said to me.

"Whoa Silver, you never told me YOU knew how to sneak outta your place, too."

"I didn't," I protested. "not 'til a few days ago. But you mean…you…?" The way he'd said it, it sounded like sneaking out at night was no big deal for him.

Not just for him—as I soon found out.

"Heck yeah, we do it all the time."

Whoa, had he really said…? "We…who's 'we'?"

"The kids at the foundling home," he said, looking at me with a tilted head, "Didn't you see those guys over by the picnic tables? That goat-guy and wolf-girl are both from there."

He then went on to explain; sneaking away from the foundling home at night was a tradition that went back to long before his time there. He'd never told me about it, because he didn't want me to try it—and then get caught. I gotta admit, he had something there. While I was having to fly solo tonight, he had almost a whole network backing him up; lookouts, security; there was even supposed to be a tunnel.

"And even the kids that don't sneak out after dark won't snitch on the ones who do." he insisted.

That was how it started. Before long, Jimmy and I were doing late night hookups on a regular…ahh, scratch that; a sort of regular basis.

Well, rainy nights were out…obviously. Wha…? No Snowdrop…a little water didn't bother me; having to explain why my clothes were all wet and the puddles on my bedroom floor—that would have bothered me, okayyyy? Okay…

I also couldn't go whenever Mr. Kaneska took his boat out for the day; he always stayed out late, and you never knew exactly what time he was coming home.

I have to say, though…and I don't think you'll be surprised to hear this; as happy as I was to be able to hook up with Jimmy again, things just weren't the same. No stick ball games, no Ringolevio, hardly any other kids around, same age as us. And those that we did bump into had better things to do than hang with a couple of 'sneaky' fox kids. We couldn't play kickball, we couldn't play one-on-one basketball; we used to hug whenever we met, but we didn't dare let out a fox scream. The one time we did, someone called the cops and we barely made it home without being pinched. About the only thing we could do whenever we met was sit and talk…that was it. And mostly what we talked about was how unfairly we were being treated by the adult mammals.

It was all so wrong; Jimmy and I weren't bad kids! Since we started hanging out together, we'd never once gotten into any trouble. We didn't steal, we didn't go out and break stuff, and we never got into fights. And yet here we were, being forced to meet after lights out and in secret—all because of our species;

Yeah, I know I sound bitter, Erin. That's coz I AM still bitter, okay?

Uh, yes and no, Mr. Rodenberg. While I couldn't hang with Jimmy anymore, elsewhere in life, things were looking up for me.

When I'd started classes back in September, there'd been a new teacher at my school, a caracal named Mr. Jones. Among other things, he was our music teacher. He wasn't as good as my mom on piano—but way better than her on guitar.

Uh-huh…yup. Give the bunny a gold star. THAT was where I really first got interested in playing guitar.

Mr. Jones used to lead us in all the usual kid stuff…but sometimes, he'd finish up by playing us a solo number, almost always a blues tune; he just loved the blues. Sometimes when he played, he'd bring out a resonator guitar. What's a….? Ehhh, you know the guitar on the cover of the Direwolf Straits CD, Brothers in Arms? Yep, that's a resonator. His favorite tune was a thing called 'Fishin Blues.' Hmm, lemme see if I can remember how it goes.

♪ "Betcha goin' fishin', alla the time
Baby goin' fishin', too

Bet your life
That your sweet wife
Goan' catch more fish than you

Any fish bites…if…if…" ♫

Ah, I can't remember the rest, sorry. But Mr. Jones had been there about a month and a half when I finally got up the courage to ask him if he could teach me to play guitar. He said yes, and we started right then and there.

I have to admit, that was the one good thing about not being able to hang with Jimmy. After Momma Lou dropped the hammer on us, I found myself with all the time in the world for guitar practice. Mr. Jones had an extra one at home, a half beat-up old six-string that he used to bring for me to play. After a while, he started letting me take it home after school—with the understanding that it was a loaner; not for me to keep. I remember once he had to come to the police station after this antelope-cop pulled me in, sure that I must have stolen it and refusing to listen to me. "Yeah, riiiight, FOX-boy." I later found out that it wasn't entirely his fault, one of the other kids at my school had dropped a dime on me as a prank; I never did find out who it was.

Anyway, Mr. Jones was easy on me at first, but then he began pushing me. "I'm not doing this to be mean, son." He always used to tell me, "I'm doing this because I like you and want you to be a good player. Now, let's try it one more time."

Near the beginning of April, we had rainy weather all week and I couldn't get out at night to see Jimmy…so, instead I stayed inside and practiced. And even after the rain stopped, I had to wait two more days for everything to dry out.

No, Erin. I never brought that guitar to any of our meetings. Trying to climb down a tree trunk while carrying that bad-boy was a major non-starter. And then climbing back up again? Forget it! Jimmy knew I was learning guitar though; I'd sent him a message about it. He saw me practicing at the park a few times, too but he always had to keep his distance—I was never able to play for him.

I was not what you would call a natural on the guitar; but at the same time, whenever I played, I had the ability to stay totally focused on what I was doing. Sometimes I got so wrapped up in practicing I completely lost track of the time. I spent many an hour in the time-out room because of that.

Ummmm, do either of you guys know who Robert Furpp is? Yep, lead guitarist with King Crimson, tremendous player. I saw him in a video once, where he swore up-and-down that when he first started playing, he was tone-deaf and had no sense of rhythm. He eventually got good at it, he said, coz he needed music in his life just that badly.

I'm telling you this, because that's pretty much where I was coming from. No, I take that back, it's where I'm still coming from today. I don't just LIKE to sing and play guitar; it's something I've gotta have. Uh, am I making any sense over here?

Oh, good…what?

Yeah, riiight, I'm getting off track, sorry. Okay, that night when I saw Jimmy… I don't remember which of us first suggested it—might have been him, might have been me—but I do know it started out as a joke. "When school lets out, let's take off together for the summer."

Silly idea, but it wouldn't leave us alone. Every time we got together after that, we'd talk about making a summer getaway. None of our conversations were serious, not in the beginning, just two fox kids, spinning a fantasy together. It might have stayed that way, too…except for a change of circumstances in both our lives.

It began when Jimmy showed up at the park, looking like the kid who just found nothing under the Christmas Tree. When I asked him what was wrong, he told me that he'd just heard the news; Sister Mary Louise Carloccia was being promoted to Mother Superior.

"Ohhh, NO!" I started to give myself a monster face-pawlm, but before I could finish, Jimmy busted out laughing and told me the rest of it. Momma Lou wasn't being promoted to Mother Superior of the foundling home—they were sending her to a convent in the Philippines; she was supposed to leave around the end of July.

Oooo, I didn't know whether to hug my buddy or wring his neck; so, I settled for joining him in a couple of choruses of 'Ding-Dong, The Witch is Dead,' after which he swore me to secrecy.

"I'm not s'posed to know she's leaving; none of us kids at the home are supposed to know. So, please…keep quiet about it, okay?"

I never said a word about it, not to anyone…but then the next time we met, that was when Jimmy first began to get serious about us taking an extended summer vacation.

"Y'know, Amigo…if we did decide to take off for the summer, I could always say it was because I couldn't stand Momma Lou always picking on…"

Well, remember guys, The Sisters didn't know that the kids knew she was outta there. And then, when Jimmy came back, he could say "Oh, gee…I'm sorry. If I'd known Sister Carloccia was leaving, I never would have bolted…blah, blah, blah…"

He was only half serious, and so I didn't argue. Besides, I thought he might actually have a point over there. More and more I was beginning to get the drift that Momma Lou wasn't being sent to the Philippines as a reward for exemplary performance. In any event, she'd started tuning up on the kids she didn't like more than ever.

But then, things started to change on my end too.

It started when Mr. Jones told me that he was going away on sabbatical for the summer, taking some courses at Arizoona State Unifursity.

He promised me that he'd be back in the fall, but that was about as comforting as a blanket full of fleas. Wonderful…there went my lessons for the summer. Heck, I couldn't even practice; he was taking his beat-up, old guitar with him…wouldn't let me keep it no matter how much I begged and pleaded.

Even worse was what was going on with the Kaneskas. They'd started fighting with each other—and I mean really fighting; screaming matches that lasted almost until sun-up.

And they were badgers, don't forget…not quietest species to begin with. Not all of their fights were strictly verbal, either. At least twice that I know of, the cops had to come by the foster home to check on us. Another time, Mrs. Kaneska took off in her car and we didn't see her again for nearly a week.

And bleahhh… her husband couldn't cook to save his life. The only good thing about their fights was that they made it easy as heck for me to slip out at night.

Nooo, I didn't have a clue as to what was going on, not at first

…but I knew a guy.

His name was Darryl…Wayland or whatever. He was a giant Afurican Pouched Rat and the second-oldest kid at the foster home—and also that one dude who's always up on the latest news, you know the type. On top of that, he had the room closest to the part of the house where the Kaneskas lived. And I don't need to tell you, Mr. Rodenberg—being a rat yourself—he had some seriously sharp hearing.

We had never made friends, being different ages and all. Just the same, I had a healthy amount of respect for that rodent. One time, he spotted me sneaking back in after seeing Jimmy. Not only did he NOT snitch on me, he took me aside later and warned me to be more careful—and never once asked me where I'd been for most of the night. That was Darryl; a stand-up guy, all the way.

I caught up with him on the way home after school one day and asked him if he had any idea about what was going on with the Kaneskas; all the fighting and screaming and stuff.

Oh, boy…did he EVER! Remember that boat of Mr. K.'s I told you about? Yeah, well, it was one of those big, flat-bottomed, pontoon jobs…and it turned out he'd been using it as a love-boat; taking other females out on secret excursions behind his wife's back. Darryl had no idea how she'd discovered he was cheating on her—but he sure as heck knew her reaction; heck, everyone up and down the block knew that one.

Darryl also told me that the Kaneskas had started counseling after their first blow-up…and that it wasn't working out, DUH!

But then he told me that they were about ready to throw in the towel and get a divorce. I didn't feel one way or the other about it…except that maybe if they split up, things would finally settle down around the foster home. I was getting sick of all the noise and whatever; we all were. And maybe, if they got a divorce, we'd go back to being fed on time. Maybe, it was the best thing, after all.

Nope…coz then Darryl he hit me with the news that if the Kaneskas called it quits, they were going to close down the foster home. Those two didn't agree on much right then—but they were totally together one thing, if nothing else; neither one of them wanted to run that place on their own.

Looking back on it now, I realize it was actually good news. Wherever I might have ended up, it could have hardly been any worse than where I was now; prolly a whole lot better.

At the time, though, I saw it strictly as a bad thing. Goodbye Jimmy, good-bye Mr. Jones, hello, great unknown.

Two nights later, when I met up with my gray-fox buddy, I told him about my conversation with Darryl…and that now I was all for the idea; let's get out of here for the summer.

Like I said before, Jimmy hadn't been 100% serious about it the last time we'd talked…and so now he wasn't sure if I was really down with it.

Heck yeah, I was…when school let out, did I want to put up the Kaneskas' 24-hour cageless cage-match? "And when we get back, that can be MY excuse for taking off for the summer."

Still, Jimmy wasn't completely on board…until I told him that the foster home was probably going to end up closing for good. "This could be our last chance ever, to hang out together."

THAT was what finally sealed the deal.

Yeah-h-h, for once I have to agree with you, bunny-girl…it was a really dumb idea. When I think back on it now, I can't believe what a couple of clueless fox-kids we were. Our plan was—you're gonna love this—we'd been seeing stories on the news about this guy called the Bearfoot Bandit. He was this sea-mink kid who ran around, moving into empty vacation homes while the owners were gone. He'd been a subject of our conversations since long before we decided to get outta Dodge for the summer. Yeah, THERE was kid who didn't let himself get pushed around, coz of his species!

Sooo, that's what we decided WE would do…boogie on down to the Jersey Shore, and find us a nice empty house to live in.

I know, I know! Since when are you gonna find an empty vacation house in the middle of vacation season? We also knew zip about that part of the country, and had no idea about how we were supposed to get there. Our first thought was to hitchhike—I know, I know, I KNOW!

As time went by, we did start to plan a little more carefully. First thing we had to do was settle on a destination. We finally decided on Wildwood, way down at the southern end of the Jersey Shore. It was further away than either one of us would have liked…but hey, it had an amusement park and not one, but two water-parks, and was supposed be a happening place in the summertime. No contest, that was the place for us. Yeah, right…I KNOW. How many times do I have to say it, huh?

Dumb little fox-kids or not, we knew one thing, at least; it was gonna take money to make this trip. We started the very next day, collecting cans and bottles for deposit. We had this collapsible wagon at the foster homes, one of those canvas-type things. I had no trouble getting permission to use it. By then, Mr. Kaneska would agree to just about anything if it would get you to shut up and leave him alone.

At night, we did all the usual stuff, trash-can raids, dumpster diving and whatever. Strangely enough, the park where we used to hang out turned out to be our happy hunting ground. We were averaging maybe five bucks a night, which we always split fifty/fifty, regardless of who had collected the most bottles and cans.

Oh…we took turns bringing them in for redemption.

When Saturday rolled around, and we had to separate during the daytime, we went hunting for containers on our own. Our first time out, we weren't able to hook up again until the following Tuesday, but when we did, I had made our usual five dollars over the weekend.

Jimmy had made fifteen bucks, our biggest score yet.

What he'd done was something I hadn't thought of. He'd gone door to door, asking mammals if they had any deposit bottles or cans to spare. And he'd worn his uniform from the foundling home, so that was who everyone had thought he was collecting for. Coz of that, folks had been way generous in their contributions.

Hrm? I honestly don't know, Mr. Rodenberg. Jimmy always swore that he hadn't planned it that way; he never said outright that he was collecting for the foundling home. Yeah-h-h, okay…he never denied it either. Later on, he even picked up a couple cash donations while he was out snagging bottles and cans.

No, he never got any heat from The Sisters…not even Momma Lou. But by then she had issues of her own. Turned out that my guess had been spot on; she didn't want to go to that convent in the Philippines and had been fighting it, ever since she got the news.

And no, the Kaneskas never had a problem with me collecting containers for deposit; I don't think they would have minded, even if they weren't having all those other problems. It wasn't exactly dishonest work, after all.

That came later.

It started on one of our nocturnal excursions. I had just pulled a bottle out of this big, plastic dumpster only to have it roll back underneath. Ordinarily, I would have written it off, but when I looked, I saw at least six others down there—jackpot!

I asked Jimmy to help me push the dumpster out of the way. He insisted that even made outta plastic it was gonna be too heavy for us to move; I said there was no harm in trying, and we're arguing when suddenly we hear these tires screeching.

We look up, and here comes this big Lincoon Navigator, sliding around the corner, like totally outta control.

Jimmy was able to jump out of the way in time; I wasn't. The Navigator slammed sideways into the dumpster at…I dunno how fast, but it hit really hard. I thought I was toast for sure…and I would have been, if it hadn't been for that trash thingy kind of cushioning the hit. It stopped with its right-fender like maybe a quarter inch away from me—but that was enough. My clothes were a mess, but except for a couple of scratches, I was fine.

Except…now, I was stuck with no way outta that space between the SUV and the wall. I had to get down on all fours and crawl out from under it to finally get free. Meanwhile, Jimmy was screaming his head off. I dunno why I didn't yell back that I was okay; prolly, I was too shaken up.

I made it out from beneath that rig just as the driver's door opened. I saw this tiger get out, take two steps—and then fall flat on his face.

Noooo, he wasn't hurt. Matter of fact, he wasn't feeling any pain right then; totally hammered, three sheets to the wind. I could smell his breath from four feet away, and I was UP-wind of the guy. I swear, if I'd lit a match right then, I think his head would have exploded.

He was out for like two seconds before he woke up again…and when he did, he had an instant panic attack.

"Oh no…no. Are y-you kidsh alright? Pleasssse…tell me you guysh 'r okayyyy."

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Kids? I was the only one there; Jimmy was still out of sight behind the 'Gator's rear door.

But then…I DID know what to do. Mr. Big Cat had been driving a luxury machine, and was dressed to the nines and then some. No fox-kid worthy of the name was going to pass up an opportunity like this. For sure, I wasn't; I grabbed at my side and started moaning and groaning.

"I-I think so…I…I dunno."

It was about then that Jimmy showed up. He knew right away that I was putting on an act, but being a fox himself, he went with it.

"Tommy? Tommy! Oh, thank GOD!"

And then he ran over and hugged me. The hug was real, but my reaction wasn't. I pretended that it hurt when he did that.

Wha…? No, Tommy wasn't my real name; Jimmy made it up on the spot

Yeah, at the time, I wondered why he did that, too. Later on, he explained that he'd given me a fake name coz he didn't want the guy who'd almost killed me coming around the foster home to check up on how I was doing. Heh…couldn't argue with my buddy there. If that happened, I'd have some majorly explaining to do…

"…And just WHAT were you doing out at two o'clock in the morning?

Mr. Big Cat didn't know any of that though; he did a fast draw for his wallet, pulled out all his cash, and practically threw it at me.

"Here," he said, "take this, and don't tell anybody, okay?"

And then, without waiting for an answer, he jumped in his ride and took off.

Yeah, except for a bashed-in door it was still drivable, would you believe?

But, when we counted up the money…Holy Criminy, almost $500 bucks. Five hundred smackers, it seemed like a billion! And it gave me an idea.

There was a bar, not all that far away from where I went to school, one of the places where we used to go collecting deposit containers. So, on Friday and Saturday nights, me and Jimmy used to stake out the parking lot, looking for animals, heading out to their cars, who were in no kinda shape to drive. When we spotted one, we'd plot an intercept course, and then one of us would tell 'em, "Hey, be careful; there's a cop-car right nearby." And then the other one would ask him if he had any spare cash.

Now, understand, we never actually told anybody that we'd drop a dime on 'em if they didn't make a 'donation'…although we always made a point of checking out their car license…and we always made sure that they saw us doing it.

It wasn't exactly foolproof. Maybe half the times we pulled that gag we got a payoff, and the other times, we were told to get lost—and, uh, not in those exact words. But then, one night, this reindeer guy chased us for two whole blocks with a tire iron, and that was when we decided to hang it up. Not really that big of a deal; by then, summer was getting close and we had plans to finalize.

We decided that we'd head out on the first Monday after school let out for the summer, right after bedtime. We'd hop a city bus to the Danbeary Commuter Parking Lot, and then cross under the Yankee Expressway to the Rest Area on the other side. Then we'd hole up until midnight and try to sneak aboard a semi-trailer headed the way we were going.

How would we…? By making sure it had Zoo York License plates…maybe, we'd even find one with Zoo Jersey plates if we were lucky.

Yeah, yeah…YES, it was stupid; I know that now, okay? As a matter of fact, it was even dumber than you think, bunny-girl. We never made any plans about what to do if something went wrong. All we wanted to talk about was Wildwood, and all the fun we were going to have when we got there.

I will give us credit for one thing, though. Nobody—not the Kaneskas, not The Sisters, not the kids at my place, none of the kids at the foundling home—nobody even came close to figuring out what we were up to. If they had, believe me, we'd have known about it. For starters, Sister Carloccia would have been all over Jimmy the minute she heard. And even if it wasn't one of The Sisters or the Kaneskas who got wind of our plan…there was always another possibility. "You know, fox-kids…for twenty bucks, everyone might not have to find out you're planning to boogie for the summer."

That never happened, either.

How much…? Between the two of us, we had a little more than $900 bucks, split evenly, down the middle.

Then, why didn't we just…? Oh-kay, that's a fair question, Erin. We were determined to spend as little cash as possible trying to get to Wildwood. That way, we'd have more to spend AFTER we got there, you follow what I'm bringing out?

Given how clueless we were, you'd have expected everything to go south from the minute we set off. I think now that maybe if things had worked out that way, we would have turned back when we had the chance. But nope; when we boarded the bus for the commuter parking lot, the driver barely glanced at us; it was still early enough for a couple of kids our age to be out and about. And then, two stops later, this gang of high-school mammals got on, headed for the Thrillz Adventure Park, which was right near where we were going. They were a rowdy bunch, all hoofed mammals, deer, antelope, a mountain goat and one or two elk. They never gave Jimmy and me any grief, never even looked our way—but with them on board, we got zero attention from the driver and the other passengers.

But then, when we got to the commuter parking lot, guess what? There was no way under the Yankee Parkway, except the Milestone underpass, a seriously longer hike than we'd anticipated. And being a couple of dumb fox kids, as soon as we cleared the underpass, we decided to take the direct route to the rest area, cross country. By now it was way after dark, but hey…we were foxes, a night hike would be nooooo problem for our species, right?

Wrong…we ran smack dab into this pond, right after we set off. And I mean literally; the first hint that we had it was there was when we found ourselves in water up to our ankles. Oh, and did I mention all the mosquitoes? By the time we made it to the rest area, we were bit up, dead on our feet, and hadn't had anything to eat or drink since before we left home.

Our first stop was the restroom, and our second stop was the vending-machines…which charged like three times as much as the ones at the gas station next to the park, but we didn't care. Four bags of chips and cookies, and two sodas later, we were ready to go looking for our ride.

That was when we noticed two things. Number one, the sky was starting to get light, and number two the truck-lot was mostly empty. It had taken us even longer to get here than we'd thought.

And the situation wasn't getting any better. Every trailer we scoped out was either locked or sealed with this kind of aluminum zip-tie thingy. And even if we could have gotten one of those doors open, how were we supposed to close them up again, after we got inside?

Yeah, I know; we SHOULDA thought of that earlier. It was the closest we came to giving it up that day. We would have, too, if we hadn't known what was waiting for us back home. Me, I'd be grounded for the rest of the summer, and I didn't want to think about what would happen to Jimmy. Not only that, we knew—we just knew that if we turned back now, all of our hard-earned cash would end up being 'confiscated.'

With that in mind, we decided to stick it out. Sooner or later, something had to show up that we could hitch a ride on.

And lo and behold, it happened sooner, rather than later.

We got a big one; a pair of oversized trailers, each hauling half of a prefabricated house. The only thing standing between us and the interior of each of them was a sheet of Tygervek plastic; one of them even had a tear in it, just big enough for us to get through

But it was the logo on the side of one of the truck cabs that really drew our attention:

Gary Howllen Modular Homes
Roamson Zoo Jersey

YES! We had no idea where Roamson was, but anywhere in Jersey was the right direction, as far as we were concerned.

We waited until the drivers, both blackbucks wearing turbans, had gone into the restroom before making our move…scampering out of the bushes, and across the asphalt. It took us maybe five seconds to get to the half with the tear in the plastic, but it felt like hours to me. At any second, I was sure I was going hear, "You there! What are you doing?" It didn't happen, and we made it through the Tygevek without a hitch. Still, we held our breath; we weren't in the clear yet. It wasn't until we heard our ride starting to pick up speed on the highway that we finally relaxed…and then fell fast asleep.

I remember dreaming about my mother; the first time I dreamt about her in years. When I woke up, I couldn't remember exactly what had gone down in my head while I was out—only that mom hadn't been very happy with me. That scared me, and I grabbed my pack and started rummaging around looking for the picture of her I'd brought with me.

Yeah, I had it—I wasn't going anywhere without that bad boy; it was the only memento I had of her. Before leaving, I had scanned and uploaded it onto my fursonal webpage at the library. Later on, I was able to recover it, and that's where the pic I showed you just now came from.

Noooo, I'd read those 'Don't put personal information on the internet' posters and stuff, so I'd called the website 'CrazySilvaF0X1—or something. No mention of my name on there at all.

Anyway, I was making so much noise that I woke up Jimmy.

"Dude, what the FOX?"

"Never mind, big guy," I said, waving a paw, "Just a bad dream is all; go back to sleep."

He did—and so did I. But even as I drifted off, I couldn't help thinking about my dream from a few minutes ago.

And they were NOT happy thoughts.

When we woke up again, we could see the sun shining through the Tygervek. We could also smell food cooking…smelled like breakfast, so it was still morning.

What time was it, though? I didn't have a watch, but Jimmy did, and it was just after 8:00 AM. Okay, but where, exactly, were we?

Looking out through the slit in the plastic didn't give us an answer. For a second, I thought I was looking into a ginormous mirror—but it was only the other half of the prefab where we were hiding.

But then Jimmy called me over to a window on the other side of the trailer. It was covered in…like, shrink-wrap or something, but you could still see partway out of it.

And what we saw was this big building with a pale green roof, surrounded by semi-trailers. Even as nothing but fuzzy outlines, you couldn't mistake them for anything else; we were in a truck-stop.

But a truck-stop…where? There was only one way to find out; recon mission.

It wasn't a hard decision to make. By now, that breakfast aroma had made its way down from our noses to our stomachs…and mine was telling me, "Send down some chow or the throat GETS it!"

That did it; we might get busted the minute we set foot outside that trailer, but it was better than starving and having no idea where the heck we were.

Except…what do you mean 'we', fox kid?

"There's no reason both of us should go," Jimmy pointed out—and aggghhh, grrrr, I hated it when he was right.

I tried to fend him off by suggesting we use scissors-paper-rock to decide which one of us would take the plunge. I might as well have just volunteered; he won—three times in a row.

But when I slipped through the rip in the Tygerver, no sweat, nobody there. Crawling on all fours to the edge of the truck-cab, I scoped out my surroundings, extra careful-like. There was no one within 50 feet of me, but I took a deep breath and sniffed the air, just the same. Lucky for us, we were downwind of the truck-stop; anyone in between me and there, I'd smell 'em in a nanosecond.

Once again, zippity.

Okay, I decided; I would move out—carefully—until I was ten yards away from the line of trucks and then hang a left. If I made it that far, I'd be in the clear; anyone seeing me would think I was coming from this group of campers and trailers, parked kitty-corner to the semis.

Bracing myself, I slipped out into the open. Nothing, no voices calling after me. So far, so good. Trying not to look like I was hurrying, I made the next part of my move, and made the turn.

…And stopped dead in my tracks, with my face falling down to my knees. If I'd been alone, I would have done a war dance and fox-screamed my head off.

But I wasn't alone, not completely…and so all I could do was reverse course and head back the way I came, doing the walking-dead shuffle. I didn't care whether anyone saw me now, not any more.

When I got back to our trailer, Jimmy was all, "What, you're back already?"

I just shook my head; it seemed to weigh a ton.

"C'mon Jimbo, grab our packs and get out here; we got problems."

I saw his head poke out through the rip in the plastic and tilt sideways.

"Wha…what's wrong?"

I pretended not to hear him.

"Hurry up, before those truckers come back!"

"All right, all riiiight!"

When he got outside, Jimmy was all over me, about what was going on. I just turned and beckoned for him to follow me, leading him out from between the two semis. If anyone spotted us now…who cared?

We'd gone maybe four or five steps, when he grabbed me by the arm.

"Dude…what's going ON?"

Again, I said nothing, just turned left and pointed.

Jimmy turned too…and then HIS face was halfway to the ground.

Directly across the road from the truck-stop was this big, red-barn building, with a sign on the roof:

Great Hollow Grange #247
Lebanon, New Hampster

Yeah, yeah…laugh it up, Snowdrop; get it out of your system, go on.

Chapter 52: Conor's Story (Continued...Part 3)

Summary:

Mishaps and misadventures on the road to Wildwood, Zoo Jersey

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Continued…Part 3)

♪ "Silence in the front seat
Tryin' not to start a fight
Quiet, half-hid cryin'
And then we'd ride."♫

David Bromberg – The New Lee Highway Blues

Erin Hopps couldn't help laughing; it was so stinking obvious; a fully loaded truck would be outbound from its home base, not headed back IN. Ohhhh, she'd known something like this was going to happen from the moment Conor described the logo on that truck cab.

Meanwhile, he had completely missed it. Sweet cheez n' crackers, was THIS the same young silver fox who had thrice eluded capture by the ZPD? Well-l-l, that was then and this is now, and it wasn't as if Charcoal-Boy had tried to deny his mistakes, but still…

Glancing down at Vern Rodenberg, she saw that the grey rat's face was a marble mask. But at the same time, his tail was shivering, as if he was barely managing to hold something inside.

But then another thought struck her…and at once, she felt the humor drain away from her face.

She knew where the story was going from here—to a wrecked muzzle, and a juvenile hellhole named Granite Point.

And if Conor's plans to get away from Danbeary for the summer had been poorly conceived, well…who knew better than this young doe-bunny about wanting to escape from a stifling environment?

And he'd been right about something else as well. No, he and his friend hadn't been treated fairly…OR wisely. The policy of keeping them separated had been ten times stupider than all their missteps put together. In point of fact, that rule had driven them into exactly the type of behavior it had been intended to prevent. Had Conor and Jimmy Sanchez not been ordered to keep away from each other, they would never have ended up hustling drunks in the wee hours of the morning. Of that, Erin was 100% certain.

She was also aware that while Conor and his friend hadn't made it to Wildwood, they HAD gotten as far as…Mmmm, some other town in Zoo Jersey, where things had taken a very dark turn. No, it wasn't very funny when you thought about it.

Unable to come up with anything better, she coughed into a fist. "Sorry…but the way you tell it…"

Not very good, but all she could manage. It didn't matter, Conor was already raising a paw.

"Don't apologize…please. Looking back on it now, I can almost laugh about it myself." The corners of his mouth turned in opposite directions. "Or I could, if it wasn't for…" By way of conclusion, he patted the side of his muzzle; Erin understood.

And then he picked up where he'd left off.

---

Wrong-way foxes or not, we were still hungry, and this truck-stop was still a place with eats. When we got inside. it turned out to have a self-serve counter, and so that's where we snagged our grub. The only other option was a sit-down meal and we didn't want some waitress asking us where we were from or, more importantly, where our folks were. Matter of fact, we didn't want to talk to anybody right then—not even to each other. The whole time we were eating, neither one of us said a single word.

Yep, Mr. Rodenberg, exactly that. We managed to keep it together until we were back outside and pretty much alone—and that was when the spark hit the gunpowder. I blamed Jimmy and he blamed me and of course, it was really both our faults. We admitted it later, but right then…whoa boy! We gekkered, we fox-screamed, and it was the closest we ever came to getting into a tooth-and-claw. Good thing it never went that far; even without a physical fight, we were making so much noise, it's a wonder no one came running to break it up.

Eventually, we both kind of ran out of gas, and dragged ourselves over by the travel trailers to try and figure out what to do next. Obviously, we needed to hitch a ride on something headed back the way we were going. Only problem was, we didn't have a clue as to how we were supposed to make that happen. Hitching a ride on another commercial rig was totally not happening—and, like I said before, we had never come up with a plan B. About the only thing we knew for certain was that we were NOT going back to Danbeary…not even if the opportunity presented itself on a solid-gold platter.

And so, we spent the next couple of hours bouncing ideas off each other…all of which ended up going nowhere. At one point, Jimmy brought up the subject of hitchhiking again—and then waved it off before I could open my mouth. Some ideas were too lame to consider, even in those circumstances.

By then it was getting close to noontime, and we were starting to get the munchies again. That was when we heard this loud, beeping noise close by—a backup signal.

We looked…and saw a king-cab pickup truck, with a dually rear-axle, backing a trailer into the space nearest where we were sitting. I can still remember the name on the side of that bad boy, Wolfpack. It was one of those trailers where the sides pop out when you stop to get set up. It also had this cab that extended over the truck bed and hooked up to hitch, mounted in the center. Ahhh, I can't remember what they call those…

Oh, right…a fifth wheel trailer; thanks Erin. Anyway, Jimmy thought we could get into that space between the cabover and the bed. I didn't like that idea very much, not one little bit, in fact. But I agreed that we should at least go check it out; we weren't exactly in a position to be picky right then.

"But first, we gotta make sure they're going the right way," I insisted, and Jimbo wasn't about to argue with me on that one…even though neither one of us knew how we were supposed to obtain that information.

In the meantime, we ducked out of sight behind the rocks where we'd been sitting, watching closely as the truck pulled to a stop and the dust settled. For a minute, nothing happened and the doors opened and four onagers got out. Uh, I hate to ask stupid questions, but do you guys know that species?

Yeah, right…Asian wild ass. And nyuck, nyuck, Snowdrop; 'yeah, that WAS a stupid question.' Oh, yer just on a roll right now, aren't you?

So anyways, they were a family; mom, dad, a little girl about nine or ten, and a guy in his early teens. Right away, we could tell they weren't local. Dad was decked out in jeans, a Southwestern print shirt, and a belt-buckle the size of a postcard. The only thing missing was a cowboy hat. Mom was dressed in similar fashion, and so was her daughter. The only exception was the boy. Whoa, he stood out from the others like a sore thumb with gangrene. He had jeans on too, but they were way baggier than what the rest of his family was wearing, topped off by a hoodie with 'Oklahoma Sooners' printed on the front; the only clue as to where he was from. He also had a ring in his ear and another on through his nose…which nose was currently buried in a tablet; the same place it had been when he'd gotten out of the truck. If I narrowed my eyes a little, I could see the nubs of his hooves working; he was either playing a game, or texting, I couldn't tell which.

When the others turned and headed for the café, he was still there, and still busy on his device. He didn't even seem to notice he'd been left alone. Dad, on the other paw, noticed him real sweet quick.

"Ronnie, put that away, and come on." He had the twangiest accent I'd ever heard—up until then, at least.

His kid never even looked up. "In a second, Ray."

Jimmy and I couldn't help grinning at each other. Ray…not 'Dad.' This boy obviously did not want to be here on this trip.

And Dad obviously did not appreciate being addressed in that manner. He took two steps forward, finger out and his ears laid back.

"NOW, Mister!"

"All right, all riiight!" Ronnie went back to the truck, put the tablet away, and then stomped back over to where the others were waiting, spreading his arms in mock surrender. "Okay?"

His father started to say something else, but this time mom intervened. "Let's just eat."

When we were sure they had gone, Jimmy went off to check out the truck, while I stood watch.

Well, it was only fair…I'd made the first recon, so now it was his turn.

My gray fox bud was always a thorough kind of guy; sometimes a little bit too thorough. After scoping out the truck-bed, he took a look in through the cab-windows—even though there was no stinkin' way that we could have sneaked a ride up there.

He came back with the information that, just as I'd thought, they were from Oklahoma—Tuska, to be exact. Other than that, he hadn't been able to see much, and hadn't been able to determine when they were headed from here.

Not that it made much difference; the next thing Jimmy told me was, "Okay, you were right, Silver. No way we're getting into that pick-up bed. The hitch takes up nearly the whole darn thing and they got all kinds of gear stashed back there too. And anyway, the tailgate's got a lock…"

That was all I heard. 'Lock'…'lock,' what difference did that make, and…why did that word keep nagging me?

Then it hit me, "Yeah, right!" When Ronnie had put his tablet back in the truck, he hadn't unlocked the door first!

And I hadn't seen either him or his dad lock it up afterwards.

I grabbed Jimmy by the arm. "Stay here and keep an eye out."

"Wha…?" he was looking at me like I'd lost it. "Dude, I just told you…!"

But I was already down on all fours and moving fast for the truck again.

Grabbing hold of the handle to back-door number two, I took a deep breath and braced myself.…ready to bolt, if I set off an alarm. From the corner of my eye, I could see Jimmy, waving his arms like he was in a rave or something.

I ignored him and pulled the door open.

Nothing…no alarms, no angry voices, nothing.

Scrambling inside I took a quick look around; there had to be something in here that would let me know where these mammals were head…uhhh, what now?

Yeah, yeah…I know what I just said. Look, don't ask me to explain: I don't know why I did what I did. Call it a hunch, or instinct, or whatever; I just had a feeling, okay?

Okay…well after maybe a minute of searching, my eye fell on Ronnie's tablet…and a tiny, green pinpoint of light in the upper, right-paw corner; he'd forgotten to shut it off.

Ohhh-kay, but had he been playing a game, or had he been chatting? If it was choice number one, bummer…but if it was choice number two, then maybe…

Just…maybe…

Ordinarily, a tablet that size would have been too big for a fox to handle, especially one my age. Luckily for me, Ronnie had left it lying on the seat, face up. A quick swipe of my paw across the screen and it lit up almost instantly.

And then O, Happy Day, I was looking at a chat screen. The last two messages were from whoever had been on the other end. 'Later, C-ya', and before that 'Where'd U go?' The last text from Ronnie before he signed off had been, 'That big jerk better stay away from her, while I'm gone!'

Oh-kayyy…if nothing else, at least I now knew why he hadn't wanted to make this trip. But that wasn't what I needed to know, and so I scrolled up with my paw, looking at the earlier texts. After maybe two more pages—bingo!

'FINALLY, we're heading home…but it's gonna take like forever to get there. Ray's got all these lame-o places he wants to check out on the way back…'

There was more, but I'd seen enough. I punched the power switch, found a rag, and wiped off the tablet screen, the only thing I'd touched inside the truck cab. Whoa, but I was feeling good. You didn't need a map to know that if these folks were on their way back to Oklahoma, they'd for sure be going our way.

My jubilation lasted until I closed the door behind me. That was when I remembered…

What difference did it make, where these folks were headed, if there was no way Jimmy and I could hitch a ride with them—at least not without getting caught?

Or…was there? If they'd gone off and left the truck-door unlocked, then could they have also…? Nope, no way…nobody could be that careless.

And yet…

I scurried back to the trailer door. Onagers being larger than foxes I had to jump up to reach the handle, but when I got hold of it…well, what do you know? It gave right away, and the door swung open. I dropped down and turned to call Jimmy, but he was already halfway there. No time for cheers or high-fives; we scooted inside the trailer and shut the door behind us.

As things turned out, we hadn't needed to get a rush on; it seemed like eons before those onagers finally came back. While we waited, I explained to Jimmy what I'd found on Ronnie's tablet. He wasn't nearly as certain as I was that we'd made the right move but, like me, he understood that we'd pretty much run out of other options. It was either this, or we pull the plug.

When the onager family returned, we had one short, tense moment. If any of them came into the trailer before we pulled out, Jimmy and I were toast. But then we heard a truck door opening and closing, and then another, and another…and then the engine cranked, and we began to move.

But only for a short distance before we stopped again and heard doors opening; Uh-ohhhh…

Unable to resist, Jimmy peeked out a window…and let out a quick breath of air.

"S'okay Silver," he whispered, sliding back down again. "We just stopped to get gas is all." That was a relief, but not a total relief; there was always the chance that someone might…

Without warning, the trailer door swung open, and Ronnie came inside, headed for the mini-fridge, up towards the front. For a hint of a second, we dared to hope that he might not notice us.

But then one of his ears turned sideways—and then before we knew it, he was looking straight at us.

The next few seconds seemed to take years. Should we bolt, should we try to bluff our way out, what should we do?

As it happened, we didn't have to do any of those things. Ronnie beat us to it; he made pushing motions with his hooves, and then put what passed for a finger to his lips.

And then, crouching low, he returned to his original task…going to the fridge and pulling out not one but three cans of strawberry lemonade. He gave one to Jimmy and one to me, and then touched the rim of his can against ours as if making a toast.

And then he left without a single word.

My buddy and I were bowled over, but we weren't about to complain. Just the same, we didn't even try to crack those cans…not until we were sure that we'd hit the highway.

Nope…Ronnie never gave us up. And you shouldn't be surprised, Erin. You've seen plenty of his 'tude yourself over the last few days; 'Down with authority, we're not gonna taaaake it. '"

Yep, you got it…if Ronnie's family lived here in Zootopia, you better believe he'd have been out there in Savanna Central the other night. That's why he never snitched on Jimmy and me; his way of sticking it to dear, old dad—and all the other adults trying to keep him down.

If we peeked out a window even twice during that ride, it was a lot. And neither of those looky-loos gave us even a clue as to where we were headed. Not that it mattered; by now, we were too burned-out to care. We were either going the right way…or we weren't.

This time, we didn't fall asleep on the trip, it was mid-afternoon, and the drive turned out to be a much shorter haul than the last one. Three hours later, I felt us make a U-turn, hopefully onto an exit ramp.

Right away, Jimmy and I grabbed our stuff and prepared to move. We would know that the trailer was going to be staying put for a while when we felt it backing into a space and heard the engine shut off. The plan was to bolt as soon as the motor died, and then if anyone saw us…well, they saw us. At least this way, if they did, we'd have a head start.

After maybe half an hour of slower driving, we hung a right and I felt the trailer ease to a stop. Jimmy thought we should go right then, but I said no, not yet, and for once, I made the right call—though I didn't know it at the time. If we'd moved when Jimbo wanted, we'd have walked right into the arms of…ah, I'll tell you about him in a second

Maybe ten minutes passed before we started moving again, way more slowly than before. And then after maybe another five, we stopped again, and I heard the sound we'd been waiting for, the beep-beep of the back-up signal. A second later, we were rolling backwards at a dead crawl, and angling around to the right. Jimmy threw on his pack and so did I, ready to bolt the instant we heard the engine quit.

Why didn't we go right then? Uh, with all due respect, Mr. Rodenberg…when you're backing your vehicle into a parking space, where are you looking?

In the rear-view mirror, riiiight. That's why we stayed where we were…though I gotta admit, we were seriously tempted to get a move on right NOW.

But anyway…at last, we felt the trailer come to a stop and heard the engine turn off. That was it, there was our cue to boogie.

Except…before we could take even a single step, the trailer door opened and Ray poked his head inside. Agggh, grrrrrr, it must have been his wife who'd backed us in while he'd been on the outside, guiding her. Once again, something we should have thought of in advance was coming back to bite our tails off.

Luckily, he wasn't looking in our direction; it was Ronnie's visit all over again. Yeah, except that when his dad saw us—and he would eventually—he wouldn't be giving us any free lemonade, he'd be giving us over to John Q. Law.

That was when we heard… "Raymond? Get out here and talk to your son!"

Ray grimaced, brayed, "Heeyaww, NOW what?" and practically threw himself back out the door. He was so ticked-off, he didn't even bother to close it.

Needless to say, Jimmy and I weren't about to pass up an opportunity like that. A half-second later, we were diving into the underbrush behind where the trailer was parked.

Ahhhh, that's a good question, Erin. Did Ronnie act out on purpose to try and give us some cover…or was it all just a coincidence? In all honesty, I have no idea.

It didn't take long for Jimmy and me to figure out where we were, the Gulf Beach Luxury RV Resort and Marina, in Milfurred Connecticat. There was this big sign, right over the main entrance.

We were happy, but we weren't thrilled. We had gone in the right direction yeah, but we had ended up more or less back where we started. Milfurred was further south than Danbeary, but it was also further to the east. For all practical purposes, we'd spent the last two days running in circles.

The bad news was that it was going to be harder than heck to catch a ride from this location. There wasn't a highway anywhere in sight, and this wasn't the kind of place where you stayed overnight and then moved on. And even if it had been, what were the odds of finding another trailer, about to get on the road with an unlocked door?

And besides, we weren't going back inside that RV resort anytime soon—or at all. To explain why, I need to rewind a little.

First of all, never mind the name, the Gulf Beach Luxury RV Resort was about as tony as your average Motel 6; nothing fancy, everything pure plain Jane; cracker-box and cinder-block, you follow what I'm bringing out? And, as I'm sure you're aware, Counselor, dishonest mammals are never nice mammals. Such was the case with the assistant manager—or, maybe he was the maintenance mammal, I dunno—at that RV Park.

Jimmy and I were seriously hungry when we exited that trailer. Well, what can I say, bunny-girl, we were a pair of growing, young foxes. Besides, we had skipped lunch in order to catch that ride, remember? Anyway, looking around, we spotted this clapboard set-up that could have passed for a baseball dugout, all decorated with things like buoys, life rings, dried out starfish and what have you, painted over in this really ugly aquamarine-blue. The name of the place was the Seaside Grill, but Overpriced Tourist Trap would have been more appropriate. Seriously, how tacky could you get? Ordinarily, Jimmy and I wouldn't have gone near a joint like that, especially since there were four or five animals ahead of us.

Our bellies, however, had other ideas, and so we went over and got in line. But no sooner did we take our places than we heard someone behind us.

"Ayuh theah, you two!"

I cringed, and Jimmy almost jumped. For a second there, I thought Momma Lou had somehow managed to track us down. If that voice had been just a little more high-pitched, I could almost have sworn it was her.

We turned around, and there was the most grizzled looking sea-otter I'd ever seen in my life. Seriously, the guy had a face like a hedgehog's rear, and his fur was the color of snow sprinkled with coal-dust. He was dressed in Chinos, pulled up nearly to his chest, a pair of suspenders and a flannel shirt…and he was NOT pleased to meet us.

"You two boys guests hea, then?" he demanded, putting his paws on his hips. I didn't know whether to laugh or roll my eyes; he sounded like the worst-ever impression of a down-east tug-boat captain.

We could tell by the look on the guy's face that he already knew the answer to his question, so there was no point in lying about it. Instead, I let Jimmy do the talking; he was always better at playing an innocent little kid than me.

"N-No sir; we were just stopping to get something to…"

That was all he managed before Captain Bristle-Face cut him off.

"Didn't y' see th' sign thea?" he said, pointing a finger, "The Seaside Grill's f' r'sort guests ONLY."

No, we hadn't seen any sign, and we couldn't see one now, no matter how hard we tried to find it. Thinking back on it now, I doubt, very seriously, that there was any such thing to begin with.

Meanwhile Cap'n Grizzles was pointing towards the front gate.

"Right then…you two skedaddle and don't y' come back, y'hea'?"

That was the closest Jimmy and I came to laughing at the guy; 'skedaddle', who the heck used that word anymore? We didn't though; there are some animals you DON'T make fun of, and so we just said, "Yes sir," and turned to leave. We were about halfway to the exit, when we heard this loud, piercing whistle that made us want to stick our fingers in our ears. "NOW what?" I wondered. We had gotten the message; we were out of there, what the heck else did this guy want? When we turned around, he had his arms folded and his nose in the air.

"Ayup, I mean it, FOX-kids. I see y'here again, I'll be callin' the p'lice. Now scoot!"

We obliged him as quickly as we could.

Well, like I said a minute ago, that was the bad news. The good news was that our new location turned out to be a pretty decent place to crash while we decided on our next move. There were piers, up and down the beach, with spaces for us to sleep underneath during the night and a bathhouse where we could get cleaned up. There was also a small market right up the road where we could pick up any supplies we might need. There was even a boardwalk…of sorts; no amenities, but there it was. Best of all was the food-cart pod, set up almost directly opposite the entrance to the RV Park. I bought my first-ever lobster roll from one of those carts…and I've been hooked ever since.

While we ate, Jimmy and I were finally able to have a few laughs at Captain Grizzleface's expense. No wonder he'd been so suspicious; I suggested. Who'd want to eat at his crummy excuse for a snack-bar when there was food like this available?

"Nobody but some sneeeeaky fox kids, trying to scope out the place for a ripoff," Jimmy half-snarled, lifting his paws as if preparing to pounce…and causing my soda-pop to nearly come out through my nose. His jab wasn't really that funny, but it was uncomfortably close to the truth. The thing that really rocked me was…I'd run into that 'tude about my species plenty of times by then—but up until my encounter with that sea-otter, it had always come from prey species, never another predator.

After eating, Jimmy and I went to the bathhouse to clean up and get changed. We'd been smart enough to bring along an extra set of clothes, but we didn't have bathing suits; we planned to snag those when we got to Wildwood. Because of that we had to take turns; one of us would shower while the other stood watch. It took a lot more time than it should have; we didn't have towels either. Ever try to dry your whole body under one of those larger-species paw-dryer things?

Yeah, yeah Snowdrop…ha, ha, giggle, giggle. No, I didn't come out 'aw fwuffy.'

Soon as we were done washing up, we ran into some more good luck. The market up the road turned out to have a little laundromat attached to it, and so we were able to get our other clothes clean too. Sheesh, this place was almost like a dress rehearsal for when we hit Wildwood—but only almost, and if anything, it only served to whet our appetites for getting there.

While we waited for our clothes to dry, we started planning out what to do next.

And that was as far as we got—a start. For the life of us, we couldn't figure out how we were supposed to catch a ride from here…to anywhere, much less our final destination.

When we bedded down for the night, Jimmy and I were still trying to figure it out.

We had already ditched the idea of sleeping under one of the piers; there were piles of trash and slimy rocks under the first two that we scoped out.

Underneath the boardwalk, on the other paw…there, it was nice, and sandy, and dry. Yeah, there was trash, but nothing we couldn't get rid of fairly easily.

Matter of fact, we weren't the only ones who had that idea. The first spot we checked out, we heard a voice growl out at us "Taken!" The same thing happened two more times before we found a space to call our own, making sure to crawl as far underneath as we could, so we wouldn't be easily spotted.

It wasn't until…until…

Y-Yeah, I'm okay. I just…y-you'd think by now, it'd be easy for me to talk about…lemme catch my breath for a second, okay?

When I finally woke up, it was late in the morning; I had slept a lot longer than I planned. Like I said, I didn't have a watch, so I rolled over to ask Jimmy what time it was.

He wasn't there, and neither was his backpack…but he'd left me a note.

"Got an idea. B Back in a few."

I remember grumbling to myself; couldn't he have hung around 'til I woke up and talked it over with me first? "You better be on to something, Jimbo," I growled, and then hunkered down to wait.

…And wait…

…And wait…

…And wait.

I waited two whole days for Jimmy to come back…and he never did; I never saw him again.

I don't KNOW, dangit! To this day, I have no idea what happened to him. Even later, after I picked up some computer skillZ and learned how to run deep searches, I still couldn't figure out where he'd gone; never even came close. Heck, even Kieran never had any luck…

Kieran McCrodon; didn't I tell you about him, Erin…? Yeah, well if anyone could have found something online that might've led me to Jimmy, it was him. But he struck out, too; it was like my bud had just vanished into thin air. The only thing I know for sure is that he didn't go back to the foundling home. Even today, the diocese still has him listed as 'missing.'

Other than that, your guess is as good as mine. There are no arrest records for ANY grey fox in that vicinity, not for that day, or the next two months…or ever, if you factor in my buddy's age. There's nothing about him in the Wilfurred Police Department database, the Connecticatt State Police database…or even the Zoo Jersey State Police database; yeah, I checked that too. There's no record of any grey fox kit showing up at one of the local clinics or an ER either.

Yeah, right…if that had happened, he would have ended up back with The Sisters; but like I just told you, Mr. Rodenberg, it didn't happen.

What did I do? I didn't know what to do. For two more days, I just stayed there under the boardwalk, waiting and hoping that Jimmy would come back, even though I knew deep down that he wasn't going to.

Finally, on the third day, I went out and started looking for him. I knew I wasn't going to have any luck, but I hoped that maybe I could at least turn up a clue as to where he'd gone. I asked the guys who ran the food carts, the clerk at the grocery store, and everyone I met up with on the beach. I asked the seal running the bait shack out by the end of one of the piers, I asked the koalas who came around to clean the bathhouse and empty the trash. Nobody had seen him…at all. I even asked a meter-maid…no she wasn't a bunny Erin, she was a beaver.

And yeah, that wasn't the smartest move…but by then I was getting desperate.

Not desperate enough, though, to go poking around the most obvious place to look; the place where I would have started my search if it hadn't been for a certain jerk sea otter.

Yep, exactly—the RV Park. That, in fact, had been my first thought when Jimmy didn't show up for those first two days; that he'd gone back there for whatever reason and been busted by the police. Yeah, right, except…if that was the case, how come the cops had never come looking for me? I knew Jimmy would never give me up, but what about Captain Grizzleface? He had seen us together, and for sure he'd have told The Mammal that my buddy had a partner.

Nope, Jimmy couldn't have gone to the RV Resort. That was what I kept telling myself, but as time passed that argument got weaker and weaker. Like it or not, I was gonna have to pay that place a visit; it was the only location where I still hadn't gone looking for him.

All right, fine, except…how was I supposed to get in there without being spotted? That resort may have been a little bit on the sleazy side, but it was pretty darn popular just the same. Nearly every trailer space was filled—surprising for that early in the season—and there were different kinds of animals all over the place. With that many eyes around, who needed a stinking CCTV system? I'd be spotted the moment I set foot inside that place. Finally, I decided the only thing to do would be to sneak in after dark. I could manage one quick look around and that was it. And if anyone so much as glanced crossways at me, I'd clear out fast.

Looking back on it now, I understood what was going on in my head. I had already given up any hope of finding out where Jimmy had gone. But, at the same time I didn't want to boogie without being able to say I'd done everything I could to try and find him.

And after that…? Say hello to the 21st Century Schizoid fox. One minute I was ready to hang it up and go home. And the next…well, what if Jimmy made it down to Wildwood after all—and I didn't even try to get there?

These were my thoughts as I crouched in the underbrush outside the Gulf Beach Luxury RV Resort and Marina, waiting for the sun to go down.

For once, Lady Luck was riding with me; the night was both moonless and overcast. Yeah, the fence surrounding the RV park was seven feet high and topped with barbed wire, but it hadn't been maintained. There were gullies and washes underneath where the rain had done its dirty work.

I had begun this expedition with no real plan; no idea of where I was going to go or what I was going to do once I made it inside the resort. But as soon as I crossed under that fence-line, my next move hit me like a brick upside the head, I needed to go and look up Ronnie.

Finding him was easy. Just like I figured, there he was…lounging in a quad chair outside his folks' trailer, messing around on his tablet again. UN-fortunately, he wasn't alone. His sister was there, playing a board game with two other girls, a sheep and an antelope.

Ahhhh, dangit; I should have known my good luck wouldn't hold for very long. All I could do was hunker down in the bushes, making sure to stay downwind, and hope the terrible trio would get bored and go somewhere else…and soon.

Oh, well…I told myself, at least there wasn't any sign of Ronnie's mom and dad—and for sure, HE wouldn't be going anywhere. I knew his type, even back then; give 'em a tablet or a laptop, and you can build a stinkin' freeway around their tails and they won't notice.

Not having a watch, I had no way of knowing what time it was when the girls finally left, but it seemed to happen spontaneously or something. Just like that, they got up, put the game away and boogied. Good, stowing that board meant they wouldn't be coming back, at least for a while.

And a little while was all I needed. Cupping my paws around my muzzle, I spoke in a loud whisper, "Ronnie…Ronnie!"

At first, I didn't think he heard me, but then I noticed one of his ears was turned in my direction.

I whispered again, "Ronnie!"

He set down the tablet and started looking all around the campsite. And that was my cue; I crept out of the underbrush and stood up, raising my paws and speaking softly so as not to startle him.

As if that wasn't going to happen. He nearly jumped straight through the trailer awning when he saw me.

And with good reason, as I quickly found out.

"Wha…you? What you think you're doing back here, you crazy fox-idjit?" He was waving his hooves as if trying to conjure up a spell to make me disappear. "I'm not gettin' you another lemonade." He had an accent a lot like his dad's.

"That's not why I'm here," I said, making shoving motions with my paws, "Listen…"

"No, YOU listen!" he brayed, taking two steps towards me with his ears laid back and waving a hoof at the trailer. "My dad knows there was someone, rode in with us the other night…and he knows it was a couple of foxes."

Agggh, grrr…I could have kicked myself right back over the fence again. Why hadn't I remembered; why hadn't Jimmy remembered? An onager's sense of smell isn't quite as sharp as a fox's; no one was going to notice that I'd been inside the truck cab. That had taken me less than a minute, and I'd left the door open. But two foxes…riding inside a closed trailer for three whole hours? Yeah, Ronnie's old mammal would have been able to pick up on THAT, all right.

Meanwhile, HE was about ready to split a gut.

"Dangit", he was stamping the ground with a hoof. "I finally manage to convince Ray that I didn't' know nothin' about any stowaways and you have to show up all sudden-like!" He pointed back at the underbrush. "Get OUTTA here, fox…'fore Otis sees you."

I didn't need to ask who Otis was; Captain Grizzlehead, the sea otter…had to be. Just the same, I stood my ground. I wasn't leaving until I asked him about Jimmy.

"I just need to…"

"You just need to GO!" Ronnie cut me off; now he was stamping with BOTH hooves, "Ray ain't said nothin' to anyone else yet, about us having uninvited guests on board…but if he does and Otis gets wind of it, what do you think's gonna happen—'specially if he sees you here? Yeah, I noticed him talkin' to you and your friend back there."

Ohhhh, foxtrot. I didn't need to think; I knew. Ol' Otis might put the crotch in crotchety, but he wasn't stupid; he'd figure out in a second that Jimmy and I were the fox-kids who'd hitched that ride on that trailer. And that'd be all the excuse he'd need to call the cops.

As if reading my mind, Ronnie said to me, "You got no idea, dude. That sea-otter calls the p'lice for everything. Just this morning, he had 'em out here to break up a 'fight' that wasn't anything but an argument. And they always come when he calls; he's got two relatives on the force." He gave a half-hearted shrug. "That's what he says, anyways."

"Okay, I get it," I said, speaking fast and trying to get it out before he interrupted me again. "One thing and I'll go, okay? My buddy Jimmy's disappeared. You seen him at all, anywhere?"

Ronnie's ears went back again.

"No!" he dropped it like a hammer, "No, I haven't, and I couldn't help ya if I did." He pointed at the bushes again. "And that's it; you got ten seconds to clear out before I start yellin' for Ray. I don't much like to tattle, but it's your tail or mine…and it ain't gonna be mine."

I felt my own ears turning backwards. Foxin' A, he didn't have to be such a jerk about it.

"Okay…Oh…"

"One…Two…Three…"

I was gone by the count of four.

But I wasn't out of there yet…though not by choice. When I got back to the fence, just my stinkin' luck! This family of chipmunks had decided to park a firepit right in front of the hole where I'd come through.

AND they were blocking the way to both of my alternate exits too.

Lucky for me, I'd stuck to the underbrush on my return trip. But now, I was gonna have to find another way out of that RV park.

And when I did…okay Fate, you win. I'd try to make my way back to Danbeary, and hope the Kaneskas wouldn't be too hard on me when I got there.

I turned a U and began slithering back the way I'd come and trying to move as quietly as I could.

And that was when I saw lights flashing through the leaves—red and blue lights. Somehow, I forced myself to stick my head outside and check it out.

Yep…there it was, a police van, pulled up to the entrance gate. And there was Otis, leaning in through the driver's side window. When I pulled myself back into the underbrush, I was ninety percent into a full-blown panic, when…

I-I can't really describe what happened next. All of a sudden, I just felt like, 'The HECK with it; the heck with everything!' I'd had enough of every stupid thing going south on me. Taking too long to get to the rest area, going the wrong way, Jimmy disappearing and now this. That's it, go ahead and bust me; I don't care anymore! And where had those cops come from anyway? Even as I asked myself the question, I thought I knew the answer. Aggghh, grrrr… backstabbing, donkey-dirt-bag!

Caution to the wind, I just burst out of the bushes, not caring where I was.

Turned out I was back at the onager family's trailer—and there was Ronnie, kicking back in a camp-lounger. Only this time, he had his back turned and a pair of earbuds plugged into his head. Sweet! I stomped over and yanked them out of his ears.

"You punk! You snitched me out!"

Ronnie spun around so fast he fell right out of his chair. When he turned and saw me, I knew what was coming next—and it wasn't gonna be any claims of innocence.

But this time, I was ready.

"Go on, yell for your dad…I'll tell him you INVITED us into your trailer!"

Ronnie's mouth snapped shut and his ears went back, but then they fell sideways; I had meant what I said and he knew it.

"I didn't tattle, dangit!" There, he'd said it—and maybe he was telling the truth, but I was in too deep to let it go now.

"Sorry Ron, but it's not either you or me anymore, it's all or nothing…got that?"

"Wh-What do you want?" He was looking all around as if he expected his dad to appear out of thin air at any second.

For some reason, that did the trick; I decided to cut him some slack,

"I Just want to get out of here, okay?"

His ears began to move in every direction.

"Then why don't you just go…?"

"I can't, there's a cop car at the gate, and a family having a picnic right in front of where I came…oh, foxtrot!"

The police cruiser was on the move—and it was coming straight towards us! I spun around and prepared to dive into the bushes again.

And that was when I heard Ronnie make a braying sound that was either a laugh, or a groan, or all of the above.

When I turned to look, I didn't know whether to groan or beg him to kick me in the head. That 'cop car' was actually an ambulance…and it was pulling up in front of a motor home easily five spaces down from us. I had wasted a perfectly good panic attack over nothing.

Just the same, the news wasn't all that good. A crowd was quickly gathering around the EMTs and it was totally blocking any chance of my making it to the fence unseen. Until they dispersed, I was stuck here.

And that wasn't my only issue; I also had a seriously torqued onager-kid standing next to me. Well…him, I could handle at least.

"What I said still goes," I growled, showing him a fang. "You give me up and I'll give you up." And then I dropped to all fours and bolted into the underbrush.

Yeahhhh…I see the way you're looking at me, Erin. And for once, I gotta agree with you; that was a rotten thing I did, threatening Ronnie like that after the way he'd helped Jimmy and me earlier. I got no excuses, it was wrong for me to do that…but if it makes you feel better, I don't think I would have told his dad about him helping us, even if I had been caught. If the same thing happened today I might, but not back then.

Okay, what do you want from me, bunny…you want me to lie? Not happening; I'd rather have you hate me now, than really hate me later.

Hey, don't look at ME, Mr. Rodenberg, she's the one who…

All right, all right, all riiiight!

Moving through the bushes again, I got kind of disoriented. When I came out again, I found myself looking at the marina…rows and rows of slips, most of them occupied by all different kinds of boats, from one-mammal skiffs, to three-story cruisers. Whoa, I didn't want to hang around here. There were lights on in maybe a third of the bigger boats, and the docks were lit too.

But when I turned to go…what the heck? There was another fence between me and the RV park—and a locked gate. What the…? How the fox had I ever gotten through THAT thing? Never mind, I figured; even if Ronnie tattled to his dad, John Law wouldn't be looking for me here—at least not to begin with. Hmmm, maybe this wouldn't be a bad place to hang until the coast was clear…if I could find a spot where it wasn't all lit up.

Wait, there…over by the boat-ramp, a section of dock with no lights showing. Okayyy, let's go check it out.

When I got there, I saw right away the reason that this place was in the dark. It was the repair dock, and it was closed for the evening. There were something like five or six slips, but only one of them was occupied…by a sailboat, I saw when I got closer.

And I don't mean some dinky, little day-sailer. This tub was at least forty feet long and decked out five sides from Sunday. I wondered at first what it…uh, what she was doing here in this part of the marina; there was nothing wrong with her that I could see.

That is…until I noticed that the main mast was lying flat against the hull—in two separate sections held together with rope and tie-straps…and that the ends were all bent and pinched, and the radar dome looked like a broken eggshell. I had to laugh; I couldn't help it. You didn't need to be Sherlock Howlmes to figure out how THIS mess had happened. Sailor Sam must have tried to take his bath-tub toy under a bridge that he'd thought was high enough to accommodate her, only to find out, whoopsie-doopsie…'bout four feet short there, big guy.

I was just about to move on, when I noticed the name on the stern, The Black Whole. Well, at least, whoever owned this bad boy had a sense of humor.

But then, hey, wait a second. Printed right below the name, in smaller letters, was her port of call, Tom's River, Zoo Jersey—a little more than an hour away from Wildwood.

"Awwww nuts!" I told myself, "If this boat was only seaworthy, I could sneak on board…and get caught for sure, DUMB fox!" At last, I was starting to think things through. Walking away, I spotted a gazebo, and decided to go take a closer look.

One of my better decisions; it turned out to be sitting on a raised platform with latticework sides. Easy to see out of, if I put my eye to one the holes between the slats—but not so easy for anyone on the outside to see me.

And if I lay down on my side, I could line up both of my eyes with a couple of spaces between the slats. I did, and saw that the ambulance guys were still there…or at least the crowd was still there. What the heck was taking them so long? Well…nothing I could do about it, except keep watch and wait for the party to break up. And so, that's what I did.

I don't know how long I held out before I fell asleep, but when I woke up again, it was light outside...not by much, it was still early.

But dangit, morning is morning! I had slept straight through the night, and now how was I supposed to get out of here without being spotted? A silver-phase fox isn't a bad thing to be after dark, but not so much when the sun comes up.

And I didn't even know what time it was. Aggggh, grrrrr…Jimmy, where were you?

That was when I noticed that the gate was open; I don't mean unlocked, I mean wide open; ohhhh, wonderful.

But then…I don't know what made me turn to look back over my shoulder, but when I did, what now? It looked like that busted up sailboat was gone. I pulled myself close to the opposite side of the gazebo and looked through the slats—and sure enough it wasn't there. But where…?

That was when I heard an engine cranking, and when I looked, I saw a truck backed up to the boat ramp…a big one. I couldn't make out all the writing on the side of the cab, but what I saw was enough; something…or other Marine Transport, Pompton…something…Zoo Jersey.

Bang! I felt my ears go up and my head click into gear. Whoever owned that sailboat must have decided to haul it back home for repairs instead of having them done here. Ooooo, if I could somehow manage to get on board that thing, next stop, Tom's River, Zoo Jersey—and after that, Wildwood and maybe Jimmy, (I hoped.)

Only…could I make it on board that thing without being seen? Well, I wasn't going to find out, hunkering here. I slipped on my pack and crept out of the gazebo.

Yeah, I'd brought it with me. All of my money was in there and I was NOT going to leave it unguarded.

There was a walkway leading past my hiding place that led to the boat-ramp, bordered by a low hedge…just high enough to offer some cover if I went on all fours and kept my tail down.

The shoreline here was steep, and I couldn't see all of the boat ramp from where I was, there was this big, wooden wall… 'scuse me, palisade on either side of it, about level with the walkway. That was good, really good. I could jump down onto the boat from on top of it.

No…I couldn't. When I got there and looked over the edge, the water was at least ten feet below me and probably more. Yeah, I could jump down onto that sailboat when it got here—if I didn't mind making so much noise, I couldn't possibly be missed.

That—and I'd probably break my leg.

No point in sticking around, I figured I might as well bail before someone saw me. Yeah, except what the heck was going on here? There was the sailboat…lined up and moving towards the ramp—but with nobody at the wheel. In fact, there didn't appear to be anyone on board, period.

And what was the deal with that truck? It was backed up to the edge of the water yeah, but where was the stinkin' trailer? How the heck were they supposed to get that boat out of here without a…?

Whoa, wait just a fox-trottin' minute over here! When I looked back, I saw the sailboat actually RISING up out of the water. And I mean way up out of the water. It was already on a trailer—a big, tall trailer. That's what you need, when you're planning to transport a boat with a keel…and a blue-water sailboat definitely fits that category.

I heard voices then, and when I looked back at the truck, I saw three mammals standing there, talking; a pair of water buffalo and a Fishing Cat. I figured him for the owner; he had a Greek Fishermammal's hat on his head and an angry expression on his face; the exact look you'd expect to find on someone facing a killer repair-bill. That was when I noticed something else, a big spool on the back of the truck, hauling up a tow cable. So, THAT was how they were doing it.

But heyyy…that boat was getting high enough out of the water that jumping onto her was no longer a non-starter. In fact, if she came up much higher, I could manage it, easy-peasy.

I'd have to time it just right, though…After the bufs got the trailer hooked up and right as they began to pull out. And even then, I'd have to abort if sailor kitty-kat decided to hang around to watch the show. Well, whatever was going to happen, I needed to keep out of sight for a while. And so, I crawled back off the palisade, and flattened myself against the grass.

By now, I knew better than to hope for a quick solution to my problems; it would take halfway 'til tomorrow before that sailboat would be ready to roll—but I didn't dare hide myself any better. I had to stay close enough to the action to at least be able to hear what was going on. I could only hope that the transport crew would be done with their work before anyone noticed me. About the only thing I had in my favor was the weather; a stiff, onshore breeze and low, scudding clouds, many trailing horsetails of rain. No one was going out for a pleasure cruise today…which meant the marina wouldn't be getting much business either

Ah, what's that, Erin? Yeah, there was some rain, but it never got beyond a sprinkling; nothing I couldn't handle.

I'd been laying there for…I don't know how long, when I heard something that I really didn't want to hear, the voice of Otis, the grizzle-faced sea-otter. No worries; he wasn't there on my behalf. He was there to talk to Captain Fishing Cat.

Talk? Nahhh, more of a screaming contest…and I gotta say, for once Otis had met his match. That feline had all of his crust and then some. I couldn't make out everything they were saying; they kept trying to yell over each other. But the gist of it was that the fishing cat thought the boatyard was trying to gouge him. "And I won't give your thieves another red cent!"

Otis apparently had other ideas, insisting that the feline owed a fee for 'taking his boat out early.' HIS response was an invitation to take it up with his lawyer!

Ah, you think so Mr. Rodenberg? Mmmm, I'll take your word for it…but the important thing is, after maybe ten more minutes of arguing, they took off together for the resort office. Once again, I didn't know why, and I didn't care. The important thing was that the water buffaloes were nearly finished getting the trailer hooked up, and the sailboat was now far enough out of the water that making it on board would be a simple move—if I could only get a stinkin' opening.

Finally, I heard the truck doors close and the engine cranking. I got up and started to run. And right then, wouldn't you know it, one of those squall clouds swept over me and I was bolting through a waterfall. I didn't mind too much; I'd be out of it soon and it would give me some cover.

That is, I didn't mind until I realized that I'd basically be making a leap of faith. Through all those stinkin' curtains of rain, that sailboat looked like a faded charcoal sketch, making it impossible for me to gauge the distance of my jump.

Too late to stop now; I put it into overdrive and leapt up and out in a classic fox-pounce.

I just barely made it, landing with my paws on the edge of the stern.

And then I was slipping; stupid boat was fiberglass—wet fiberglass, and I couldn't get any purchase, even with my claws. There was a railing up above me, but it was too far for me to reach, and…it was no use, I was falling.

…but only for about a foot and half; thank God this tub had a swim-step. It only stopped me for a second or two, but that was enough. There were paw-holds right beside me, and I was able to grab onto one of them—clambering up and over the stern and scrambling beneath the canvas covering the cabin entrance.

There were couches down below and I just threw myself onto one of them and started crying, I couldn't help it. After everything else that had happened, this latest close call was just too much for me to handle.

But I hadn't quite made it just yet. Less than a minute after we started moving, we stopped again…so suddenly I was thrown straight onto the floor. When I got up, I heard Captain Fishing Cat and Mr. Grizzleface going at it again…and this time the two water-bufs joined in. Long story short, Otis was refusing to let them take the boat until the bill was paid in full. Then everything went quiet for a moment, while they took their argument inside and out of the rain. I don't know how they finally settled it, but eventually, I heard the truck doors closing and the engine starting up again.

And then, at last, we were pulling through the exit and out on the road for Tom's River, Zoo Jersey.

FINALLY, I hoped…

Chapter 53: Conor's Story (Continued...Part 4)

Summary:

Busted...in more ways than one!

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Continued…Part 3)

 ♪ "When the fear had disappeared, I found a way
Of getting worse and more detached from every day
So, all excuses, alibis, and self-defense
Came to nothing in the face of evidence

Spinning, sinning, losing, winning
Rising, falling, calling...

Ooh, should I be banished to the dark side for all time?
Ooh, am I to blame for what was done to me?
Ooh, is there a reason for just what I came to be?
Ooh, 'cause I was raised in captivity." ♫

John Wetton – Raised In Captivity

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Vern Rodenberg was not a happy rat.

All right…he had accepted the fox-kid's insistence that he needed to tell his story from the beginning; go ahead boy, knock yourself out.

Yeah fine, except…his client had been going at it for HOW long now? And while it had all been very interesting—at times even fascinating—the budding little shtarke had yet to reveal anything of significance.

More than once, Rodenberg had come close to exploding, 'Will you cut to the chase, already?'

There was only one reason that he hadn't; Conor wasn't giving him the unabridged version for the purpose of stringing him along. After so many years as legal counsel to the mob, Vernon J. Rodenberg, Attorney at Law, had better know that shtick when he ran into it.

But now, he finally sensed that they were getting close to the action. The fugitive young silver fox's tale was at last taking him to Zoo Jersey, home of the Granite Point Youth Correctional Facility—which had also once housed a felonious young sea-mink by the name of Wesley 'Crazy Wez' McCrodon, aka The Bearfoot Bandit. As he recalled his one-and-only encounter with The Mister's young nephew, Rodenberg was unable to suppress a shudder. Oy, what had that idiot been thinking, wanting to bring THAT meshuggeneh little psycho into his organization? Well, given The Company chieftain's behavior towards the end, it shouldn't have come as a surprise.

And Conor, too, had known that Crazy Wez was a character who more than lived up to his handle. Not only that; he'd also been aware that the grey rat had once declined to represent the dangerous young felon. That, more than anything else, was what had prompted him to take the fox-kid back as a client. To be sure, it was a flimsy rationale at best; the bulk of his decision had been based on little more than a hunch.

But now…was that gut feeling about to play out?

One way or another, Vernon J. Rodenberg sensed that he was about to get his answers.

And so, he sat back and listened as Conor continued with his story.

We were on the road for only a little bit longer than the drive between Leopanon and Milfurred; it would've gone even faster, if we hadn't been held up by a car wreck.

When we stopped, I knew right away that we hadn't made it all the way to Tom's River; not yet, not this soon. I wouldn't even have checked through one of the portholes, if I hadn't heard the truck doors opening and closing. When I looked, I saw that we were on a residential street somewhere. What, now? Moving over to the other side of the boat, I saw this big, white house, with a cyclone fence around the yard next door, big enough enclose a football field. I had no idea what was on the other side—it was those fences with metal slats slats through the wire—but I could see what looked like whip antennas, sticking up, over the top of it. What the heck was going on…?

Before I could finish that thought, another one rode in over the top of it; not a thought really, more of a feeling. I needed to get the fox out of here, and right NOW!

This time, I didn't hesitate; I threw on my pack and hurried out on deck, making sure to keep low. Almost immediately, I heard the voice of the fishing cat again, coming from up towards the cab of the truck. I couldn't make out any words, but that told me I needed to get a move on, pronto.

Yeah, riiight…except even without looking down, I could tell that I was too high off the ground to jump for it. Ohhhh, WHY did I have to go and sneak a ride on board a stinking sailboat? Thanks to that stupid keel, I was at least ten feet off the ground. Even if I could make it without hurting myself, no way would someone not see me. What was I going to…?

Wait a sec; that tiedown strap! Maybe I could slide down…never mind, DO it!

I grabbed hold, wrapped my legs around the strap, and let myself go. Whoa, no…what the heck, was this thing made outta Teflon or something? I was moving fast; way too fast. If I didn't slow down, I was gonna sprain something. I tightened my grip and it worked; I quit slipping so fast, but it felt like someone was taking a blowtorch to my pawpads. I wanted to fox-scream…no wait, they'd hear. I bit my lip; tasted blood in my mouth.

My slide for life took maybe four seconds…but it seemed to take three hours.

I literally hit the ground running, bolting away from that sailboat and never once looking back, listening again for the sound of an outcry and footsteps charging after me. They never came.

Once more, I lucked out; today just happened to be recycling day and most of the residents had cardboard and whatnot put out on the sidewalk for pickup. I ducked around the first pile that I came to, and looked to see what was going on behind me.

When I did, it was just in time to see one of the water buffaloes propping a ladder up against the side of the sailboat, while the fishing cat stood nearby with his arms crossed. Whoa, I had been soooo right to get my tail out of there…but now I needed to get it in gear. If Ronnie's dad had been able to tell that there'd been stowaways on his trailer, then for sure this feline would know that he'd been harboring an uninvited guest. A fishing cat's sense of smell is way keener than an onager's.

Trying to keep cool, I turned and walked away; I didn't run, I walked. But as soon as I was around the corner, I bolted.

It turned out to be a much shorter run than I'd anticipated; about twenty yards up the street I saw a group of mammals gathered on the sidewalk. Oh, great…I could picture it already, tilted heads and raised eyebrows. "What are you running for, fox-kid?"

Instead, all I got was a couple of bored looks, with everyone else ignoring me.

I found out why when a bus pulled up to the curb in front of them. Oh-HO…so that was why they thought I'd been hauling tail.

But now, if I didn't get on board with them, they'd…

"So GET on board, you dumb fox! You wanted a way outta here? Well, there it is,"

Needless to say, I had no idea where that bus was headed, but who cared, as long as it took me away from that blankety-blank sailboat.

I rode for maybe half an hour, making sure to keep my head down; only looking up whenever we came to a stop. I also became aware of something I hadn't noticed before. My paw-pads felt as if I was doing push-ups on a hot sidewalk…I must have given myself one heckuva rope-burn, sliding down that tie-strap.

You know how sometimes the more you scratch an itch, the worse it gets? Yeah, well the more I rubbed my paws together…

Wait, no…that IS important, Mr. Rodenberg; way important, and if you'll just hear me out, you'll understand why.

Okay…well, eventually when I looked out the window, I spotted what looked like another food-cart pod…except way bigger, and the stalls looked a lot more temporary.

Heh…yeah, you know what I was looking at Erin…a farmer's market. Right…but what really got my attention was all the produce trucks backed up off to one side…many of 'em with open-sided stake beds. Whoa, I bet I could catch a ride on one of those bad boys; there had to be at least one that was heading in the same direction as me.

I got off the bus just as the doors were about to close, earning myself a none-too-friendly look from the driver. Whatever…I had more important concerns at the moment.

It wasn't until I got inside, that I found out where I was. They had this sign right in front of the entrance, 'Pompton Plains, Farmer's Market, Wednesdays and Fridays, May - September.

Well, what was I gonna DO, Snowdrop…ask somebody and have 'em get all suspicious on me? Anyway, I also knew how I'd ended up in this place…I had seen that name before, on the side of a truck-cab. This was the home turf of the cartage outfit, hauling that sailboat down to Tom's River.

No beating myself up about it though; not this time. If I hadn't bailed when I did, I would have been caught for sure. Truth be told, I almost felt like laughing. Pompton Plains! What a stupid name for a town; how the heck had they ever come up with that one?

Probably, I should have gone looking for a ride right then, except…I figured there was no point in making that move until closing time began to roll around. When that happened, there'd be all kinds of animals climbing on and off those trucks, and nobody would notice one more. Well, that's what I thought, anyway.

Don't get me wrong, guys. I wasn't gonna just jump on board the first truck I saw headed southbound. I knew better than that by then; if I wasn't at least three quarters certain that I could pull it off without getting nailed, I'd abort.

Well, I was gonna have to take SOME kinda risk, Mr. Rodenberg. Look at all the other stuff that went down by the time I got to Pompton Plains.

In the meantime, there was nothing for me to do but check out the farmer's market, and that's what I did. I had never been to one of those bad boys before…and it was nothing like I expected.

Yeah, there were produce stands…a lot of 'em selling something called 'Jersey Corn,' either fresh, steamed, or sometimes roasted. I didn't run into that last one until later though; and trust me, it's important.

But, as I'm sure you know, Erin…farmer's markets aren't just for produce. They had stalls selling all kinds of stuff—soap, homemade jewelry, scented candles, flavored cooking oil, dishracks; even toys. There were clowns, there were strolling musicians, and there was face-painting and massage-chairs.

And then there was this animal that I'll never forget for as long as I live.

She was a panther, a fortune-teller who used Tarot cards to make her predictions. She had a table set up in front of this really small trailer, with candles burning at either end. She wasn't dressed like your standard fortune teller; you would never have mistaken her for a gypsy. Instead, she wore what looked like monk's robes and a cape with a Celtic-Knot border, topped off by a sash around her waist. I later found out she'd been wearing what's known as a Druid's Cloak. She was younger than your average soothsayer too. Late twenties, maybe early thirties.

Noooo, I didn't stop to get my fortune told; too expensive. Swami Pantheress charged ten bucks for a simple reading and a cool sixty smackers for the whole nine yards. I had more important things to spend my money on than stuff like that. But I did stop to watch…and what happened next is the part I'll always remember.

She was dealing the cards for this ground-squirrel, when she stopped all sudden-like, and pulled back from the table.

"You, there."

I'd been watching the deal, but when I raised my eyes—what the foxtrot was Ms. Kitty looking at ME for—and why was she looking at me like that? She had her face all crinkled up and I could swear that her tail was twitching.

"You there…fox-boy," she said again, in this weird accent I couldn't quite place. "Do y'know how Pompton Plains really got its name, then?" She had the most wicked grin on her face I'd ever seen…up until then that is. "S'from the famous Pompton-Pink granite."

"Yeah, whatever," I said, waving her off and walking away. I was trying to look cool, but I could feel my tail shivering. How the heck…?

No guys…I swear; that is what she said to me. And, of course, it wasn't until later that I realized what the heck she'd been talking about. Believe me, I spent many a long night afterwards, turning those words over in my mind.

After wandering around for a little bit longer, I began to smell something…something really good that was making my mouth water. I followed it with my nose and came to a stand run by an old Cape porcupine selling something called 'Mealies', which turned out to be Afurican-style roasted corn.

I immediately got in line and bought an ear. "Careful, et's hot off the fire," she said. But either I was too quick or she was too slow. Yowtch! It felt like I grabbed hold of the business end of a branding-iron. I dunno how I didn't drop the thing but somehow, I managed to hold onto it. But when it finally got cool enough to eat, though…mmmmm, it was dry and spicy and oh-so-good.

Well, maybe you'll get the chance, Erin. Jason m'Beke's mom does mealies all the time, and….

Okay, okay…sorry, Mr. Rodenberg.

Yeah, the corn was great, but as soon as I finished it, I found out I had another problem. Now my paw-pads were really hurting, even worse than before. I needed to find me some cold water, ASAP.

That was when I spotted a stand selling fruit and veggie juices. Not homemade; store-bought stuff in bottles—set out in these long tray-tub things full of cracked ice.

Ahhhh, just what I needed.

I went over and grabbed a couple of pawfuls of ice. Oh yeah, that was better.

Actually, it wasn't. Right away, I heard an angry voice behind me.

"Hey you…!"

Aggggh, grrrrr, not again! I turned around and there was this badger in an apron, with her paws on her hips. And not some crotchety old biddy, more like my mom's age, right before she passed. Before I could answer, she jabbed a finger at the tray-tub beside her.

"Go on…put it back!"

I just blinked at her. What the fox? Was she really that upset over a couple of pawfuls of…

"You heard me. Put it back…NOW!"

"Okay, okay-y-y." I said raising my paws, and then I went over to the tray and dumped back the ice where I found it.

Did that satisfy her? Nope…only made her madder.

"Don't play stupid with me…fox kid. Put back the juice you took."

Ohhhh-kay, now I got it. Someone must have ripped her off earlier, and now, because of my species, she was assuming that I was the culprit, returning to the scene of the crime.

As if I'd ever…and besides that…

"I didn't take any juice, look…" I spread my arms, "See? Nothing on me."

But she was already whistling through her fingers, and beckoning with the other paw.

"Security…over here."

I should have bolted right then and there. Not one, but TWO animals came sprinting at her call; a security guard and a cop, a red stag and a wolf respectively.

"Yes, ma'am, what's the problem here?"

She pointed at one of the display trays…and to a divot in the ice where a bottle must have been. "See, there?" And then she pointed at me. "This fox-kid stole a bottle of juice from my stand."

"I did NOT!" I shot back, and spread my arms again, "If I stole that stuff, where is it?" That, I thought, should have ended it, but I had forgotten something.

"What do you have in there, son?" It was the deer, and he was pointing at my backpack. No, I didn't have any juice in there…but I did have something like 300 smackers in cash. And, as the wise-mammal says, the only way a fox-kid gets his paws on THAT kind of money is…

It was no use; the wolf-cop was holding out a paw and crooking a finger at me; 'give it up kid', he seemed to be telling me '…now.'

I passed him the backpack—praying that somehow, he wouldn't find the money.

Incredibly…he didn't. He just felt through the fabric, zipped it open, took a quick look inside, and then closed it up and gave it back to me. I had wisely chosen to stash my roll at the bottom of the pack, underneath my change of clothes.

"Nothing in here, ma'am." He told her, shaking his head

Ohhhh, somebody up there…

…hated my guts. "He took it Aunt Lita, I saw him." It was another badger…a boy, somewhere in his early teens. "He drank it and threw the bottle in there." He was pointing at this trash can.

"Oh, come ON!" I tried to protest…but the security guard was already on his way over.

I knew he was going to find an empty bottle in that can; what I didn't expect was to see him pull out a couple pieces of a broken bottle.

That was when I noticed two things; the cop and the security guard were no longer looking skeptical—and the younger badger, now sighing with relief, was wearing the same kind of apron as his aunt.

"Why didn't you say anything before?" she asked him.

"I-I'm sorry, I thought he paid for it." He kind of shrugged…and bang! That was when everything clicked into place. Now, I really knew what was going on here—and I let out the mother of all fox-screams.

"You lying PUNK!" As luck would have it, I hadn't put back all of the ice that I'd taken, I had dropped a couple of pieces, and now I scooped them up and pegged them at badger-boy, hard as I could. He ducked and I missed…but that was all she wrote as far as John Q. Law was concerned. I felt the stag grab me from behind.

No, Erin…I didn't. This was before I got my face bent out of shape. I WAS able to squirm out of his grip, though; a little skill I'd picked up playing Ringolevio—and bolted down the aisle-way. About ten feet further on, I found a space between two of the booths…wide enough for me to handle, but not the animals chasing me. I slipped though before they could catch me, but I was in a major jackpot over here. A wolf…agggggh, grrrrr, why'd that stinkin' cop have to be a wolf? He'd be able to track me by way of my scent, no matter how well I kept out of sight, or wherever the heck I tried to hide. I had to get out of here…and like five minutes ago.

Wait…look over there; an empty stall, right across the aisle from me…with a table, covered over by a cloth. I darted across and ducked underneath.

I made it, but not before I heard the badger-kid again.

"There he is…he went under there!" Oooo, I could have torn off his tail for that!

But right now, I had other problems; I bolted through to the stall on the other side…startling the heck out a vicuna selling wall hangings. Jumping over her table, I landed on all fours.

Big mistake! In my panic, I'd forgotten about my burned paw-pads. But I sure as heck remembered them now. When my forepaws hit the ground, it felt like I was playing 'The Floor Is Magma'—for real! I fox-screamed, jumped up, and tried to run. I managed about three steps, before someone grabbed me by the tail and hoisted me off the ground, literally turning my whole world upside down. And just to make it even more humiliating, it wasn't even the cop or the security officer who had me; it was some elephant trash-collector guy, holding me up with his trunk.

And then, just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, someone called out, "Hey, look…a fox pinata!" and right away a crowd began to gather, laughing and pointing, and having a grand old time. No one—not even once—asked the elephant what he'd grabbed me for. I was a fox, and that was all they needed to…

Sorry, yeah…getting bitter again. Anyway, it didn't take long for the wolf cop to get there, this time with another officer in tow, a springbok.

That was when I finally quit struggling and went limp. Resistance was futile; they had me.

"I'm going to ask this elephant to put you down," it was the wolf, standing upside down in front of me, while his partner went into half crouch off to the side, "Can I count on you not to run for it?"

"I-I won't try to get away," I said…and meant it. Even with my paw-pads at 100%, there was no way I could outrun a springbok; they're only the third fastest animal on the planet.

They read me my rights and cuffed me, and then put me in the back of a police cruiser. All the while I kept protesting that I hadn't stolen anything, but they didn't seem to hear me. After leaving me alone for what seemed like ages, the wolf came back and announced that I was under arrest for petty theft. I had expected that…but then he told me I was also under arrest for misdemeanor assault—the ice I'd thrown at that badger kid—and for resisting arrest; trying to run away afterwards.

No, Mr. Rodenberg…this time you're wrong. I could have co-operated a thousand percent with those cops, and things would have ended up exactly the same way for me.

Although…yeah, I didn't know it at the time.

Pompton Plains wasn't an actual town; it was part of a township whose name I can't remember; sounded something like 'Peacock'. Anyway, the closest police department was the Pompton Lakes PD…and that's where they took me.

I have to admit, these guys, at least, treated me pretty decent. When the eland who took my paw-prints noticed the burns on my pads, she sent me straight to the infirmary before we went any further. The rest of my booking went, well, pretty much by the book, except for…

When they asked me for my folk's phone number, I gave them the one for the Danbeary Foster Home. That was when they found I didn't have any real parents—and that was when their attitude towards me changed, at least the attitude of the officer in charge, this black bear with a big gut. I only saw him for maybe a minute but…

Oh no, he didn't get brutal on me or anything…just the opposite. When I told him I was an orphan, he looked like a guy trying not to let on that he's holding four aces. I didn't find out why until much later.

Okay, now I'm sure you already know this, Mr. Rodenberg. But Erin won't, so please bear with me for a sec.

Uh, no, sorry…I promised to tell her everything, and that's what I'm gonna do.

Legally, they could only hold me for six hours before either releasing me to my parents' custody—meaning the Kaneskas—or remanding me to youth detention. Neither of those options was particularly appealing to me, but obviously I would have preferred the first one.

No such luck; because I was technically a violent offender, I wasn't going anywhere but to Juvie. Even so, they were supposed to inform the Kaneskas of my arrest. When I asked about it later, I was told that they had basically washed their paws of me. And who knows? Maybe they did; it sure as heck didn't surprise me when I heard.

The nearest Juvie facility to Pompton Lakes was the Morris County Youth Detention Center, and that's where they took me next. It was almost midnight when they put me in the back of a police cruiser, but if they'd waited until morning, they would have gone over the deadline. Go fig.

The holding cell where they put me was about as comfortable as an outhouse…and it smelled like one too. Even so, I was out like a light from the moment my head hit the…well, whatever that thing was; it sure as heck wasn't a pillow.

The next morning, after a 'breakfast' where I couldn't even finish a single bite, I was taken to an interview room for a talk with the prosecutor handling my case, a maned-wolf, by the name of Peter J. Shanks. I can remember his name, right down to the middle initial.

And you're about to find out why, Mr. Rodenberg…better grab yourself a piece of that safety-bar, coz this coaster's getting ready to hit a big one.

When he tried to ask me about what happened at the farmer's market, I told him I didn't want to say anything until I saw a lawyer. What the heck, I'd seen enough episodes of Claw and Order.

And this is what he said, "This may seem like a silly question son, but do you have money to pay for an attorney?"

Whoa, I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling him that yeah, he was right; it WAS a silly question. Where the heck was a kid, my age—with no family—supposed to get that kind of cash? Every cent I possessed had been in my backpack. And that money had long since been divvied up by Pompton Lakes cops…or that's what I thought.

Anyway, I just told him no. When I did, he just kind of sighed, shook his head and dropped his pen on the desk.

And then he leaned across the table at me.

"Son, let me be frank with you, 'kay? If you're going to insist on having a lawyer to represent you, then The State will have no choice but to assign a public defender to your case. And that's something you really want to think twice about."

"Wh-Why?" I asked, totally confused, "Why wouldn't I want a lawyer?"

Shanks leaned in even closer. I remember he was tapping the table with a finger-claw on something like every third or fourth word. "Tomorrow morning you're going to be entering a plea in front of Judge William Woolsey. And, trust me, if you insist on asking HIM for an attorney, it's not going to go well for you. There's nothing he likes less than seeing the judiciary's resources wasted on petty…"

Oops…Erin, you wanna help him up? There…you okay, Mr. Rodenberg? Hey-y-y don't look at me; I told you to brace yourself.

Yeah, I'm sure it's what he said to me; it's something else I won't ever forget.

Because, bunny-girl, that's almost exactly what jerk-weed Rudy Camembert—or whatever his name is—that's what he told me when he tried to get me to shine on asking for a lawyer, you follow what I'm bringing out?

Right…and now Mr. Rodenberg—now YOU know why I pulled my Usual Suspects gag on that dirt-bag chamois. Coz when he said that, I knew I was gonna get my tail thrown in Juvie, no matter what the heck I did…so I might as well go down swinging.

Yes, I would have, Counselor—even with your help. Like I told you at the beginning, you got no idea of what you're dealing with over here—or who you're dealing with. What I told you so far is only the tip of the stinkin' iceberg.

No…YOU listen! Whatever your worst-case scenario is over here, forget it! What's really going on is like a zillion times worse.

Sorry, but I can't say that too many times.

So anyway…yeah, I gave in…but not before making one last stab at pleading my case, insisting that I hadn't stolen any juice.

"We have two witnesses who say otherwise," Shanks told me, "And even if we didn't, we have you on police body-cam, assaulting the vendor and resisting arrest."

I tried to tell him that I hadn't assaulted anyone or tried to resist my arrest. It was no use, throwing that ice counted as assault, and trying to run away was considered resisting arrest.

I know, right? But I didn't know it back then…OR that they actually had zippity about me on bodycam.

So…I agreed not to ask for a lawyer and plead guilty at my arraignment. Long story short, I got sentenced to 30 days at the Morris County Juvenile Detention Center…more than I expected, but that was the minimum sentence for a violent offense by a juvenile in the State of Zoo Jersey. Even so, Shanks had kept his word that the judge would go easy on me if I copped a plea. And it could have been a lot worse…or that was what I thought at the time.

Before I could start serving my sentence, though…I had to go through something called intake—at another youth facility, way down in the southern part of the state, in a burg called Boardentown. I thought the whole thing was crazy—Morris County Juvie was only a couple of miles up the road from the courthouse—but needless to say, I was in no position to argue.

They sent me down in a cruiser driven by this hippo. Nice guy; he responded to everything I said by telling me to shut my foxhole.

When we got to the intake facility, it turned out to be a pod attached to the Zoo Jersey Juvenile Medium Security Facility—or The Johnstone Campus, as it was better known. It was the second toughest youth jail in the state; I already told you 'bout the toughest one.

It was an older building than the Morris County Youth Jail. Built out of red brick, it had seen some better days. I wouldn't exactly call it crumbling, but it wasn't what you'd call pristine either. On the other paw, the double row of razor-ribbon fence surrounding the place looked almost brand new. So did the CCTV cameras mounted on top of it. Everything about the place looked seriously forbidding and I was glad I wouldn't be serving my thirty days here.

Little did I know…

The hippo escorting me took me down a path flanked by security fences on either side and through a double set of armored-glass doors to Reception and Processing. Right away, I noticed something strange; the bighorn sheep behind the desk was wearing a completely different uniform than him. My escort was done up in the standard blue serge of every police officer from here to West Side Story. The sheep behind the desk, on the other paw, was dressed in all black, with a matching fatigue cap; he almost looked like a mercenary soldier. There was no name-tag pinned to his chest; it was sewn onto his shirt…using a thread so dark, I couldn't make out what it said. And whereas every officer I'd seen up to now had worn a patch on his sleeve with a seal of some kind—Morris County, The State of Zoo Jersey, or whatever—the only thing on this guy's sleeve was a sort of a monogram; the same design you saw on the side of that hovercraft, Erin. I didn't know it yet, but I was about to be handed over to the tender mercies of a private corporation…and not an honest one.

The thing that really struck me about that ram, though, was his attitude; half bored, and half anxious—like he couldn't wait to clock out and go home. If this dude had been a high school kid, I would have pegged him as a slacker. No kidding, I've seen sloths work faster than that guy; it took him nearly an hour to finish processing my paperwork. Back at Morris County Juvie, they'd gotten it done in less than ten minutes.

Whoa, no wonder that hippo was in such a bad mood.

Anyway, they took me to a holding cell, same as your standard holding cell, except…they left the door open. That was weird…or that's what I thought, until I realized it opened onto a small commons-area with absolutely no way out except for this one, electrically operated door. I later found out that this was also where they stashed the kids waiting on case reviews or disciplinary hearings. There were CCTV cameras all over the walls.

The only way to describe my new accommodations was 'dingy.' There was like this thin, black film, all over everything; the walls, the sink, the floor, even the bed…which had a mattress so thin you could read through it, and pillow, WHAT pillow? Ewww, get me outta this place.

I went outside to the commons area and nearly fell right on my tail. The floor, which was painted in baby-puke green, was like a stinkin' nonstick griddle. I hadn't noticed it when they'd brought me here, coz a guard had been holding me by the arm, but now… What the heck did they use to wash the floors here? Or…did they even wash them at all? I had to practically skate my way to the nearest table; the kind you see on playgrounds except bigger, all of one piece, with the seats attached permanently. It was almost too big for a fox, but then I didn't have a whole lot of choice. There'd been no attempt to accommodate different size species in here; it was strictly one size fits all. As I hauled myself up onto one of the seats, I had to wonder how a rodent was supposed to deal with this place.

And on the subject of 'strict', it was pretty obvious that wasn't how they enforced the rules in this lock-up. When I sat down at that table, it turned out to be covered with more graffiti than an abandoned car in Happytown. Oh, good NIGHT…how the fox had I ever ended up here? I laid my head between my arms, thinking about Jimmy. Wherever my buddy was right now, he couldn't be any worse off than…

Whoa…full stop. Someone was there. I slid off my seat, and looked around, fast.

There were two of them, a dhole, and a coatimundi, coming towards me from either side…

I know, right? If the same thing happened today, I'd grab whatever weapon I could get my paws on and back my tail into a corner.

Because, Erin…that way nobody can sneak up on you from behind—and it's hard for more than one guy to come at you at a time.

But even a newbie couldn't mistake these guys for anything but trouble; scruffy, dirty, mangy, and wearing these beat-up, tan jumpsuits that looked like they hadn't been washed since cassette tapes were a thing. What really made my tail shiver, though, was their eyes. Deep, red, and sunken, they seemed to look at nothing, like something out of Night of the Living Dead. Oh, and did I mention that they were both at least three years older than me?

Just the same, they seemed friendly enough—at first.

"Hey dude," the dhole said, waving as he walked up to me, 'S'up?"

He offered me a high five and I returned it…very quickly, so as not to give him a chance to grab me. His paw was rough, and I could feel the prickle of his finger claws, very sharp, like he deliberately kept them that way…which he did, of course; that was another trick I wouldn't learn until later. Just the same, I wasn't completely out of my depth. At the same time, I kept one ear turned backwards in the direction of his buddy. Even then, I knew the trick of walking up on either side of a guy, so he can't see both of you at once; another thing I'd learned from playing Ringolevio.

"Watchoo in for, fox?" I heard the coati ask.

"Theft, assault, and resisting arrest," I said, making a point of leaving out the words, 'petty' and 'misdemeanor.' I didn't want to look like too much of a lightweight.

They came closer, and I felt the fur on the back of my neck beginning to stand up. Another thing I'd picked up from Ringolevio was learning to tell when someone was getting ready to make a move on you. And these punks were making it super obvious; the way one would talk while the other moved, the way they watched my paws instead of my eyes.

Finally, the coati asked me, extra-friendly like, "Ya gotta cigarette, fox?" And that killed whatever doubts I had that I was being set up. Even if I smoked—which I didn't—any cigs I'd had on me would have long since been confiscated. These dudes had to know that. And like…what were they gonna do, light up right in front of a dozen stinkin' security cameras? Whoa, I could almost smell what was coming. I would tell them I didn't have any smokes; they'd accuse me of lying and disrespecting them, and then…game ON!

So…I decided to beat them to the tip-off. I knew I was gonna get the snot kicked out of me, but once the word got around that I was willing to fight back if someone leaned on me, that would be the end of it.

Yeah-h-h…I know what you're going to say, Mr. Rodenberg—and you're absolutely right. That thing might work with a schoolyard bully, but not with a couple of hardcore street-ganger types.

But what the heck did I know back then?

Now, uhmmm, what happened next is something that isn't easy for me to talk about, so please…gimme some space over here, okay?

Instead of saying no, I said 'yeah,' and pretended to reach for my pocket. The coati-kid didn't fall for it, but his buddy did. He reached out to accept my offer.

…And I bit him on the arm. He yelped and pulled back, and I turned on his partner.

Too slow; he bit me on the shoulder. But he only managed to get me with his two front fangs, and got my claws across his face for the trouble. He let go and I ducked down fast—just in time to dodge the dhole, when he went for my neck with his teeth. Ohhhh, foxtrot…biting the neck full-force is how you KILL a guy. Every predator knows that; it's baked into our genes. Only now did I finally I realize just how far I'd gotten in over my head… and there'd be no such thing as backing out at this point.

But then…just like that my mood shifted. It was like that time I thought Ronnie had snitched on me, only way, way stronger. The heck with this, the heck with everything! All I'd done was try to take a summer getaway, and now here I was in Juvie with two guys trying to off me…and for what? Because some punk badger-kid didn't want to admit that he'd broken a lousy juice-bottle! At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to tear the world apart.

But the world wasn't available, and so I'd settle for these jerks instead.

I lunged at the dhole-kid, caught him by surprise, knocking him down…but only down on one knee. He threw me off, as easy as tossing away a sweater, only to catch a slice across the face from the coati's claws; he'd been coming at me from behind when it happened.

Rubbing his cheek, dhole-boy screamed, "Whose stinkin' side you on, moron?"

The coati-kid screamed right back. "What'joo dissin' me, dog?" and shoved him with both paws.

Ho-LEE foxtrot, I couldn't believe what I was seeing; they'd forgotten all about me and…

Wait, no…something was wrong. No, no…not something, somebody. Somebody else was…

Something grabbed me from behind…

A-And that's the last thing…I…remember…

Uhhhh…I…I need to take a break for a minute, okay?

No, no…I-I'll be fine, just gimme a second… No Erin, don't touch me.

I woke up something like 40 hours later, in the infirmary—if you could call it that dump an infirmary.

At least…that's where I think I was. I couldn't really see anything; my face was all covered in bandages and they had slipped down over my eyes. But my nose was still okay…and there was no mistaking that 'hospital' smell from when I'd been taken to see my mother. That…and the 'other' thing I'd smelled in her room, only it seemed to be coming from a whole bunch of places at once. Then something stuck me in the arm, and I tried to scream…only to realize I was already screaming; been screaming ever since I woke up.

But now I went back to sleep again.

I didn't find out 'til later how long I'd been out…or that the kids who'd beaten me up thought they'd killed me.

Or…that it was just blind luck the staff had gotten to me so fast. The guards had been on their way to the holding cells with another kid when the beating went down. Mind…they didn't rush me to the infirmary out of any sense of duty or anything. That was something else I didn't find out about until later.

Anyway, that was how it went for the next couple of weeks. Or…maybe it was the next…month? I'm not sure. I'd wake up screaming, they'd sedate me, and then repeat. I think one time somebody slapped me and told me to shut the heck up, but that may have been just a bad dream.

What wasn't a dream was that I was in a world of hurt…and I don't just mean physically. When I finally managed to wake up without screaming, I found out that I was shackled and cuffed to the bed…and no one would tell me why. As a matter of fact, nobody was telling me anything; no one was talking to me…or to any of the other kids, for that matter.

Other…? Oh yeah, right…I was in a ward with maybe seven or eight other beds; I can't be sure. Between the restraints and the bandages, I wasn't able to see a whole lot. What I could see didn't look too good, though. The beds were all yard sale specials. flaking paint, rust, and constant creaking—and they didn't smell very good either.

But that was nothing compared to the 'food' they served us. Eeee-yecch! and I thought the grub at Morris County Juvie had been sickening.

Okay…I need to jump ahead here. I didn't find out why it was like this until a while later, but…I-I-I think you're gonna want to hear about it now, Mr. Rodenberg. And again, forgive me if it's something else you already know, coz for sure, Erin won't.

The Zoo Jersey's Juvenile Corrections system was run by a private company, Aker Correctional Management. That meant it was a for profit prison system—which meant the motto was 'Cut Costs…At Any Cost'. That's why the grub was so awful and the medical care was a stinking joke. Heck, there wasn't even a doctor on staff; only a couple of nurse practitioners. Oh, they had a doctor on call, but they never brought him in for anything less than a life-or-death situation. Why they didn't bring him in on me, I have no idea…but I never saw the guy.

Ahhhh, you'd be right about that, Mr. Rodenberg…no, they didn't X-Ray my face before they set it. Heh, just like I thought…YOU know how these private prisons operate. And the only thing they gave me for the pain was Tygernol…which, for me, was like trying to put out a house fire with water balloons. Later on, though, I kind of had cause to be grateful for it; I got hurt again and got put on some serious painkillers…and ended up getting hooked on 'em.

But that's for later. Right now…about a week and a half after I woke up, I had a visitor…someone I did not particularly want to see, my old buddy from the prosecutor's office, Peter J. Shanks.

When he sat down beside me, he was all Mr. Kind and Caring, insisted they take the cuffs and shackles off. And, just like I did the first time, I fell for his grift like a truckload of bricks. I think a lot of that had to do with his species. Your average maned-wolf looks a heckuva lot like a king-size fox with long legs…and you know how big my species is on trusting each other. Anyway, between that, and the pain, I was willing to listen to just about anything he said.

That is, until he told me that the State was going to charge me with having started that fight in the holding cells—which, technically, I had—and that this time, I was going up for FELONY assault.

"Second offense in less than two days," he told me, shaking his head and looking oh, so regretful,

But what really got my attention was when he informed me that the kids who'd kicked my tail had gotten two weeks in solitary—and that was it; no other charges filed. What? No way…here I was, chained to a hospital bed, with a busted face—and they were gonna let the punks who did it walk and blame ME for everything? Nooo! WAY!

That's basically what I said to him, although, uh, errrr…not in those words, if you follow what I'm bringing out. He just let me go on until I ran out of steam…which didn't take long, given my condition.

And then he leaned forward, with an elbow on his knee.

"So…are you saying that you didn't attack first?"

I just stared at him; would have fox-screamed if it wouldn't have hurt so much. Yes, I had…and there was no point in trying to deny it; I had seen those security cameras. True, if I hadn't moved first, those jerks would have. And then they would have pulverized me before I could get in even a single hit…but just try explaining that to this guy.

Ahhhh, okay Erin…you're right. they wrecked my face anyway. But, knowing what I know now, I can tell you something; even if I hadn't moved first, I would have ended up being blamed for that fight.

Anyway, Shanks advised me—again—that if I skipped the lawyer and entered a guilty plea, the judge would go easy on me; it was basically the same song-and-dance he'd given me before.

Except this time that maned wolf lowlife was lying through his fangs. When I finally got to court, the minute I finished entering my plea—yeah, I pled guilty—His Honor, the sheep laid into me like a grizzly bear on a salmon.

"So…this is how you pay baaack The State for giving you a break…is that it? Less than 24 hours after sentencing, you commit an even more violent offense than the first time." Sheesh, to hear him talk, you would have thought I'd gone for those punks with a chain-saw. "Well let me tell you something, young FOX," He spat out the word like something spoiled, and leveled a finger, "The law knows exactly how to deal with your kind. Accordingly, I am going to designate you as an incorrigible and sentence you to one year in the maximum-security juvenile facility at Granite Point Zoo Jersey…sentence to commence upon determination that the defendant has recovered sufficiently to begin serving his time. Bailiff?"

They brought me back to the infirmary ward; the only good part was that they didn't cuff me to the bed again. "But try anything funny, kid and it won't be just shackles. Act out, even one tiny little bit, and you get the muzzle."

HA! Like I was in any kind of shape to pull a fast one…even if I'd wanted to.

I spent three more weeks in the infirmary. The day before I left was one of the worst in my life. That was when they took the bandages off my face for good.

Oh no, they'd changed them a couple of times before that…but I'd always managed to avoid looking at my reflection when they did; I didn't want to see what those other kids had done to me.

Not this time; soon as the wraps were off my muzzle, this boar-guy guard shoved a mirror in my face and told me, "Take a look,' in that 'or else' tone I was going to be hearing a lot of in the next few months.

I think he said something else, but I don't remember. When I saw what was in that mirror…Oh God, I had never wanted to cry so badly. But I couldn't make it happen, couldn't manage even a single tear. And ever since that day, I've never been able to cry…not even once.

I don't…really want to tell you what my face looked like. But I can give you an idea. When I finally landed in Granite Point, I started picking up all kinds of nicknames based on my appearance; Brokeface, Boomerang, Lefty—my muzzle was bent to the left—and Snaggles; that fight had left me with one of my fangs sticking out over my lip.

But the nick that stuck, the one that stayed with me even after I fell in with The Company was 'Z-Face'…or sometimes just, plain 'Z'. That was what my muzzle looked like after my beating—and that was my handle, right up until the day of my corrective surgery. The main reason it hung with me was coz of the animal that first laid it on me…none other than Crazy Wez McCrodon himself. I'll tell you more about him in a minute.

I was sure that I wasn't going to get much sleep that night, and I didn't. But not for the reason I expected. Just after 1:00 in the morning, someone shook me awake and stuck a flashlight in my face.

"Pack it up, kid."

At first, I couldn't believe what was happening; they couldn't be moving me now, I wasn't nearly healed up enough. It wasn't my decision to make and I knew it, but still…

They marched me out to a bus with steel mesh and bars over the windows. There were two other kids already on board, a deer-buck and a clouded leopard. It was midsummer by now, and the deer-kid should have been in velvet, but neither of his antlers were showing. Later on, I found out why; it was what he'd done with those points that had gotten him sent to Juvie in the first place.

When they opened the doors to that bus though…ewww! At least one of this bucket's previous passengers had been unable to hold onto his lunch. No, make that more than one.

As if that wasn't bad enough, we didn't go directly from there to Granite Point. Instead, we took this kind of zig-zag route, stopping off at two other jails to pick up more prisoners, a sable and two mice. I had no idea what a couple of rodents could have done to get sent to a place like Granite Point, but I got a clue when the two of them raised their heads and howled—nearly getting their cage kicked down the length of the aisle for their troubles. They were Grasshopper mice, one of the toughest rodent species you're ever gonna meet. No kidding, these guys eat scorpions and coral snakes for snacks. Later on, they ended up in the same crew as me.

That sable-kid, though. When they brought him on board, everybody on the bus wanted to duck under their seats, even the guard watching over us—and that guy was a full-grown moose.

All of us were wearing cuffs and shackles, except for the mice, who they were transporting in a plexiglass box.

This kid was not only cuffed and shackled, he was also muzzled and wearing mittens over his paws.

Noooo, not quite the same as that VR-3 thing they did to me, Mr. Rodenberg; he was under even heavier restraint. They had a collar around his neck, with a chain attached…and they were using it to basically drag him on board. He had black fur, unusual for a sable, with a white patch under his throat and a tail that way too long for his species.

When he passed by where I was sitting, I saw him turn and look at my face—and kind of smirk, like he would have loved to finish the job. That was when I knew…I just knew; this was the jerk who'd grabbed from behind on that fateful day. That was when he stopped being scary and turned into someone I just wanted to destroy. I would have gone for him right then, but by the time I made the connection, he was already well past me. Another time, I thought.

They took him all the way to the back of the bus, and locked his collar-chain to a bar attached to the wall. One of the guards who'd brought him on board stayed behind…and even sable-boy wasn't gonna mess with her; she was a seriously hard-bodied wolverine.

Nobody said a word during that ride; anyone who tried to speak up was told to shut-up. Muzzle-boy tried it one too many times and got zapped with a taser for his troubles. After that, even HE decided to keep it zipped.

When we finally arrived at Granite Point, it was nothing like what I'd expected; no dark, forbidding castle, like the old Cliffside Sanitorium. This place…

What…they reopened Cliffside as a prison? Viomax, huh? Yeahhhh, that's something AKER would have done.

But like I was saying, at first glance, Granite Point looked more like a college campus than a jail; I later learned the place had started life as a seminary, of all stinkin' things. Most of the buildings were covered in vines, and all of them were built out of—what else—pink granite, with tall windows and a tiled roof; there was even a clock-tower.

But still…

Granite Point got its name from the fact that it was set on a rock outcropping, formed by a loop in the Wallkill River. That meant there were cliffs on two sides of the place; not nearly as tall or as steep as at Cliffside, but that wasn't the point. There was absolutely no vegetation on either one of them. Anyone trying to climb down those bad boys was going to stand out like a tarantula on a snowbank. And even if you made it that far, there was nothing but bare ground for the next hundred yards—and the officers had plenty of eyes on that patch of ground, as we were about to find out in the next couple of minutes.

When they took us off the bus, any remaining thoughts that Granite Point might not be that bad were gone in a stinkin' flash. The place was surrounded by a spiked, wrought iron fence, and behind that, not one, not two, but three separate chain-link fences, topped by triple coils of shredder-wire. On the one in the middle, they had signs posted every three or four yards—no text, just lightning bolts. You can guess what that meant, I think. As for that clock tower, it had been converted into a guard tower, complete with searchlights. And that 'ivy' covering the buildings was actually blackberry vines…stuff that made the razor-ribbon on top of the fences look like licorice whips.

Holy foxtrot, who did they think we were, a bunch of Hannibal Lechwe wannabes?

Yeah…right Erin. But as a matter of fact, one of us was exactly that…and I think you can guess which one.

They marched us up to a front gate that looked like a leftover from Castle Dracula. I remember they had this iron sign over the entrance, a sign no kid who's ever done time in The Point can ever forget.

It read, "In Optima Cura Pueri."

Heh…coz Mr. Rodenberg knows what that means Erin. It's Latin for 'In The Best Interests Of The Child.' Yeah, I gave myself a face-pawlm too, the first time someone told me what it meant.

Something whizzed past us, overhead, and we all ducked instinctively—an RC drone, one of two that they had patrolling the perimeter at all times. I later learned those bad boys were fitted out with infrared and had 360-degree vision capability.

Our reaction to the drone was good for a laugh from the moose-guard. I saw him get on his radio, but couldn't make out what he was saying. Not that I cared, it had started to rain and none of us kids were dressed for that kind of weather.

After a moment, the gate swung open and we got our first look at the officer who was soon to become the bane of our existence.

He was a polar bear by the name of Bill De Nallie—I found out later that the kids all called him Lurch, though never if he was close enough to hear you. In fact, we weren't even allowed to address him by his real name. Ahhh, I'm getting ahead of myself again, sorry.

Anyway, if that was how he looked, it wasn't how he talked. Remember that drill instructor from the movie Full Metal Jackal? Give that guy a deep voice and Jersey accent and you have Sergeant William 'Lurch' De Nallie. He also liked to use his baton as visual aid.

As we soon found out, when they finished the head-count.

"All right, you snots…get your tails inside." Lurch pointed with his baton at the entrance door where an elk was standing sentry. "In there…there!" he slapped his stick against the fence, "Move, dangit!" Another slap. "Move, move, move!"

And we moved—not very fast. How fast can you go wearing shackles? They made the clouded leopard kid carry the mice, and the sable kid had it even worse with that muzzle on his face. That, of course, only served to stoke Lurch's anger. "I said move, you little snots! You want some a' this?" he slapped the stick against his paw. "Then MOVE!"

That was our serenade, all the way to the door—which immediately slammed shut behind us with deep, metallic…not a clang, but more of a thud.

They say the sound of a prison door closing behind you is the most terrifying thing in the world; but for us it was almost anticlimactic. Heck, we barely even heard it over that bear, roaring his head off.

He brought us into a dimly lit, circular room with a tiled floor the color of spoiled mustard and drain in the center. They lined us up, and then—finally—they removed our cuffs and shackles and let the mice out of their carrying case. I remember that when they took the sable-kid's muzzle off, he was finally able to stand up to his full height. Whoa, and I thought he'd look scary before. He was bigger than he'd looked at first, and older too. Old enough to have been sentenced as an adult; that's was I thought when I saw him without that thing on his face.

And then…I was surprised to see the wolverine guard pull out a pair of glasses, which he snatched out of her paw with a hiss of disdain. Strangely enough, when he put them on, they only served to make him look even more….

"Eyes front, you little snot!" Oops, I had forgotten about Lurch. "You look where you're told—nowhere else!"

I hurriedly turned my gaze forward. After administering some similar correction to a couple of my fellow arrivals, he began to strut back and forth in front of us, with his baton behind his back.

"Welcome to Granite Point, boys. My name is Sergeant William De Nallie. You will address me either as 'Sergeant' or 'Sir,' not by any other name…PERIOD!"

He gave us a few seconds to process this and then actually seemed to mellow out a little.

None of us were fooled.

"Tell me boys…do you know the joke they tell about this place?"

Nobody answered. We could tell he didn't want one.

"It goes like this," he said, "Question—how does a kid end up in Granite Point?" Out came the stick, slapping hard into his other paw. "Answer—he messes up everywhere else!" He stopped and swung his baton sideways indicating each and every one of us in a wide, sweeping arc. "So, get this through your messed-up heads. Never mind the name Granite Point Correctional Facility, you are not here to be corrected! You are not here to be reformed! And you are especially not, I repeat, NOT here to be rehabilitated. If that was even possible, you would never have been sent here." He stopped walking and drew himself up to his full height, with his arms folded. Sheesh, talk about your walking skyscraper. "YOU are in Granite Point to be incarcerated. There are no counselors here, there are no therapy sessions here, there is no sympathy here. There is only, 'Yes sir, no sir, whatever you say, sir.'" He lowered an eyebrow and raised the other. "Do I make myself clear?"

This time, he expected an answer…and he got one.

But not the one I think he wanted…

"You big jerk; I bet you can't even count to three!"

Noooo Snowdrop, it wasn't me…I may have had a messed up 'tude by then, but I wasn't suicidal. Nope, wasn't me…and it wasn't even the sable kid. It was that deer buck with the sawed-off antlers.

As for Lurch, he didn't lose his temper, he didn't even seem to get angry; he just kind of smirked at Bucky Smartmouth.

And then his voice became very soft, almost a purr.

"I can count to three, kid." He raised the stick, and brought it down with a loud crack. I couldn't bear to look, but I couldn't help hearing. "That's one," he said, and swung it again, "That's two," And one more time, "And that's three. See, I can count to three." The smirk vanished, replaced by bared fangs, "Now, get up!"

I didn't think anyone would be able to get back on their feet after a triple swat like that one, but somehow, the deer-kid managed it. Lurch, meanwhile, had his baton behind his back and had brought out that smirk again

"As a matter of fact, I can even count to four…which is the number of days you little snots are going to be spending in Total Isolation, thanks to your buddy's big mouth."

Aggggh, grrrrr… even I knew what that stinking polar bear was talking about; The Hole, had to be.

That was when I first discovered that the Granite Point staff believed in collective punishment; step out of line and your whole crew suffers. Oooo, I wanted nothing more at that moment than to sink my fangs into deer-boy's neck. And I wasn't the only one; the sable kid seemed to be barely restraining himself.

These thoughts were immediately dispelled when Lurch let out his loudest roar yet.

"All right, boys…get 'em off…you heard me, STRIP!"

Notes:

Author's Note:

I chose Pompton Plains, New Jersey (Zoo Jersey) as the locale where Conor gets busted based on the fact that it's the town where I was born. I was not, however, aware of how it got its name until after I began writing this chapter. The idea for the fortune teller came from a Zootopia-themed Inktober pic by artist Aaronjay.

And big thanks to former sheriff's deputy and correctional officer Walt Reimer for some timely technical advice, especially regarding Conor's booking process.

Chapter 54: Conor's Story (Continued...Part 5)

Summary:

Enter Crazy Wez

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Continued…Part 5)

♪ "I am your Antichrist—Are you following me?—Show me allegiance
I am your Antichrist—Are you following me?—Pledge to me defiance.

Suffer, my pretty warriors
Suffer, my fallen child…" ♫

Marillion  –  Market Square Heroes

"Okay, NOW we're getting somewhere."

It was an apt thought on Vern Rodenberg's part. While he wasn't completely satisfied, things were definitely moving in the right direction.

Glancing upwards at Erin Hopps, he observed the wide-eyed stammering expression of a kid watching a slasher film for the very first time; desperately wanting to look away, but unable to move a muscle.

For his part, the grey rat was less perturbed. A lot of this was familiar ground to him. Anyone mouthing off like that to a guard in Lemmingworth would have also been treated to a little 'thump therapy,' as the officers had euphemistically referred to it.

Rodenberg also had to own up to developing a grudging admiration for the fugitive young silver fox lying on the bed in front of him. Conor had known that those punks were stalking him. True, his response could have been better—which was kind of like saying that the Ides of March could have gone better for Julius Caesar—but the kid had been absolutely right about one thing. If he hadn't moved first, those other boys would have. It came as no surprise to the rat attorney that the encounter had left his client's face literally bent out of shape. Prison fights were never a friendly sparring match.

But that was where the familiarity had ended. Even the most low-rent county jail would have offered the Lewis boy better medical care than he'd received.

And even that paled in comparison to what had happened between the fox-kid and the Zoo Jersey prosecutor. Oy vey! Vern Rodenberg had long suspected that something wasn't kosher in the Zootopia Attorney General's office but—as his father would have said—this 'takes it up to a whole 'nother level'. If what Conor had just told him was true—if the shpiel Rudy Gamsbart had given him really was identical to the one the Jersey prosecutor, Peter Shanks, had laid on him… In that case, this wasn't just a local issue, it was a big-time, stinking, interstate conspiracy.

Rodenberg felt his tail begin to quiver again. What was it that his client had said to him, only a few seconds ago? "You got no idea what you're dealing with…or WHO you're dealing with."

Well, now Vernon J. Rodenberg, Attorney at Law, was beginning to get that idea…and for the first time since his arrival, he was feeling some 'buyer's remorse' at having agreed to represent the young silver fox a second time.

But, like the bunny-girl seated next to him, he was unable to turn away, much less bail. There was nothing for it now, but to hold on tight and keep listening to the story.

They didn't subject us to a…ahem, 'full search', if you follow what I'm bringing out. They checked between our toes and fingers, made us open our mouths and stick out our tongues, but that was as far as it went. When they were done, though, we weren't allowed to get dressed. Instead, they turned a hose on us.

Not a full-force firehose; it was kinda like a giant version of a 'mist' showerhead. But ohhhhhh foxtrot...that water was col-l-l-llllld! I still get the shivers when I think about it. It was especially tough on those two grasshopper mice, not so much because of their size, but because they were a desert species.

By now, the officers who'd brought us here had left, but plenty of others had shown up to take their place…and they were having themselves just a jolly old time at our expense.

When they turned the hoses off, they still didn't allow us to get dressed—or even dry ourselves off. Instead, they marched us, dripping wet, straight off to the Isolation Unit.

When we got there, Lurch made a point of fursonally shoving each of us into our cells. When my turn came, he told me 'Enjoy your stay, BENT-ley' and more or less kicked me through the door with his foot.

Soon it closed behind me, the lights came on…and I mean bright lights, the kind you find on a stinking off-road 4X4. Sheesh, now I knew how a french-fry feels. I later learned that this was what they did to the nocturnal and crepuscular kids. If you were a daytime species, the lights went out.

My cell was about regular size for my species; four bare walls and a wooden pallet, no blanket, no mattress, no nothing. The only other items were a water spigot, no basin, and a plastic bucket. You can guess what that was for, I think. There was a drain in the center of the floor, and I don't think you'll be surprised to hear that it stank to high heaven in that cell.

Wha…you okay, Erin? Ahhh, I'm sorry…but I did promise to give you the story, straight up. Look, if you want to leave, I'll… Okay, oh-ka-y-y-y, don't go getting your ears in a twist. But fair warning bunny-girl, it's not gonna get any better from here on out.

Yes, Mr. Rodenberg, that was standard procedure for any kid doing solitary in Granite Point; strip you down, hose you down, and then you served your time naked. I found out later that this was also what happened to every new arrival at The Point. Seriously, if that deer-buck kid hadn't snarked off to Lurch, he would have found some other excuse to toss us in the The Hole. And that wasn't the worst of it. If you acted up in Total Iso, you could get cuffed, or even shackled. And if that didn't shut you up, they might even gag you.

No…I'm serious; listen. After I'd been inside for about an hour, I started looking the place over—what else was there to do—and saw where some of the kids who'd been there before me had tried to etch graffiti into the walls. But every single one of those attempts was incomplete; nobody managed more than two or three words before the writing stopped dead in its tracks. And then a lot of times, it ended in these long scratch-marks on the wall. I had no way of knowing exactly what happened to those kids, but it was pretty obvious why they'd been unable to finish their projects; someone had come in and put a stop to it, the hard way. And that told me, 'Smile you're on CCTV camera', no big surprise there.

The next morning—I think it was morning—I was blasted awake by an electronic siren. Or…I would have been blasted awake, if I'd been able to get any sleep.

Rolling off my pallet, I went to the door and waited. I don't know why I did that, but as soon as I got there, the little window up top slid open and I saw dark eyes and white fur.

"Move it back, you little snot!"

Yep, it was my old buddy Lurch again; same lousy mood as before. I immediately did as he said. From his reaction, I might just as well have mooned the guy. "Get over there and stand at attention, Bent-face! At attention! You want me to come in there? Okay, that's better; now lissen and lissen good; these are the rules…"

Uhhh, I think I can skip over the details here. It was pretty much the usual stuff—wake-up time, mealtimes, bedtime. If you're late for chow by even five minutes tough luck. No talking after lights out, or both you and your cellmate will end up in Total Iso. The following items are prohibited…blah, blah, blah. You know the drill, Mr. Rodenberg.

Anyway, at the end of that briefing, another window opened up, this one at the bottom of the door, and a tray containing something that was supposedly food was shoved through the gap.

I didn't even want to go near it…until I heard Lurch's growl again. "That better be empty when someone comes by to collect it!"

And then, five minutes later, I heard another cell door, maybe ten yards down from mine just stinkin' slam open. I cocked an ear and tried to listen, but I didn't hear anything else until it slammed shut again. I had no idea what was going on, but I could guess. The deer-kid had mouthed off to Lurch again, and he'd made good on his threat to 'come in there.' I never did find out for sure, but getting thrown in The Hole had to be tougher on him than it was on me. Foxes are a denning species and solitary by nature. Deer, on the other paw, are social animals that live life out in the open.

The next day it was pretty much the same routine—except now it was MY turn to recite the rules, getting loudly corrected whenever I made a mistake. I only did that twice, but I swear, for a second there, I thought Lurch was gonna throw open the door and beat the spit out of me. It didn't happen though—not to me or to anyone else, as far as I know.

On the third day when I recited the rules, I managed to get 'em right. In response, Lurch just kind of grunted, which could have meant anything. But maybe a minute after he left, the lights in my cell dimmed…not all the way, but enough to be a lot more comfortable. That was my first taste of another favorite method they had here for keeping the Granite Point kids in line, the old Carrot-and Stick routine. Oops, pardon the expression, Erin. Anyway, it was like 80% stick 20% carrot.

When they finally let us out of Total Isolation, they marched us straight off to the showers. After we finished washing up, we got dusted down with flea powder, nasty stuff…really nasty; stung your eyes like you wouldn't believe, no matter how hard you tried to keep 'em covered.

Next, we were issued our coveralls—tan, not orange, with the letters JDC stenciled on the back. I later learned that the kids called them potato sacks, coz that's how they made us look. The blanket I was issued had three holes in it, but by now I knew better than to say anything.

After that, we were hauled off to our cells…or, at least that's where I thought we were going. The others yeah, but not me. When we came to this one T- junction, the other guys all went right, and I went left. I also noticed that I was being fursonally escorted by Lurch. What the heck? I hadn't been here long enough to cause any trouble—even if I'd wanted to. Ohhh, I was feeling the need to ask what the heck was going on, but if I didn't know by now to keep my fox-trap shut around that polar-bear, I'd never get the message.

He took me down a long, wide, dimly-lit corridor with concrete walls, prodding me every step of the way. After a while, we came to a double electric door under CCTV surveillance.

On the other side, it was like walking into a different world, a carpeted hallway with soft lighting and pastel-beige walls. These were decorated, here and there, with old black-and-white photographs of Granite Point, back before it became a junior grade Alcatraz.

At the end of the corridor, I got at least a partial answer to my question about what was going on. There, in front of my eyes was a double wooden door with a brass nameplate, Ammon Argyll, Superintendent.

Okay-y-y, now I was scared…and also seriously confused. What the heck had I done to deserve being dragged in front of the head honcho? Yeah, I'd been in a serious fight…but heck, I hadn't been the only violent offender on that bus–-or even the worst. You didn't see ME being muzzled and hauled around by a neck chain.

Well, I'd find out in a minute. Lurch was knocking and someone was answering, 'Come'.

When he opened the door, I expected to find some sawed-off, button-down bureaucrat on the other side. You know what I mean, little dude in a three-piece, with big, black-rimmed glasses and a perfectly knotted tie. What I got instead was a huge, brawny Marco Polo sheep in a turtleneck—a dude who could have walked in straight off the cover of a wrestling magazine. At the moment he was seated on a low bench, performing arm curls with a set of dumbbells that looked like they weighed more than I did.

That was when I noticed he only had ONE arm with which to perform those reps. Okay, scratch the pro-wrestler thing.

"I'll be with you in a moment," he said, glancing up at me for just a hint of a second. Whoa, for such a big, buffed-out guy, he had this surprisingly high-pitched voice.

He was also not one for long introductions. Without saying so much as a single word, he set down the weights and went behind his desk, riffling briefly through some papers, and then looking at me.

"You've been brought here because the name we were given by both you and your Connecticat foster home turned out to be false."

"WHAT?" Even with Lurch standing beside me that was just too much. There was no way the Kaneskas would have given the Jersey authorities a fake name. As for me…had I even given them any name? I must have, though I couldn't remember it now…there were a lot of things I couldn't recall since getting my muzzle broken.

Lurch reacted predictably to my outburst, cuffing me on the back of the head and ordering me to shut it.

His boss, meanwhile, just kept talking.

"Accordingly, the state is assigning you a new name."

Yes, they could Mr. Rodenberg. In fact, I wasn't the only kid they did that to. And you don't wanna know what happened to the ones that tried to object.

Why, is something else I didn't find out until later Erin…when I was with The Company. I'll give you a hint though. It had a lot to do with the fact that I didn't have any parents or legal guardians.

After rifling through some more papers, Warden Argyll—nobody ever called him 'Superintendent'—held one up at arm's length, humming to himself here and there as he read. Then he set it down and gave me the eye. He may not have looked like your average pencil-pusher, but he sure as heck talked like one.

"Henceforth, your name is Alan Murphy—no middle name. This is how you will be addressed, and how you will address yourself to the officers and other detainees from now on. You are not to respond to any other name and when asked, or when volunteering, this will be the name you give. Any violation of this policy will result in severe administrative penalties." As he said this, Lurch let out a growl from beside me, leaving no doubt as to what those penalties were. Argyll finished by asking me, "Do you have any questions, Mr. Murphy?" …in a voice that said if I knew what was good for me, I'd better NOT have any.

Wisely, I shook my head and said, "No sir."

"Very well, Mr. Murphy," he responded with just a hint of satisfied nod. "Sergeant De Nallie will now escort you to your cell. In the interim, you would do well to meditate upon the wisdom of adhering not only to your newly designated name, but to the rules of conduct in general."

I know, right? This guy was stuffier than a room full of head-colds. Even Lurch couldn't keep from rolling his eyes, and I barely managed to not let out a groan.

Just the same, I knew instinctively that this sheep was no joke. And experience would later prove just how right I was.

Lurch took me from there to a cell on the second tier in A Pod; they never used the word 'block' in The Point. The whole time he was escorting me, he never said a word—and I knew better than to say anything to him.

When we got to my cell, it was dark inside and looked empty. My nose, however, was telling me otherwise; somebody was in there. I couldn't identify their scent though; it was a species I'd never encountered before. But whatever the heck he was, his smell was seriously strong.

Wait, something was moving on the upper bunk-bed, something bigger than me by the look of…

That was as far as my train of thought managed to get before Lurch derailed it, growling and slapping the bars with his baton. The noise was like a broken church-bell.

"On your feet Beale; you got a new cellmate."

Something slid out of the top bunk and onto the floor. The best description of him would be…take a cougar, shrink him by about a third, darken his fur and graft a canine muzzle onto his face. In the dim light of the cell, his eyes were like glowing green fireflies.

Okay, now I knew; I was in the presence of a fossa. I had never met one face to face, but I had seen pictures.

He did not look pleased to meet me. Lurch, meanwhile, was ushering me into the cell, shoving me really. "This is…" He cocked his head, "I'm sorry…what was your name again, fox kid?"

Heh…as IF he didn't know that already; he was testing me, and I wasn't about to fail. I knew what would happen if I did.

"Name's Murphy…Alan Murphy," I said, offering a paw to my new cellmate. He just looked at it as if I was holding out a wad of mud, and never so much as reached out to touch it.

Lurch, for his part, seemed satisfied with my answer, and turned to leave without another word.

No sooner had he departed than my new 'buddy' took it upon himself to establish our relationship.

"Top bunk's mine, and so are all the blankets." including the one I'd be issued, which he reached out and grabbed away. "You want one for yourself, bent-face, you find it someplace else!" Oooo, he seemed nice—and he was just getting started. "You can put your stuff away later. First, you know where the commissary is?"

I didn't…but before I could say so, he was talking again.

"Never mind…go find it, and get me a pop."

Yeah, I know; he was trying to see how far he could push me. And the answer was, 'not very.' I took a step forward and unsheathed my claws.

"I don't think so, Beelzebug." Whoa, where the heck had THAT come from? This guy was at least a foot taller than me, and several years older.

At first, he didn't seem to understand me, but when it finally registered…bang! "WHAT did you call me?" He looked like he was gonna spontaneously combust or something.

"I called ya Beelze-BUG. What's the matter, you deaf or something?"

Obviously, I was being snarky, but for a second there I wondered if I hadn't gotten it right; he just stared at me, bug-eyed.

And then he bared his fangs. "Why, you snot-nosed punk, you! I'll tear your head off your shoulders!"

I snarled and showed him my fangs. "Then that's what's gonna happen!" It was the first time I said it—and it wouldn't be the last. I really didn't care what that jerk did to me. If he offed me, at least I wouldn't have to walk around with that face any more.

Oh, quit looking at me like that Erin; that's not how I feel NOW. Otherwise, would I have called Mr. Rodenberg for help?

Okay, yeah…I did say I'd rather die than go back to The Point. But, after what you just heard, can you blame me?

And anyway, bunny-girl…they ain't got me yet; this silver-fox kid still has a few tricks left up his sleeve.

Look, never mind, what I got to tell you next is super important. When I said that, my cellmate's eyes went wide, and he backed off a couple of steps.

I knew right away that it wasn't coz of me—I may have been naïve, but I wasn't cocky, not after getting my muzzle bent out of shape. Nope, there was someone else behind me.

I turned around…and found myself looking at the biggest mink I'd even seen in my life, with a leopard-kid standing next to him. They were both too young to be guards and dressed in standard Juvie coveralls, the only really clean pair I'd seen since my arrival here.

Then mink-boy cocked a finger at me, and shot a thumb over his shoulder.

"You…take a hike."

I slipped past him and out the door, as fast as I could…standing outside with my back to the wall, where I couldn't be seen.

But I could sure as heck hear what was going on behind me.

"Why'd you snitch on Bobby Knocks for, dude?" The mink-kid's voice was velvet-soft, almost a purr.

Beale-boy, on the other paw, sounded like a skipping CD

"Wha-Wha-Wha…? I-I-I didn't…"

"S'cuse me, but that's NOT what I asked you," Again in that same cool voice, "Why did you do it?"

"I…I…never…"

"WHY?!" Whoa, now that mink-kid sounded angry…and scary. I almost turned and ran, except…I couldn't move; it was like I was hypnotized.

Meanwhile, Beale—the fossa kid who'd been ready to decapitate me a second ago—was actually sobbing.

"He…He ripped off two packs of jerky from my cell. Wouldn't give 'em back…ate one right in front of me."

"Okay," the mink-kid's voice had gone soft again, "That's a legitimate gripe." And then it suddenly hardened. "Exceppppt…instead of settling things like a mammal, you slipped a note to Imma-Tep about that shiv Bobby had hidden in his cell."

"Wha…I never…" Beale was starting to panic now.

"Eh, mebbe DIS refresh you memory?" It was the leopard-kid this time.

"Wha…? Where did you…?"

The question ended in the sound of a slap…followed by an enraged mink-scream.

"You no-good snitch, you dirty squealer. Slime-ball…sneaking…low-rent…JERK!" On each word I heard the sound of an impact—and a scream. Then I heard the mink-kid say, "Grab his tail!"

I just turned my eyes to the floor. Behind me, something hit the railing, hard, and got dragged back into the cell, begging and crying.

But then I heard a gasp…and when I looked up, there was the clouded-leopard kid who'd ridden in on the bus with me, his jaw hanging halfway to the floor.

Again, I have no idea what prompted me to do what I did next. I flashed my teeth and snarled, "Beat it punk, there's nothing going on here!"

And he did. He turned around and literally scurried away on all fours. That was my first clue about something else I hadn't known before. Whenever I showed off ALL my choppers, that busted face of mine looked stinkin' scary.

But not as scary as what I saw when I turned around, the mink and the leopard-kid, exiting the cell. The mink-kid was wiping his paws on his coveralls—leaving dark streaks, if you follow what I'm bringing out.

Uhhh, are you sure you want to hear the rest of it, Er…? No, I'm not trying to get rid of you!

So, then the mink-kid crooked a finger and called me over. For a second there, I thought I was about to get the same treatment as Beale—but he only asked me, "Who was that, you were talking to just now?"

"Clouded leopard kid, came in on the bus with me," I said, "I dunno his name."

"Ohhh," Mink-boy tightened his lips and nodded, "Newbie, huh?" I couldn't tell if he meant me, or the other kid.

Didn't matter; either way the answer was, "Yeah, that's right." Behind him I could hear whimpering. So, at least they hadn't killed that fossa kid.

Then the leopard kid spoke up, in a Ratsfarian accent, "Hey Wez, t'ink I know who dis is…dat fox kid, got his muzz broke in dat scrap wit' da three, down Johnstone Campus."

Yes, I know Mr. Rodenberg, I couldn't believe it either…us just standing there, talking like nothing had happened. I wanted sooo bad to get gone before an officer showed up—but I was more afraid of these guys than I was of that.

"Hey, yeah," The mink kid snapped his fingers, "I think you're right, Cutty." And then to me he said, "Three at once; that was some serious guts there, fox-kid."

"Eff not very serious brains." The leopard chimed in with a toothy smirk. That seemed to break a spell or something, and the mink kid turned instantly serious.

"Yeah, whatever…c'mon let's book; Chives'll be making his rounds any minute." He seemed to think for second and then pointed at me, "You too, fox kid, come on."

Behind him, the leopard kid's ears perked up. "You t'ink dis kid might be…"

"Maybe; let's go," the mink-kid interrupted him. Now, he sounded dead serious.

There was no question of my not going with them. Aside from these two scaring the livin' spit out of me, I had better things to do than be found inside my cell with a fossa-kid, beaten to a pulp—and no way to explain it. I may have been the new kid on the cell block, but even I understood a few things. If that happened, The Mammal was NOT going to take, 'I don't know,' for an answer.

They brought me down to the ground level and the washroom…another place with that black film all over everything. There were maybe 6 or 7 other kids in there—all different sizes, from a hippo to a ground squirrel. But as soon we walked in the door, the mink kid clapped his paws. "Need some time here, guys."

Everyone stopped what they were doing and began filing out through the exit. Jeez, what kind of dude was this mink?

And…why was there something so familiar about him?

I had first begun to notice it on the way downstairs. I could swear I'd seen him somewhere before. Not the leopard-kid, only the mink. They were both at least three years older than me.

As the kids in the washroom trooped past us, their reactions were like a stinkin' kaleidoscope. Most of 'em kept their eyes straight ahead, two of them looked away with resentful expressions, the ground-squirrel kid went skittering past as if afraid to get too close, and this one armadillo kid actually stopped and gave the mink-kid a high five.

"Thanks for taking care of that thing for me."

"No problem, guy."

Who was this animal?

When everyone had gone, the leopard kid nodded sideways in my direction.

"So, you really t'ink…?"

"Maybe," the mink-kid kind of shrugged, "I'm gonna put it to the crew."

"Yeah, dat. Good t'ought."

"But, first…let's get cleaned up."

We went to the basins and started washing ourselves. Even with the hot turned up all the way, the water was barely lukewarm. And whatever that foamy stuff coming out the dispensers was, it sure as heck wasn't soap.

Fortunately, the mink kid had come prepared, producing a bottle of clear liquid, with a sharp, stinging smell—paw sanitizer. After using it for its intended purpose, he began working on the stains on his coveralls, drawing a disapproving look from his companion.

"You really got to stop doin' dat t'ing Wez, wiping bloody on you potato-sack like dat."

"Yeahhhh, tell me about it." the mink kid sighed, tossing him the bottle. He took it, and when he was done, he surprised me by tossing it in my direction. There was barely any left, but I wasn't complaining. It was better than nothing, and besides—I hadn't gotten my paws dirty a minute ago.

Exiting the washroom, the mink kid told Cutty to 'go round up the guys,' and led me into a maze of dingy corridors that seemed to go nowhere. I could only hope that when we were done with—whatever the heck was going on here—there'd be someone available to guide me back to my cell.

My cell…

"Oh God," I sent up a silent prayer, "Please don't let that fossa punk take it out on ME, for getting his tail kicked."

Even as the thought entered my head, I knew for certain that it was going end up exactly like that.

Our journey ended at a set of double wooden doors, one of which seemed to hang slightly on its hinges.

Throwing the good one open, without ceremony, the mink kid stepped through and beckoned with a finger again.

On the other side, I found myself in the prison library… a term I use VERY loosely. The shelves were maybe two thirds empty and of the books that remained, most of them had no covers.

Not that it mattered, we weren't there for a reading session.

There was only one other animal with us, a young wallaby, seated behind a desk and looking bored as heck; probably what passed for a librarian. As soon as he saw us, he left without having to be told.

There was a space at the back of the room with several long tables of different sizes, more garage-sale specials. We took a seat at the one closest to our size, and settled in to wait.

Soon as we were in our seats, I just couldn't stand it anymore, and I asked the mink-kid what was going on here.

He just waved me off. "Be patient, fox."

"Well, can I at least ask your name?" I was starting to feel a little frustrated.

My companion seemed to find that amusing.

"Hey, that's right…I never did…" He stuck out a paw. "Wesley McCrodon…Crazy Wez they call me."

What? No, he didn't mind it when another kid called him that. Just the opposite, he considered it almost a badge of honor. But now there was something really familiar about him—and I still couldn't pin it down.

Anyway, I took his paw and shook it, more out of fear of offending him than as a friendly gesture.

And speaking of not offending anyone, remembering what I'd been told in the Warden's office, I answered quickly. "Alan Murphy."

I saw his head tilt sideways for a second.

"That your real name, or the one The Mammal stuck on you?"

I almost pitched over backwards. How the heck had he…?

It was as if he was reading my mind. "If that had been your real name, you would have said 'Al Murphy,' not 'Alan Murphy.'

Whoa, this mink kid might have been crazy, but he wasn't stupid.

"Yeah, that's right," I said, "but please don't ask…"

"I won't, I won't," he waved a paw again, "But if that's the case, it means you don't have a family, right?"

"No, I don't," I admitted, trying not to look shamefaced, "But if that's the case, it means that EVERY orphan kid sent here gets hit with a new name." I could show some smarts, too. "Am I right?"

Wez seemed pleased by my answer and cocked another finger. "You got it, Al."

It took a while for the rest of his guys to get there; they arrived in dribs and drabs. Counting Wez and Cutty, the leopard kid, there were a total of nine animals in the gang.

They were motley crew, to say the least; ranging in size from an Indian rhino to a pair of short-tailed shrews.

Heh…don't discount that species, Erin. As Mr. Rodenberg could tell you, shrews are nobody to mess with. Anyway, the other guys in the crew were a hyena, a honey badger, a red kangaroo and a red-giant flying squirrel.

As soon as all his guys were there, Wez had them push two of the tables together to form 'V', with himself seated at the point, and me on his right.

Then he got up on his chair and rapped the table. At once, the room fell silent.

"As you guys all know, we need to find a replacement for D-Bark."

Several kids nodded, but nobody spoke. And then he waved a paw in my direction. "So, I'm proposing this silver fox kid, Al Murphy, for the slot. In case you're wondering, this is the guy who took on those three punks, all by himself, in the Johnstone Campus. You can see by his face how that worked out."

Errrgh…by rights, that should have offended the heck out of me, but for some reason, it didn't.

"He also backed off this other new kid, while Cutty and me was taking that punk-snitch Beale to school."

He hissed as he said it, seeming to get angry all over again. He was met with an approving chorus of grunts and growls, and then the hyena kid asked him, "How'd that go, anyway?"

"He got the message," Wez responded, simply…and there were more grunts and growls, plus one or two snickers. "So," he went on, "I think Al here is who we want for our new guy. Any objections?" From the tone of his voice, it was obvious that he wasn't expecting any. Just the same, the rhino-kid raised a hoof.

"Ahhh, not really an objection," he said quickly, "More of a question." I had expected to hear him speak in a south Asian accent, but it was actually closer to south Barklyn. "You never brought a newbie into the Enforcers before…or a guy this young. Why now?"

He wasn't skeptical, only curious—and so Wez wasn't bothered by the inquiry. In fact, he almost seemed to welcome it.

"Good question, Krat." He smiled, "And the answer is…well you already heard part of it." He turned and laid a paw on my shoulder. Somehow, I managed not to shrink away. "The rest of it is…I-I-I just got a good feeling about this fox kid."

That seemed to satisfy not only Krat—who took his nickname from that Kratos guy in God of War, by the way—but everyone else in the room.

Well, almost everyone. What the fox had I just been roped into? I wasn't about to say, 'Thanks, but no thanks,' though—not to this bunch.

What's that, Erin? Yep, that was how Wez McCrodon rolled; it wasn't the only time I saw him make a decision based mostly on a hunch. Heck, a lotta times he did stuff entirely on instinct. And the thing is, he was usually right—even when his ideas seemed to make zero sense at the time.

Anyway, that was it; no votes taken. Wez had said I was in, and I was in.

"Okay guys," he clapped his paws, "Go ahead and take off, we're finished here. Oh, uh…Scorp, go tell the office we got a replacement for D." He was speaking to the honey-badger

"Done and done, Wez," he answered, shooting a finger. And then he was gone, too.

As for me—sheesh! If before I'd been confused, now I was foxin' blown away. They were gonna inform The Mammal that they'd recruited me? What the heck kind of a crew was this, anyway?

Well-l-l-l, it didn't take long for me to find out. As soon as the last of his guys departed, Wez slapped me on the back and stuck out a paw.

"Welcome to The Enforcers, Al," he said, and then, at last, proceeded to fill me in on just where I'd landed.

And talk about your emotional roller-coaster. One minute I was ready to whoop, and the next, I wanted to heave my guts out.

For starters, The Enforcers wasn't just the name of Wez's crew, it was what they did.

Remember what I said about how Granite Point was a private prison? Well then, I don't think you'll be surprised to learn that the guards didn't get paid too good—not nearly as well as a State Correctional Office. And because of THAT, they didn't like to put a whole lot of effort into their jobs—especially when it came to keeping the kids in line. So…instead of doing their own dirty-work, they recruited a crew of the inmates for the task. That was The Enforcers. What I had seen Lurch do to that deer-buck kid was actually a very rare occurrence. Ninety percent of the time, if a Granite Point detainee stepped out of line, The Enforcers were sent to take care of him. And now, that included me.

Oh, get off it, you guys. I already told you I didn't have any choice. And it's not as simple as you think. At least hear the rest of it before you judge me, okay?

Okay, look…The Enforcers may have dished out some, uh, thump therapy on the other kids from time to time, but what they never did was inform on them…ever! I'm telling you straight up, there was nothing Wesley McCrodon hated more than a snitch. Right there in the library, he made me get down on one knee, put my paw over my heart and swear on my mother's grave never to squeal…and not just on the other kids, on anybody! The guards, Lurch, even visitors from the outside, they were all off-limits…or ELSE! That was Crazy Wez McCrodon; a kid with his own, private sense of right and wrong.

In fact, that thing that happened with Beale, the fossa kid, is a perfect example of what I'm talking about.

Remember that guy he informed on, Bobby Knocks, the mountain-goat kid with a shank hidden in his cell? Well. the way Wez found out Beale had snitched him out was when Lurch ordered The Enforcers to go kick Bobby's tail…which they did. And then afterwards, Knocks was accused of starting the fight and given two weeks in The Hole. That was always how a visit from The Enforcer ended…when they were working for the Mammal, that is

Okay, so…so far, it all sounds pretty cut and dried right? Yeah right, except…when Wez learned how the guards found out that Bobby had a knife, he hit the ceiling and went after Beale too. And, from what I heard later, him and Cutty went a LOT harder on that fossa kid than they ever did on Bobby. Are you following what I'm bringing out over here?

Yep, exactly that, Mr. Rodenberg…that crew spent as much time enforcing the inmate code as they ever did, enforcing the prison rules—maybe more.

Oh yeah, there was some resentment against us…but not as much as you might think. I'll explain why in a minute. But first…no doubt you're wondering, if there were only ten Enforcers, then why didn't the rest of the kids gang up on us? The answer is, because that WOULD have brought the guards into it. And nobody wanted to see that happen; there was nothing that made those goons madder than having to dish out their own discipline.

When you think about it, though, it was a pretty sweet deal—for the officers, I mean. If some parent, or whoever, raised a stink about their kid getting beat up, the guards could honestly say that they hadn't laid a finger on him. And yes, we're trying to find out who was responsible, but your boy refuses to say who attacked him, and we can't get him to change his mind.

No one ever did change their mind, by the way; they knew what would happen next. Then AKER would get involved…and that was every kid in The Point's worst nightmare. They wouldn't go medieval on you, but they had plenty of other tricks up their sleeves. For instance, they'd find a way to add more time to your sentence; that was so easy, it was almost pitiful. It could have happened to me if I'd declined to go with Wez after that number he did on Beale. "All right, if you weren't involved, who WAS? Are you going to tell us…or do you want to spend another six months in here?"

And, as if that wasn't enough, there was actually an even worse place they could send you than The Hole—though I didn't find out about it until later in our conversation.

Anyway, there were any number of things that could bring AKER down on your head. If you assaulted a guard, if you stole from a guard, if you committed a serious act of vandalism. Not graffiti on the wall, that was a minor infraction. I'm talking about breaking or destroying prison property, smashing one of the toilets, stuff like that. Whistle blowers were especially frowned on; that'd bring down not only AKER but The Enforcers on your tail. As far as Crazy Wez was concerned, whistle-blowing was snitching by any other name.

But the absolute worst offense you could commit, the thing that was never, ever tolerated, was trying to escape.

"You get caught pulling that garbage, and you're on your way to The Clinic." Wez told me, trying to look solemn—although he actually seemed a little bit afraid to me.

The Clinic, he went on to explain, was where they sent the kids with serious injuries or illnesses—which made me wonder why I hadn't been sent there after getting my face broken. But it also had a wing where they kept the crazies, the kids so out of control, even Granite Point couldn't handle them. If you were caught trying to escape, or doing anything else that was really serious, you got sent there for an 'evaluation.'

"Maybe a third of the kids who go there for an eval come back after a while, no different than before." Wez told me. "The rest either come back…mmm, 'changed', or else they don't come back at all." He was trying not to look scared again…and it wasn't until much later that I found out why. That was what had happened to D-Bark, the kid I was replacing in The Enforcers; the first, and only, time a member of Wez's crew had been sent to The Clinic. When D had been returned to The Point, he'd lasted two days before having to be shipped back again—this time, for good. It had left the rest of the guys in the crew seriously spooked.

I don't know, Erin; nobody would tell me what was wrong with him. Heck, they wouldn't even tell me why he'd been sent to The Clinic in the first place. That's the part that really scared me.

But, getting back to the story…

As you can probably imagine from what I said so far, the correctional officers in Granite Point were anything but top tier. A lot of them were guys who'd either washed out of the Police Academy, or else didn't want to be bothered. Some of them were former retail security guards, and a few were ex-MPs who'd been discharged from the military for bad behavior; Lurch was one of those. Very few of those animals had ever worked in actual corrections before, and for a very simple reason. Like I said before, AKER paid a lot less than The State—and they also offered way fewer benefits.

Ha! Beat me to it, Mr. Rodenberg; that's just what I was gonna say next. Yep, those guys were highly bribable. That wouldn't mean much to me, since I didn't have any connection on the outside. But Crazy Wez sure as heck did—although I didn't know it at the time—and as a member of his crew, I was able to share in some of the returns.

For instance, The Enforcers were the only kids in Granite Point whose packages from home were never pilfered. Heck, they never even searched Wez's goody-boxes, not unless some higher-up made them do it.

No, that's right, I never got one. But The Enforcers had kind of an unspoken rule; anyone who received a care package had to share it with the rest of the guys.

Not having your packages from home ripped-off wasn't the only privilege you got by being a member of The Enforcers. We were also issued news coveralls once a month—the other guys got theirs once in a blue moon—and we were the only kids in The Point with private cells. Everyone else had to double up or sometimes triple up. The more I listened, the more I began to think that maybe this wasn't such a bad deal after all.

The Enforcer kids were also supposed to be moved to the head of the line at chow-time, or if we went to visit the commissary. Wez, however, wouldn't allow it. He insisted we wait our turn along with everyone else, and woe to whoever disobeyed him. "We need to show our solidarity," he always said—meaning he wanted the other kids to know that just because we did the guard's dirty work, it didn't mean we were on their side. That, and the no-snitch rule were two of the reasons we didn't get nearly as much hate as you might have expected.

And, there were other reasons. If you were locked up in The Point and getting abused by any of the other kids, better not even think about taking it to the guards—coz this is what you'd hear.

"Are you saying this stuff happens on my watch, punk? Are you trying to get me in trouble? Oh NO, you're not!"

And bingo, off to The Hole you'd go. And then when you got out, you were branded a snitch.

What's that Mr. Rodenberg? The same thing used to happen at Lemmingworth? Ah, that doesn't surprise me.

Yeah, Erin. He did time there…that's how he got into the Law in the first…

Okay yeah, Mr. Rodenberg—later. But if you were being picked on in Granite Point, there was a place you could turn to for help—The Enforcers. We wouldn't always give it; if you'd just stood there and let your tail get kicked, we'd turn our backs on you. But if you'd shown you were willing to stand up for yourself; if you'd tried to resist, done all you could to fight back and still gotten clobbered…in that case, we might step in to help. And 90% of the time, all it took was a verbal warning from Crazy Wez. Believe me, he never had to tell a guy to lay off more than once.

Uhhh, scratch that; almost never. There were always exceptions—newbies who weren't aware of The Enforcers' reputation, and crazies who were too freaked out to care. Fortunately, there weren't a lot of guys in that second category around; the head-cases invariably got sent off to The Clinic after only a short stay in The Point.

Hold it, look…I'm not trying to defend Wez McCrodon over here. The Enforcers never helped out a kid without expecting a favor in return…usually to be repaid 'later.' Knowing who that sea-mink's uncle was, Mr. Rodenberg, I don't think that should surprise you.

And there was another side to him that came from his family—one that I was about to see for myself, up close and fursonal.

While we were talking, Scorp, the honey-badger kid, came back, and whispered something in Wez's ear.

"Good," he said, and then looked at me, "It's all set, Al…you got a new cell all to yourself." Why Scorp didn't just tell me directly, I have no idea.

But then he looked at Wez again, and then at me. "Now that he's in, he's gonna need a name, right?"

"Yeah that's right," Wez nodded back, and studied me for a second. "Everyone in the Enforcers has a nickname, Al…so you gotta have one, too. Lessee…" He narrowed his eyes and I felt like I was under a microscope or something. One thing was for sure; I wasn't gonna get to choose my own nickname.

Finally, he clapped his paws together. "Ahhh, the face of yours, where it got bent, looks kinda like a 'Z'. So that's what we're gonna call you—'Z-face.'

No, Mr. Rodenberg…I didn't like it. Matter of fact, I stinkin' HATED it…but, of course, I wasn't gonna say so to that kid.

Hah…and don't think I can't see you trying to hide that grin, Snowdrop. I-I-I know what you're thinking. Lil' newsflash, don't waste your time; since I got my muzzle fixed, that name doesn't bother me anymore. Besides, after a while it got shortened to just plain 'Z'…and I never minded that one.

Wha…? Oh no, that's not the 'other side' of Wez McCrodon I was talking about. It was what happened after he finished briefing me, when he insisted on fursonally escorting me to my new cell.

"But first we need to make a little detour," he said. That detour took us to the commissary, where Wez bought himself a can of grape soda. I had hoped he'd get one for me, too, but he didn't even open it. Instead, he just said, "Let's go," and instead of taking me to my cell, he led me out to the yard.

Oh God, it was hot out there that day; your typical Zoo Jersey summer. Every kid on the yard—the ones from species with sweat glands that is—was just soaked in his own perspiration. Myself, I was starting to pant my brains out, even though I'd only been outside for maybe a minute. Whoa, now I really wanted some of that pop, even though grape was one of my least favorite flavors.

Wez, meanwhile, was looking the other kids over and tapping a finger against his leg. Maybe half the guys in The Point were on the yard right then…and the few that recognized him looked away real, sweet quick.

But then his head stopped moving and he gave a tight nod.

"There—see that okapi kid over there?"

I followed his gaze, to where a soccer game was taking place, on a field about as level as a camel's back—but I didn't see any okapi kid. As a matter of fact, none of the kids in that game were even any kind of large mammal species.

"No, Z-Face," Wez rapped me lightly on the side of the head, "Over there on the sidelines, see him?"

I looked…and yep, there he was, sitting by himself on a sagging wooden bench. My first impression was that he didn't look like he belonged in Granite Point…although there was no way I could have told you why.

Later, I found out that my instincts had been seriously sound. The kid's name was Chester Schellenbarker, and he hailed from Short Hills, Zoo Jersey, one of the toniest burgs in the state.

Definitely not your usual Granite Point inmate; his dad was supposedly some kind of big-shot architect. Anyway, before his arrest he'd been an honor student and a star athlete.

Annnnnd…he'd also been a first-class hothead. A year earlier, his girlfriend had dumped him and he'd responded by trying to run her and her new boyfriend down in the street. No one had been hurt, but he'd ended up totaling his car. He might have gotten off with probation or whatever, except his ex and her new guy decided to get revenge by showing up at his trial and kissing right in front of him. Worked like charm; he grabbed a chair and threw it at them. They managed to duck out of the way in time, but the antelope sitting behind them wasn't so lucky. She'd needed fifteen stitches, and it had taken all of Chester's fancy attorneys—no offense Mr. Rodenberg—it had taken all their powers of persuasion to get the judge to sentence him to the minimum of thirty days.

But then His Honor had thrown a wrench in the works. "However…you're going to be serving those thirty days in the Granite Point youth correctional facility. Maybe THAT will teach you violence doesn't pay."

Ahhh, it's not as surprising as you might think, bunny-girl. Yeah, Chester came from a wealthy family…but don't forget, so did the kids he'd tried to run over. And, from what I heard, his ex-girlfriend's dad was anything but a live-and-let-live kinda guy.

Like I said, I didn't learn any of this until later; right then, I was just totally confused, and it wasn't gonna get any better. When I turned to look at Wez again, he had popped the top on that can of grape soda. Wha…when had he done that? I hadn't heard a thing. But then I saw that was holding it out to me. Ohhhh, blessed saints…but when I went to grab it, he pulled it away.

"Okay, I want you to take this and go sit next to that okapi kid." I saw his paw fall on my shoulder, felt the prickle of claws as he tightened his grip, "But DON'T drink any, you got that? I mean it, kid; not even one, teensy little sip."

I just nodded like a puppet. What was this…a test or something? Well, whatever it was, I knew I'd better get a move on. That sea-mink kid had never struck me as a guy with scads of patience—and no, he wasn't, not at all.

If it had been anybody else who'd sent me, I would have slammed that stinkin' soda and the heck with my orders.

As it was, I hurried over as fast as I could—before temptation got the better of me.

When I plopped myself down next to the okapi kid, he didn't seem to notice me at first. But when he did, he pulled the fastest double-take I'd ever seen and then recoiled like I was a rattlesnake or something.

"Holy frick'n'…! What the heck happened to YOU, fox kid?" He was talking about my face of course.

"I caught it in a revolving door, what's it to ya?" I answered, snarky as always, whenever someone made a remark about my crooked muzzle.

It did not go down well with my new acquaintance. "Yeah, whatever. Get out of my space, fox-boy…now!" Whoa, for a kid from the 'burbs, this dude talked pretty stinkin' tough. But then, so did Wez McCrodon—and who was I more afraid of?

Before I could decide, Chester slapped me on the shoulder. "Hey, stupid, I said get lost! Seriously fox, take your ugly face someplace else."

Ah, well…Wez hadn't told me I had to stay here. I started to get up, but only made it half-way before my new okapi buddy waved a hoof and pointed. "Leave the soda-pop!"

Oh, ho…now I got it. In another second, this guy would have Wez McCrodon's guys all over him. And then, when the guards showed up, he'd be able to say that Chester had started it. Clever guy…

Ahhhh, but not such a clever young silver fox. When I turned to go, I saw that Wez wasn't even looking in my direction. Getting up the rest of the way, I went back over to where he was waiting; he didn't even seem to notice me.

But then out of the corner of his mouth, I heard him say. "Did he take your pop?"

"Yeah," I said, expecting him to come unglued. But he only shrugged and said, "Good," and then he said, "Let's go sit down."

There was another bench nearby but it was already full. However, when the kids occupying it saw who was coming, they immediately got up and bailed, no questions asked.

And did I mention that one of those kids was a freakin' tiger? Sheesh, Crazy Wez was even able to intimidate the apex of apex predators; I didn't know what to think.

When we sat down, I tried to ask him what was going on and got a 'talk-to-the-paw' gesture for my troubles—and that was it. He just hunkered over, with his elbows on his knees, all the while keeping his gaze fixed on Chester, the okapi kid. When I looked, I saw that the can of soda was gone. No, wait…there, it was; bent in half, underneath the bench where he was sitting. Whoa, he'd finished it already? He must have chugged that bad boy.

Hey, hold it a second; what was going on over there? He was standing up and kind of swaying on his feet, clutching his midsection.

All at once, he cried out and doubled-over…so fast he could have been spring-loaded. I saw him fall to the ground, writhing and shivering. It looked like…Holy foxtrot, was that foam coming out of his mouth?

By now, there were other kids rushing over. I started to get up too, but felt a paw on my shoulder.

"Stay here." Wez told me, and then hurried off with the others. I wondered what the heck he thought he was going to do, but he was back after maybe fifteen seconds—clutching something purple in his paws which I recognized as the remnants of the soda-can, now crumpled to a shapeless wad.

"Let's go," he said simply, cuffing me on the shoulder for emphasis. I got up at once and followed.

Yes, Mr. Rodenberg, I knew what was going on. I just refused to believe it…that is, until I saw Wez drop the can into a trash bin, and throw some other stuff on top of it. That was when I finally quit trying to deny it…and it made me feel almost as sick as that okapi-kid.

The next few minutes were like a blur. Wez led me to my new cell, D-107, but he could have been leading me through a fogbank to nowhere, for all the attention I was paying to where we were going.

My new cell was about the same size as the first one I'd been assigned—except a little dirtier and with only one bunk. I hardly noticed.

"Welcome home, Z-face!" Wez told me, in a voice bubbling with cheerful acid. "You'll wanna hurry up and get settled in, it's only an hour till chow-time, and Lurch meant what he said about…"

"WHY?" The word was out before I could stop it. I expected a puzzled look and a confused inquiry, maybe even some anger. What I got was a shrug and Wez folding his arms.

"When you've been inside those 'burbie kids' houses as many times as I have, you figure out real quick what a miserable bunch of jerks they are."

And that was it, that was the only explanation he ever gave me. But it was enough; Chester hadn't snitched, he hadn't done a thing wrong. Wez wasn't even mad at him for getting what was basically a slap on the wrist, compared to what he or I would have gotten for the same offense. He had it stuck to that okapi kid coz he just plain didn't like mammals from the suburbs…at least not the ones with money.

But that wasn't the worst of it. I couldn't believe what I'd just heard…and I couldn't hold back, either.

"Y-You poisoned him…for THAT?"

Now, he did get mad.

"Keep your voice down, stupid!"

"Sorry," I said, lowering the volume; what else could I do?

That did the trick, at once Wez's 'tude change from hacked-off to almost hurt

"Who, me?" he said, placing a paw against the base of his neck, and sounding just SO innocent. "Not me, I didn't poison anybody," And then he shoved his face in mine and smirked, "YOU did!"

And with that, he turned and walked away without another word. I can still remember how he never once looked back.

I watched him go and then stumbled into my cell and threw myself onto my bunk. With my first breath, I took in a head-full of dust that made me want to sneeze my lungs out. I didn't care. I had just gotten my first taste of the McCrodon family creed; never trust anyone you can't blackmail. As of now, I wasn't just a member of that sea-mink kid's crew; he stinkin' owned me.

Still sneezing, I rolled over onto my back and tried to think. That was when I realized something; what had happened to me out on the yard just now HAD been a test…and what a test. If I had disobeyed and taken even a small swig of that soda, it would have been me they were hauling off to the ER right now—or, wherever they were taking that okapi kid.

No Erin, he didn't die. In fact, he recovered completely…but it took a while. His one-month jail sentence ended up as a three-month hospital stay—all because of me.

Yeah? Well, it sure as heck feels like my fault, dumb bunny!

Sorry…sorry, that was out of line. But that was how it felt, Erin…even today, that's how it feels.

But then I realized something else…something that made me sit up fast with my mouth hanging open.

"When you've been inside those burbie kid's houses…" Holy Foxtrot, NOW I remembered where I'd seen that sea-mink kid before…in a whole bunch of online magazine articles. But…how could that be? The last time I'd read one had been only a week before I'd hit the road with Jimmy? And why hadn't I recognized Wez's name when he'd introduced himself?

Never mind, it was him all right; not the slightest bit of doubt in my mind. My new crew chief was none other than the Bearfoot Bandit, in all his terrible stinkin' splendor.

The Bearfoot Bandit…the kid who had inspired me and Jimmy to hit the road in the first place. He had been our role model, our hero…a real-life, Gen-U-Wine Robin Hood.

Meanwhile, the kid who'd just left me had turned out to be a real-life, Gen-U-Wine Hades…and that assessment was only going to become more accurate as time went by.

Like the King of the Underworld, Crazy Wez was a devious jerk who'd shaft anyone he thought was a threat to him. Even the guys in his crew weren't immune. I once watched him grill Cutty for something like three hours, just coz he'd been seen talking to Bug-Juice, the marine otter that headed up the Southsider Jukes; a guy that sea-mink seriously didn't like ...and who didn't like him very much either. A lot of that had to do with the fact that The Enforcers were the only crew in the Point that never got punished collectively.

Oh, I'll TELL you why, Erin. Once—just once, it did happen—when Captain Donnerhuf, the bison in charge of the guard detail went away on vacation, and they brought in this eland guy from the Johnstone Campus to sub for him. I don't remember his real name, the kids all called him Corker.

Anyway, two days after he arrived, someone ripped off his watch…and a rumor started going around that it was one of the Enforcers who'd taken it.

So, what did bright boy Corker do? Sent every kid in our crew to Total Isolation until the guilty party confessed. He was that torqued about his watch, super expensive, a birthday present from his partner, and almost brand new.

Everyone told him it was a bad idea; rumors like that were always flying around The Point. It probably hadn't even been an Enforcer who'd taken it, they all insisted

And it hadn't been; Corker later found his missing watch stuck between the seat cushions of his office sofa; he had lost it while trying to retrieve a pen that he'd dropped. Lurch kept trying to convince him that a better course of action would be to recruit The Enforcers to help him get it back, but that eland jerk was way too smart to listen. We all went into lock-up and when the word got around that The Enforcers were away, the rest of the kids decided it was time for them to come out and play. The upshot was the closest thing to a riot that I saw while I was in Granite Point. They had to call in the State Police to help calm things down, and Donnerhuf had to cut his vacation short. As for Corker he got busted all the way down to Sergeant and lost most of his pension. We even got a visit from the AKER brass…

Hold it…wait. I'm getting ahead of myself again. That didn't happen until way later, almost right before I made my break. But now do you understand why the Enforcers were only disciplined individually?

Okay, getting back to where I left off. There was one thing that was still confusing to me, but I hadn't been able to work up the nerve to ask Wez about it before he boogied. And after the way he'd made me his patsy, I wasn't able to bring it up again it for another whole week.

My problem was…yeah, it was wrong to snitch; I got that, no sweat. "But if that's wrong, then why is it okay for us to be the guards' bone-thugs?"

Soon as I said that, I braced myself. Wez was in a particularly good mood right then—which was why I chose that moment to ask the question—but you could never be 100% sure with that kid. This time, though, my gamble paid off because he smiled, and then explained.

"You gotta remember Z-Face, the kids the guards send us to take care of are the guys that have ALREADY been caught; they're gonna get their tails kicked anyway, no matter what. And better by us than the guards. Sometimes, we hold back ya see, but they never do."

I later learned that this wasn't true; the whole time I was with The Enforcers, we never once went easy on a guy…not even when they'd been falsely accused, and we knew it was bad rap.

Little by little, the mask was coming off and I was beginning to see the REAL Wesley McCrodon.

Chapter 55: Conor's Story (Continued...Part 6)

Summary:

Life in the Granite Point Juvenile Correctional Facility

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Continued…Part 5)

♪ Well, that voice might come when you're taking your pleasure
The voice might come when you're resting your bones
Seek you out when you're sad or smiling
Drags you down when you think you're alone.

Just when you think that your horses are running
Just when you think that you're fixing to win
There's that wandering deep inside you
Who's gonna save you from the rattle within? ♫

Richard Thompson – The Rattle Within

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Erin Hopps felt as if a pair of scales had dropped from her eyes; at last, things were becoming clear. Yes, Conor had poisoned that poor Okapi kid—but it hadn't been his fault; he'd been tricked into doing it. And even then, he hadn't offered up that can of pop to Chester Whatsisface; the big jerk had MADE him give it over.

And yet…after all that, after all this time, still he blamed himself for what had happened. And that, the young doe-bunny suspected, had been only the first of many more guilt-trips to come. At long last, she was beginning to understand what had motivated that crazy silver fox to come up with…a…

Well, you couldn't call it a loan-shark scheme, not anymore…not if that was all the 'interest' he'd charged. But even so…finally, she got it; the whole thing had been an act of atonement. While she didn't necessarily agree with Conor's moneylending op, at least now she understood the reasoning behind it.

To a lesser degree, the same held true for the way he'd drawn first blood in his fight with Judy. The more she heard about Granite Point, the more it sounded like the kind of place where if you didn't move first, you never moved again!

But still…

By rights, she should hate that fox-kid's guts for what he'd done to her sister. Truth be told, a part of her still did. Except…ever since the other night, when he'd come to her aid against Craig Guilford, her animosity towards him had been fading by degrees. And now it was rapidly disappearing. If the alternative to going on the attack against Judy had been going back to that horrible place…Ohhhh, she had never felt so torn.

"You don't know what kind of kid I am," Conor had told her once, and she hadn't—not then, anyway. But now, finally, she was beginning to get the idea.

Conor Lewis was a survivor, pure and simple; a fox who wasn't going down without a fight…all the way to the finish line. He'd do anything to protect himself and never think twice about it. The fact that he was here, with her, after getting his face broken, being sent to Granite Point, and then finding himself Shanghaied into The Enforcers by that psycho sea-mink, Wez McCrodon—that was all the proof she needed.

But…how had he managed to survive that place? Well, there was only one way she was going to get an answer to that question.

And so, the young, white-furred bunny once more settled down to listen, face cradled in her paws.

---

It took less than a week for things to fall into a routine…but it wasn't your normal routine, even for Juvie—not when you were running with The Enforcers. As I'm sure you know, Mr. Rodenberg, one of the biggest problems you have behind bars is just plain boredom.

Not in that crew there wasn't; we always had things happening. For starters there were our two main activities; troublemakers to be 'taken care of' and snitches to be silenced.

One thing I learned fairly quickly was that we didn't always deal directly with our targets. The thing Wez had me pull on that okapi kid was actually Standard Procedure with The Enforcers—and lemme tell you, our bag of dirty tricks ran deep. For example, if we knew that a search was coming up, we might plant a weapon in a guy's cell, in a place where he wouldn't think to look for it—but the guards would. Another favorite gimmick was to add an item to a guy's care package…one that would give him a nasty surprise when he opened it. Or…we might get one of the dudes who owed us a favor to start a rumor that this or that kid was a snitch. Even if we never acted on it, it was guaranteed to give the mark a whole bunch of sleepless nights. But our all-time favorite stunt was to lure the target into a trap. That was my job when I was first with the crew.

How…? Ahhh, I'll give you an example. This one time I was on my way down from the second level when I passed this brown bear kid, headed upstairs. As he went by me, he made a remark about my face. I waited until he was at the top of the steps and then turned around and yelled through my paws. "Hey PLUSHIE-bear, you don't talk to me that way!"

"What'd you call me?" he spun around, wide eyed, like he couldn't believe a fox kid would dare to diss him. It must have shown on my face, coz he let out a roar they could have heard clear down in Bulltimore, "You need some schoolin' broke-face!" And with that he came charging down the stairs at me, not realizing that there was now a trip-line between us, courtesy of Dave 'Stuke' Stuckey, the giant flying squirrel kid I mentioned earlier. Stuke had been clinging to the underside of the stairs the whole time, and when the bear kid hit the wire, he went tail over teakettle, all the way to the bottom step. He ended up with a sprained elbow, a broken ankle, and a minor concussion. The whole time he was in the infirmary he kept swearing to…uh, let's just say it was very graphic. And it was all the excuse The Mammal needed to toss both him and his cellmate in The Hole—before he was healed up enough to go there. When he came out though, nothing happened. By then, he knew I was with The Enforcers and that I'd been acting under orders from the guards.

We had other jobs besides dealing out pain, though. For example, we used to officiate at the Sunday Boxing Matches, I'll tell you more about them in a minute. And sometimes we'd mediate gripes between other gangs; we were the one crew you could count on to stay neutral.

Oh yeah, there were all kinds of gangs in The Point. The biggest one was the Ragers, a crew out of Zoowark. We got along with them okay though. I remember one time when their main guy Capper Lee, a Cape Buffalo, sat down for a talk with Wez.

"You may have heard, one my boyz, Lenzy, bin talkin' to the Mammal."

"I've been hearing some things," Wez answered, nodding, and looking a little surprised, "You want him handled?"

Capper immediately shook his head. "No, I know how y'all feel 'bout snitches, but I want you to leave this one be." And he then thumbed himself in the chest, snorting, "The Ragers takes care of our own."

And they did. I won't say how, but the upshot was that The Point was locked down for three days.

The Ragers also controlled most of the gambling in Granite Point. There was always betting going on in that place. And of course, with gambling comes loan-sharking.

Nooooo, Erin…I had nothing to do with any of that. The Jukes handled most of the moneylending. None of those side-hustles would have been possible, though, without the guards looking the other way. Like I said before, they were easy to bribe—and that was where The Enforcers came in, serving as their bag-animals and always taking a cut for ourselves.

Oh yeah, we had our own side hustle going; dealing in prohibited electronics. Y'know…cell-phones, portable game consoles, that kind of thing. Burner phones were a huge item. Wez used to have them brought in with the food shipments…and no one ever saw a thing. I don't think he used bribery, though, not entirely anyway. Though he never said, I was fairly certain he had some dirt on a few of the guards. Later on, I was 100% sure.

Heh, have to admit, that gear-hustle was quite the racket. None of the items we sold came with chargers. You had to bring them back and have us charge 'em up again…for a price. And…oh, you need some more batteries for your Game-Kit? Welllll…let's see…

Scorp, the honey-badger kid, was the guy mostly in charge of that gig. Cutter, Krat, and Jawbone, the hyena-kid, served as our crew's muscle. Stoney, the red kangaroo guy did some of that too—most mammals don't realize it, but 'roos are one seriously strong animal. He was also our interceptor; if a target saw us coming and tried to make a break for it, it was his job to cut them off—and pity the poor fool who thought he could get away from THAT kid. Stoney could jump from the ground floor clear up to the third level walkway in a single bound; I saw him do it. Stuke Stuckey, the flying squirrel kid was our message-guy and go-between. If The Mammal wanted us to 'take care of' a detainee, they would usually send word through him. He was also our go-to guy for setting traps and planting contraband in other kids' cells.

I never did learn the real names of those shrew-kids, but their nicks were Needle and Thread and they served as our eyes and ears, they could go places nobody else could go, and they knew Granite Point like the back of their paws. They were also short-tailed shrews, which meant they had the ability to echolocate. And THAT meant they had super-sharp hearing. If Wez found out some kid had been talking to The Mammal, 90% of the time it was Needle. and/or Thread that brought him the word. In fact, they were the ones who'd told him Beale was snitching.

And me…? Well, obviously my gig as bait-fox couldn't last forever. Eventually the word would get around that I was The Enforcers' set-up guy. When it finally did, I could have hit another kid with a rock and he wouldn't have come after me.

Okay, I'm exaggerating…I wasn't completely untouchable. The rule with the Enforcers went like this, if another kid JUMPED you, the rest of our guys would be all over him in a Zoo York second. But…if he challenged you to a fight—"All right jerk, let's go to The Yard and throw down!"—in that case, you were expected to stand up for yourself, no help from the outside. That rule went double if YOU were the one who had issued the challenge…and it applied to every single one of us, even Crazy Wez himself.

Heh…and that was where that sea-mink really lived up to his name. He'd take on anyone, regardless of size or species; even apex preds, who'd claw him or beat the snot out of him. But he never backed down, and never took revenge when he lost. That earned him a lot of respect from the other kids. Even Bug-Juice, who couldn't stand the sight of him, had to own up to a grudging admiration.

Now, getting back to something I mentioned a minute ago. In Granite Point there were two ways you could challenge a guy to a fight. Number one, just duke it out right then and there. Or…number two, you could dare him to 'Fight you on Sunday.' On paper, these were supposed to be regulation boxing matches, run by the Olympic rules. In practice, the only thing regulation about them was that they were held in an actual boxing ring. Other than that, they were tooth-and-claw street fights by any other name. No gloves, no head protection—and no breaks. You kept going until one or the other of you either quit or was incapable of continuing any further.

Heh, you've heard, no doubt Mr. Rodenberg about how this or that prison is a gladiator school. Ah, Lemmingworth was like that? Uh-huh, I can imagine, but for all practical purposes, Granite Point was an officially sanctioned gladiator school. The guards just loved those Sunday fights. Seriously, we'd have guys show up to watch even when they weren't even on duty. They liked to bet on those matches too. On rare occasions, they might even step into the ring themselves…like the time this bighorn sheep, a guy named Block, accused this other bighorn ram, Gordon, of messing around with his girlfriend.

Nah…all they did was knock heads for five minutes. What a stinker! They got booed out of the ring, and it was one of the few times the guards and the kids agreed on something.

No…I didn't get into any fights myself, not for a while anyway. I watched myself very carefully, and thanks to my role as bait-fox, guys were very leery of taking me on. For all they knew, they might be walking into an ambush if they went after me. As for the Sunday Fights…it just plain never happened, and I had no idea why. Part of it was that if you wanted to fight another kid on Sunday, the rule was that the two of you had to be more or less evenly matched. That was the guards' doing. Like I said, they enjoyed betting on those fights, and who wants to lay down their cash on a tank job?

Another reason, I thought, was that if another kid challenged an Enforcer to fight them on Sunday, the usual response was, "The heck with Sunday, let's go NOW!"

And, of course, our crew did the officiating at the Sunday matches. In the event that one of our guys did end up in the ring, we'd recuse ourselves, but even so…I never saw an Enforcer in a Sunday fight where he wasn't the one who'd issued the challenge.

Usually that was Cutty, and in all the time I knew that leopard-kid, I never saw him lose. As for me, the need to issue 'the challenge', simply didn't happen.

That is…until this new kid arrived at The Point.

He was a Binturong…or Bearcat, depending on who you ask, and his name was Arch Overloon. Along with me was the youngest kid in the place, and he was…

Well-l-l, I wouldn't say ANYONE deserved to be sent to Granite Point…but, like a lot of other kids I met while I was there, he for sure belonged in a maximum-security lock-up.

Glad you asked, Erin. Seems this girl he liked—but had never spoken to—was being picked on by the Mean-GurlZ at his school. Soooo, Arch decided to settle the issue, once and for all…by showing up for class one morning with a sawed-off carbine and 300 rounds of ammo. Unfortunately for him—but lucky for his classmates—his next-door neighbor saw him leaving the house with a gun-barrel sticking out of his backpack. When he arrived at school, the cops were waiting, and they took him down before he could do any damage.

What got him sent to The Point, though, was his behavior in court. Every time an officer touched him, he'd tell them...uh, to put it in more civilized language, "Get your blankety-blank paws offa me, mother-blanker."

And did I mention that this kid was just starting middle school? Yep.

Normally, I would have had nothing to do with a psycho-jerk like that…but like I already said, this punk was anything but normal. And, just my luck, the ringleader of the Mean GurlZ at his school had been, wait for it…not just a fox, but a silver fox. You can guess where it went from there; Arch started harassing me non-stop. He'd knock my food onto the floor in the chow hall, try to trip me up in the lavatory, or step on my tail when I walked past him. I could have gone to Wez and told him I was having trouble, but I knew that if I did, he'd start to look at me funny. Was I capable of handling myself…or not? He'd protect me, but my standing with The Enforcers would suffer a major hit.

So, the next time Arch, the Loon—that's what I called him—the next time he stepped on my tail, I grabbed it with both paws and yanked it out from under him, giving myself a nice sprain. As for binturong-boy, he fell over backwards and came up with his claws and fangs bared. "You blankety-blank, I'll murder you!"

"Then that's what's gonna happen, jerk!" I snarled, returning the gesture. I was ready to go right now, but then someone took hold of my shoulder and pushed past me.

It was Wez McCrodon.

"What do YOU want, blank-blank?" Arch demanded, paws on hips, and still showing his fangs. Holy foxtrot, did this moron not know who he was talking to…or did he just not care? In any event, Wez didn't seem to hear him.

"Hey Loon-Boy…what's this I'm hearin', that yas been talking to the Mammal 'bout one of my guys?"

That was enough to make even this head-case back off. The one thing you NEVER wanted to hear from Crazy Wez, was that he suspected you of snitching Just the same, Loon-boy never stopped showing his fangs.

"Who the blank told you that?" He growled, "I never, blankety-blank, snitched on nobody!"

"Good," Wez lifted his nose as if sniffing the air. "And if I were you, I'd keep it that way. Stay away from my crew and keep your stinkin' mouth shut…or else." And with that, he grabbed me around the shoulders, and began to whisk me away, pausing only to shoot a finger back in Arch's direction. "And I better not find out you're lying!" To drive home the point, he pulled a thumb across his throat.

And then we left.

As soon as we were out of earshot…I just couldn't keep from asking.

"That punk's been snitching on me?" Holy foxtrot, I knew I was on his list…but THAT high up?

Wez just frowned and shook his head, "Nahhhh."

Wha…? I wondered, but then I remembered. He'd accused that binturong kid of squealing on one of The Enforcers, not me specifically.

"Okay, who was it?"

Wez gave me a lopsided look. "Nobody; I just said that to get you out of there."

I felt my ears go back and my neck hair spiking. I couldn't believe… Was this the same sea-mink kid who was always making speeches about fighting your own battles?

"What the…? Why'd you do that for? I can handle that jerk!"

"Nope," Wez rubbed at his nose, and half shook his head, "No, you can't."

Whoa, I was that close to telling him what he could do with his stupid Enforcers—and how far.

But then he laid a paw on my shoulder. "We gotta toughen you up and teach you some things first."

I cooled down at once. Okay…so he didn't think I couldn't take care of myself, he just thought I wasn't ready. All right, THAT I could live with.

We started the next morning, with Cutty overseeing my training. That first day, he basically ran me ragged—a lap around the yard, 100 sit-ups, another lap, 100 push-ups, one more lap, and 100 deep knee bends. By the time I was done, I was ready to crawl back into my cell, and my tail felt like it was going to crack and break off at the base; remember that sprain? Cut, who'd been matching me rep for rep, and step for step. wasn't even breathing hard.

But as time went by, I got stronger and stronger, until I was able to do 1000 reps of each exercise plus a hundred laps around the yard. Only then did Cutty take me into the gym. "We built up your wind; now we got to build up you strength." By then, I had learned to trust that leopard-kid's judgment without question.

'The gym 'barely fit the definition. A few donated items, and the rest of it jury-rigged. The barbells were paint-cans of varying sizes, filled with cement, and the kettle bells were rocks, with holes drilled through them and handles attached. And, of course, there were tires with drag chains.

I remember that there was usually a guard on duty, at least when it was crowded. And there had to be; it would have total chaos otherwise. Guys were always getting into arguments and there were only about a zillion different items lying around that would have made dandy weapons. Anyone walking in or out of the place had to submit to a search if a guard was hanging, and that included The Enforcers, too. I saw more fight challenges issued in there than anywhere else in The Point.

And on the subject of the Sunday boxing matches, Wez started putting me in as the referee for some of those fights.

Heh, gotta admit…that sea-mink knew what he was doing; I saw all different kinds of fighting styles and tactics, up close and fursonal. Afterwards, I'd go over what I'd seen with Cutty, and he would explain to me why this guy had won and that guy had lost, and what he should have done instead. After a while, I was able to anticipate this or that fighter's next move. I also got good at spotting cheats—and there were always cheats. One favorite trick was to smuggle in some of that flea-powder in a toilet-paper tube—and then blow it in your opponent's face.

I remember one time—when I wasn't officiating, lemme make clear—this jackal kid and this bobcat kid pulled that dodge on each other at the exact same moment…and then insisted on going on with the fight. Hoo boy, I never saw the guards laugh so hard, watching those guys stumble around the ring, throwing claw-swipes and punches at empty air. Even Lurch was practically rolling on the ground.

Of course, it wasn't funny, not really. Both of those kids nearly went blind….and even when their sight came back, it was never as good as before.

Yeah, right…sorry. What…?

Yep, you're dead right, Mr. Rodenberg. My diet was not 'conducive to putting on muscle.' Wez, however, was one step ahead of the game. he started having these hi-potency insect-protein bars smuggled into The Point.

Ewwww, those things tasted sooo awful. Cutty practically had to stand over me with a pipe to get me to eat them. They did the job though; my strength and stamina shot up big time after I started munching on those bad boys.

In the meantime, I was also learning how to use different kinds of weapons, knives, chains, and whatever. Crazy Wez's favorite toy was a thing he called a shalmin; a pipe, wrapped in newspaper to prevent cuts. Ooooo, he was a master with that thing. He could beat a target half to death with one of those bad boys, and never leave a mark.

And that brings up a related subject. One day, I was sitting in my cell, reading a book I'd borrowed from Stuke, when I heard someone rapping on the bars.

It was Crazy Wez

"Put it away, Z-Face…you got work to do."

I immediately felt my tail start to frizz. 'You got work' was Wez-speak for, "There's someone who needs a tail-kicking."

Whoa-boy…I had known this day was coming from the moment I'd been recruited into The Enforcers. Sooner or later the job of administering pain to another kid would fall to me. And try as I might, I couldn't hide my distress —not from this sea-mink.

He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head "You got a problem with that?" His voice was like a chip on his shoulder.

Lucky for me, I had an escape hatch.

"Well," I shrugged, "Didn't you tell me yesterday that I still wasn't ready to fight in the ring?"

"Oh, right," he said and snapped his fingers, "Forgot about that. No worries, you'll be able to handle this, no sweat. It's a couple of rodents."

If that was supposed to boost my confidence, it had exactly the opposite effect—especially when I found out who the target was—the Mearns brothers, the two grasshopper mice who'd come in on the bus with me.

But at least now I was able to keep my feelings under wraps.

"Okay…is this for the guards, or…?"

"The guards," he answered quickly, and then proceeded to give me the lowdown. Normally, he never did that. He'd tell you the name of the target, maybe say what he wanted done, and that was it. Why he made an exception this time, I have no idea. Maybe it was because this was my first assignment…or maybe it was because he seemed to find the story so amusing. And I have to admit, if it hadn't been me who was supposed to 'take care' of those mice, I might have enjoyed a chuckle or two myself.

One morning, someone spotted a tarantula in the commissary. Everyone immediately freaked out—everyone that is, but the Mearns brothers. They not only didn't run away, they rushed to the attack. They jumped that spider and killed it, and then they threw back their heads and howled.

And then they took it back to their cell—and ate it. Like I said before, grasshopper mice will chow down on just about anything venomous.

Unfortunately, what the Mearnses didn't know was…that particular tarantula had been somebody's pet, and it had belonged to one of the meanest guards in The Point, a puma by the name of Ravenclaw. Wez sniggered as he related how Blackbird—that's what the kids called him—how he'd cried like a baby when they'd brought him what was left of his beloved Boris. After that, he'd had no trouble tracking down the culprits. The Mearns brother hadn't exactly been discreet about killing that tarantula, and why should they? They'd had no idea their dinner belonged to anybody.

Yep…you're 100% right Mr. Rodenberg. It was strictly against the rules for Ravenclaw to have brought that thing into Granite Point—and it was only by threatening to have him canned that Lurch was able to persuade him to let The Enforcers handle it.

"Okay," I said, figuring the best thing was to get this over with as soon as possible, "where are they now, in the gym?" I used to see them in there all the time, when Cutty brought me in for my training sessions. For barbells, they used rocks glued to lollipop sticks; they were both way strong for their species.

"Yep," Wez nodded, sighing…and for the first time, I realized that he didn't care much for this assignment either. Nonetheless, "Go take care of it," he said, pointing me in the direction of the gym.

What happened next felt like the longest walk ever. With every step I took, I was praying that The Mearns Brothers wouldn't be there when I arrived…or that at least there'd be a guard present.

No such luck; I spotted them as soon as I walked through the door. Ben was doing bench presses while his brother Bob spotted him.

And there was no sign of a correctional officer anywhere.

For some reason, I got angry right then. I had no idea why…but I knew where to go with it. I raised my head and fox-screamed. At once everything screeched to a halt, and everyone was staring at me.

"All right, clear out; I got business in here."

Yep Erin…yes, they did. Surprised me too, when I saw it, though it shouldn't have. By now everyone in The Point knew what had happened to Boris the tarantula…and it was also common knowledge that I was with The Enforcers. Soon as I gave the word, everyone laid for the door, including…

"Not you!" I snarled, waving the Mearns brothers back, "You stay here."

They didn't make it easy for me. As soon as the others were gone, they drew themselves up to their full height, tails straight, arms folded, and looking me right in the eye. There wasn't so much as an ounce of fear in either one of them.

"This about the spider?" Ben asked me, simply.

"You know it is," I growled. Aggggh, grrr…couldn't these mice have sniveled just a little bit?

"Ah well," his brother shrugged, "better you that moron, Blackbird I guess. Do what you have to do, fox."

And I did, I found a piece of rope and laid into them. I won't say exactly what I did, but they took it like alphas, both of them. They screamed bloody murder, but they never begged, never tried to run away. Heck, they never even tried to dodge me. And when I was finished, they stood up and howled as if they had just kicked MY tail. When I left the gym, it was the closest I came to tears since my arrival at Granite Point.

But I wasn't quite finished yet. I still had to go and inform Wez that the job was done. When I described what had happened with Ben and Bob Mearns, he surprised me by nodding sympathetically.

"That's how it is in The Enforcers, Z"—it was the first time he ever called me that—"A lotta times we have to do work we don't like or even that we hate. It's lame, but there it is."

It went from lame to ludicrous, when the guards tried to question the Mearns brothers about what happened in the gym. They insisted they'd gotten their injuries in a fight with each other and never once mentioned my name. They also described for Ravenclaw how delicious his pet tarantula had tasted, and it had taken Lurch, plus two other guards to restrain him. THAT little stunt earned those grasshopper mice an extra five days in The Hole. Brother Bob later told me that he didn't care; it was worth it.

And when Wez heard the story, he nearly laughed himself sick. "Whoa-ho! If we had an opening, I'd bring those guys into The Enforcers right now!"

Yep, Mr. Rodenberg…I did say that. Eventually the Mearns boys did join our crew. But that's a story for later and…

Listen Erin, I have to say it…if you think what I told you so far is disturbing…

Ohhh-kayyyy, have it your own way, bunny girl…but don't say I didn't warn you.

What…no, they didn't send the rest of the brothers' crew to The Hole—for the simple reason they didn't belong to one, not yet anyway. And that was another reason for the collective punishment policy; to keep kids from wanting to join a gang. Didn't work, but they never changed it.

I should mention here that while the collective responsibility rule didn't apply to The Enforcers, there were zero restrictions against punishing us individually. Even Crazy Wez got sent to Total Isolation from time to time; it was The Mammal's way of letting him know who really ran The Point. That, and they never did learn to tolerate his 'anti-snitch' policy.

As my training continued and I got stronger, I got tagged more and more often for 'work.' But always as back-up or—if we were dealing with an informer—as lookout; I never again flew solo. Not because Wez didn't trust me, but because none of those gigs involved kids I could have handled alone. I picked up a lot of other skills, as well. How to tell when someone was carrying a weapon, how to pick a mark's pocket, or—vice-versa—how to plant something on them. My main job with the Enforcers though was serving as our resident hunter.

You see, like in most joints, there were very few secrets in The Point. If a kid was marked as snitch, or fingered by the Mammal, he'd often know it even before Wez got the word. And then the next thing he'd do was try to keep from getting what was coming to him. He'd trade cells with another kid, find himself a hidey-hole, and just generally try to keep moving. If it was The Mammal who'd put the mark on him—and if he was in a crew—his buds would sometimes band together to keep him out of sight.

That was where I came in. If our target up and pulled a vanishing act, it became my job to track him down. This was another place where my skills at Ringolevio came in handy. Eventually I got so good at it, the guards used to take bets on how long it would take me to find a guy. Once, they even targeted a kid who hadn't done a darn thing wrong, just to test me

Nope, I never even thought about refusing, not after Wez put his stamp on it...uhmmmm…

Ohhh-kayy, I guess now is as good a time as any to say it. And I might as well tell it straight up. The Enforcers were more than just your average jailhouse crew. In fact, you really couldn't call us a gang at all, we were actually more of a cult.

Don't laugh, Erin. I'm serious over here. The guys in that outfit would walk over hot coals to get an attaboy from Wez McCrodon…and yeah, that included me for a while. When I told him that guards were sending me to hunt down a guy just for the heck of it, all he said was, "Okay, what are you waiting for?"

That was it…Wez McCrodon had given the word, and it was all I needed to hear.

And I wasn't the only one in that category. Krat, the rhino kid, was easily the biggest and toughest animal in The Enforcers…but he once told me, "Every time Crazy Wez gives me the look, it feels like he TOWERIN' over me."

It might have gone on like that forever, except…well, that cult thing was a two-way street.

What I mean Mr. Rodenberg is that it was having as much of an effect on Wez as it was on the rest of us. Every day, in every way, he was becoming more and more full of himself. You know…'Wrong…ME? Don't be ridiculous!' that kind of thing.

Yes, exactly…and yeah, eventually it did. You are soooo right about that.

Anyway…one day I went to the gym for my regular workout, and instead of Cutty, I found Wez waiting for me, just outside the door. As I started to go in, he stopped me with a paw on my shoulder.

"Arch Overloon is in there—and you're ready, Z." That was all he said—and it was all he needed to say. I knew what was expected of me.

Not that I would have needed much prodding; this was a day I'd been itching for. I stormed into the workout room, and there was that binturong kid, in the middle of doing some bench presses. It was the Mearns Brothers all over again—except this time, I was up for it. For a minute, I thought about pulling a favorite trick of The Enforcers on him—tickling his ribs to make him drop the weights on his chest. If this had been a job for The Mammal, I might have, but it wasn't, it was fursonal. And so, I waited until he was done with his reps before confronting him.

"Get up, punk!"

All around me, everything stopped. A few of the smaller mammals made for the door, but most just gathered around to watch.

"What'd you call me, boomerang?" Arch sat up so fast, he almost tipped the bench over.

I showed him my fangs and all of my teeth.

"Out," I snarled, "I'm calling you out, loon-boy," Just to make sure he got the point, I stuck two fingers in my chest, "You think I've forgotten about all that scrap you laid on me when you first got here? Ehhhh, wrong! You and me, jerk—this Sunday—in the ring!"

He literally flew off the bench, and for a second, I thought he was going to go for me right then. But then he glanced over my shoulder, and stopped in his tracks. I didn't have to look to know who was there.

Arch didn't stay stopped for long, though.

"You got it, fox…and I'm gonna blank you up! "

Yep, you're right; the only reason Loon-Boy held back was because my crew-chief was there. If he had decided to go after me right away, Wez would have been perfectly within his rights to jump in to help me—he wouldn't, but he could have. Sunday, on the other paw, was a whole different thing. If you ran into the ring to help a guy during one of those fights…forget it! You and the guy you were trying to help were both on your way to The Hole, and if you were part of a crew, they'd all go with you. It happened twice while I was refereeing, although that second time, the kid trying to help was stopped before he got even halfway to the ropes. Because of that, he was the only one who got sent to…Okay, okay!

When Sunday came…well, obviously none of the guys in the Enforcers were gonna be able to officiate my fight. I wondered who the heck they'd get...but I was gonna have to wait to find out. My fight against Arch the Loon was second to last on the card.

Cutty served as ref for those first three fights, all of which were total slugging matches; he was known to allow any tactic, short of bringing a shank into the ring. That was another thing that could get you and all your buds sent to…

Okay, okay-y-y…I'm getting on with it. But I wasn't rambling.

When my turn came and I climbed through the ropes…Oh, foxtrot! The guards had tagged none other than Bug-Juice as the ref.

Bug, as I mentioned before, was head of the Southside Jukes. He was a marine otter, not to be confused with a sea otter, a much larger species, and like I also said, he and Wez McCrodon got along famously—like the famous Ratfields and McCoons!

The question for me was…did Bug's animosity towards my crew-chief also extend to me? It didn't help much that the moment he stepped into the ring, Wez was on his feet, screaming for the guards to 'get that punk OUTTA there!' It was only when Lurch told him to shut the heck up that he finally put a sock in it.

What's that, now? Did I think…?

Geez, make up your mind, willya Mr. Rodenberg? One minute you're telling me to get on with it and the next, you're interrupting me.

Okay…yeah, the thought did cross my mind. Since when is there NOT the occasional fix when there's betting on a fight? I never saw it happen when I was playing ref, but I'd heard about it a few times.

But before I tell you the rest…you need to know something. My fight with Arch the Loon did NOT go the way you think it would have gone. I'm looking at you, Erin Hopps, you follow what I'm bringing out? Sorry, but I promised to tell you everything...and that's what you're going to get. Look, I meant it over here; even your worst case scenario is nothing like what actually went down in that ring. Are you sure you want to...?

Ohhhh-kayyy...

There was no bell. One of the guards would blow a whistle to start a fight. While we waited for the signal, Arch and I kept laying trash talk on each other, mostly about my face on his side of the exchange. I remember telling him at one point, "Hey, at least I wasn't born ugly!"

That got me a round of laughter and even some applause. Binturongs are not noted for their good looks.

And then the whistle blew and it was game on!

Arch threw the first punch, a hard-right that would have knocked me senseless if he'd connected. A few weeks earlier, it would have—but thanks to my training, I was ready. I slid underneath and swiped with my claws, raking his midsection. Arch doubled halfway over, clutching his belly. I jumped up in a classic fox pounce and came down on his head with a double-fisted hammer-blow, driving him face first into the canvas. For a second, I dared to hope that I'd knocked him out, but he was up again after less than a second.

And then he turned and ran from the ring; jumped over the ropes and just kept going. Everyone was booing, even Bug Juice—who finally just grabbed my arm and raised it, and then left the ring without even...

Whoa, incominnnng!

Oops, missed me...hee-hee-hee! What's the matter Erin? Didn't I WARN you to expect the unexpected? And really, Snowdrop…no offense, but you throw like a bunny and—OW! Hey, that hurt!

Okay, seriously…Even I couldn't help thinking that I'd won that fight a little too easily—and I wasn't the only one. For days afterwards, I heard kids grumbling that Arch had only bailed coz Wez had threatened him. Even without asking, I knew it wasn't true. That sea-mink kid had a lot of problems, but he was never a cheat. Heck, if he'd ever found out who started that rumor, he'd have ripped their lungs out. Just the same, he came to me afterwards, swearing up and down that he'd had nothing to do with what happened. And it hadn't been coz of any interference by the guards either. I later found I'd been the 2-1 favorite in that fight; by then it was pretty much common knowledge that I'd been training under Cutty.

Nope, it was all legit…and my first exposure to a principal I've seen play out time and time again since that fight. All too often, the guy with the most mouth is the one with the least guts. Two days later, Arch Overloon was shipped off to The Clinic. The word around the yard was that he was practically a vegetable.

But, as I soon discovered, there are other kinds of courage besides physical.

The kid's name was Marc Shevaldo, he was a pygmy hippopotamus whose family had come to Zoo Jersey from Pattes-au-Prints, Haiti when he was a cub…and then abandoned him. He showed up about a week and a half after my fight with Arch.

Marc was like no other kid in The Point. I knew that from the moment I got my first look at him. He had this…air of dignity about him that I'd never seen in any other detainee. He was also seriously skinny for his species, and I soon discovered the reason. Back at the Johnstone Campus, he'd led a hunger strike in protest of the inadequate medical care and the AKER guys had reacted predictably. They'd tacked another full year onto his sentence and scattered the hunger-strikers to different facilities, reserving the worst of the worst for the ringleader…meaning him.

That made him the ONLY kid in Granite Point who'd been sent there for a non-violent offense…during my time, that is.

I had very mixed feelings about him. His little gesture had accomplished exactly nothing, but on the other paw, no way had he not had a legitimate gripe. Nobody knew better than I did about the rotten medical care at the Johnstone Campus—and I had the face to prove it.

Wez McCrodon however had no such reservations. As a rule, he didn't like kids who made waves, they had a habit of getting everyone in trouble. In fact, the word had already come down from the Warden's office. This hippo-kid was to be told, in no uncertain terms; if he even so much as thought about pulling any of his shenanigans in the Point, the Enforcers were going to come down on him hard, 'with both feet and both paws;' that was how Lurch put it. He was to be given one warning, and that was it.

We drew straws to see who would deliver the message. And, just my luck, I got the short one…though these days I'm honestly not so sure if it was bad luck or good.

I found Marc in his cell, reading from a book with a title I couldn't make out, by some guy named Thor-something.

Yeah, yeah…I know what it was now, Walden by Thoreau…but I didn't know it then.

Anyway…Like I said, he was a pygmy hippo and he was small even for that species, no bigger than your average pig. It made him look younger than his actual age. I pegged him to be around fourteen, or maybe fifteen. I later found out he was actually two years older than that.

He was also alone at that particular moment…something that pleased me to no end, though I couldn't say exactly why. I was there to deliver a message, not a tail-kicking; didn't matter if anyone saw me, or not.

I rapped on the bars of his cell and growled.

"Hey…Marky-Marc."

He rolled off the bed and stood up…with a big smile on his face.

"Ah…you are Al Murphy, yes?" He spoke with just the barest hint of a creole accent. "I am Marc Shev…valdo. Sorry, I have trouble getting used to it. Pleased to meet you," he said and stuck out a hoof.

That had the effect of shifting my brain into neutral; what the fox?

I shrugged it off and growled again, ignoring his hoof. "Hey stupid, this isn't a social call!"

He didn't seem to hear me. "But then Alain Murphy isn't the name you were born with—any more than Marc Shevaldo is my birth name." His eyes narrowed, and he gave me a penetrating look. "Is it?"

Bang! I forgot all about the reason I was there. Wez had told me that there were other kids in the Jersey Juvie system who'd had name changes forced on them, but I'd never met one face to face.

…Until now.

"Then you don't have any family either, am I right?" I sneered. Just to let him know I wasn't some rube he could mind-game.

Oh yes, I was…the next thing he told me nearly blew me right through the bars.

"Correct. And I might also guess that you also are here on a sentence you did not deserve?"

What the FOX? How the heck had he…?

Before I could finish the thought, he was already answering me.

"You et moi are the only two of our kind here in—how do you call it—Le Point…eh, THE Point…at least that I know of so far." He folded his arms and drew himself up to his full height. Geez, all of a sudden, he wasn't a pygmy any more but a giant. "But there are many more of our kind in the other Zoo Jersey youth-jails. I met at least three others in Johnstone, and three more in the Training School."

The Training School was the State of Zoo Jersey's minimum security juvenile facility. It was quite the fall this hippo kid had taken, starting out there and ending up here.

And…how had he ended up here again? Agggghhh, grrrrrr…riiiight; for the reason I'd been sent here to deliver that message—which I still hadn't done. Oooo, Wez was not gonna be pleased with me when he heard.

"Yeah, whatever…listen, hipster…"

That was as far as I got; he burst out laughing. "Ehhh good one, silver fox!"

Oooo, now this smart-face was really starting to get under my pelt. I let out my best fox-scream…and that finally made him sit up and pay attention.

"That's better," I snarled, laying my ears back, "Now listen up…MARC! I came here to tell you that The Mammal isn't gonna put up with any of your troublemaking—like you pulled back at the Johnstone Campus—here in Granite Point." I leaned in close, thumbing myself in the chest, "And that goes double for The Enforcers, got that? You try any funny stuff, here and you'll be answering to Wez McCrodon." I hissed and showed him all my teeth, "and believe me, he doesn't ask easy questions."

Marc didn't even flinch.

"Very well," he shrugged, and then flopped back down on his cot and resumed his reading, dismissing me with a wave of his hoof. Oooo, if I'd only had one of the heavies with me.

"What, that's all you got to say?"

He only shrugged again. "I heard you, Alain…and you may tell Wez McCrodon that I understand what will happen if I 'make trouble,' as you say it."

Ohhh, heck…was that a yes, or a no? I felt like I was arguing with an echo chamber. I decided to cut my losses and get the heck out of there. I'd completed my assignment and there was no reason for me to hang any longer.

"Good…and if I were you, I'd keep it in mind. C-ya. Hipster."

I turned to go…but if I was done with him, he wasn't quite finished with me.

"Before you go…were you also dissuaded from demanding a lawyer?"

Yep…I reacted exactly the same way as you, Mr. Rodenberg—froze up like I was paralyzed or something.

…until I heard him say, "That is another thing we share with many others in the Jersey Juvies…kids who were also told…."

That was as far as he got before I bolted. Whoa, now my feet couldn't stop moving. I was halfway back to my cell before I started to slow down. And it was only then that I finally realized something. The whole time I'd been talking to that hippo kid, he'd never once mentioned my face, never even stared at it the way everyone else did when they first met me.

Ahhh…I knew you were gonna ask me that, Mr. Rodenberg. And I'm sorry, but I never spoke to him again. When I told Crazy Wez what happened, he blew six different kinds of gaskets.

Yes, Erin…yes, I told him; he'd have found out for himself anyway. He always found out.

And God only knows what would have happened then. As it was, he was halfway ready to take my head off. No kidding guys, Scorp later told me that they heard him clear out in The Yard.

"YOU DUMB FOX, letting the punk hippo jerk you around that! What's matter with you; did the guy who wrecked your face do a number on your brain, too? You had one job, Z-Face…ONE! STINKIN'! JOB! Ahhhh, I knew I shoulda gone myself!"

He went on like that for maybe ten more minutes and then issued a proclamation.

"Listen fox, and listen good…from now on you're to have NOTHING to do with that sawed-off hippo punk. You don't talk to him, you don't look at him…you don't even think about him, got that? As a matter of fact…"

He turned and spoke to Cutty, Thread, and Needle, who were also there at the time.

"Nobody in our crew is to get within a hundred feet of that guy—except to kick his tail. Anyone who does is out of The Enforcers; spread the word!"

"Yeah, Wez!" they answered in unison and then took off, glad to be gone.

He watched them go and then looked at me again.

"As for you—get outta my sight!"

I was more than happy to oblige him.

Worried though I was that Wez might kick me out of the Enforcers—even without any further mess-ups on my part—I was a whole lot more confused. Holy foxtrot, I had known he'd be torqued at me, but I'd never expected a stinkin' conniption.

But if it was strictly taboo for me to talk TO Marc Shevaldo, there was no rule that said I couldn't talk about him…which I did, making inquiries all over The Point; just what the heck was this hippo-kid's story? I asked everybody I could think of, even one of the guards. But my biggest source of info turned out to be his cellmate, a sheep named Bobby Merino.

"You tell Crazy Wez…I got nothing to do with that fool. I've been begging to be transferred to another cell ever since they put him in with me. He's gonna cause majorly trouble one of these days…you just watch."

He then went on to tell me that Marc had first been arrested for posting an online expose on the foster-care facility where he'd been living.

I know, right? Since when is that a crime? Well, the state sure thought so, they called it disinformation and online harassment and gave him three months detention at the Training School. But if they thought that was gonna shut him up, they were seriously mistaken. A month later he was pinched for trying to organize a sit-down strike. Something about the learning programs at the Training School being basically a joke; I don't know the details. He had six more months tacked onto his sentence, and got kicked up to the Johnstone Campus—where, like I said, he organized that hunger strike.

"He's gonna pull something here, too," Bobby insisted, "He never talks about it, but I can feel it in my bones." He was so terrified at the thought; his wool was actually standing on end.

No, Erin…Wez didn't come down on me for my 'fact-finding mission' as you put it…ha-ha, really cute. You see, everything I learned, I passed to him as soon as I picked it up. He was so happy for the intel he even forgave me for my earlier mess up. "Now, you're gettin' the idea, Z."

What he didn't know was that I'd picked up a lot of other tidbits…stuff I didn't share with him—or anybody else.

But I'll tell you, Mr. Rodenberg, coz you're going to want to hear this. Marc had been dead right; the Zoo Jersey juvenile detention facilities were full of kids who didn't belong there; first offenders, minor offenders, kids who'd done stuff that should have been good for probation at worst, even kids who hadn't committed any crime. Time and again, I heard about kids getting sent to Jersey Juvie just for watching another kid vandalize a fence, or steal from a store, or whatever.

Sorry, no…I didn't get any specifics. I never met any of those kids face to face…they almost never ended up in The Point. The only ones there during my time were me and the hippo-kid-who-shall-not-be-talked-to. Everything else I picked up was second-paw, and nobody ever named names. That being said, I heard it so many times, and from so many different kids. I just plain had to believe that there was something dirty going on.

But what I DID hear directly, and from two other guys, was that they had also been told not to bother with a lawyer. And I had to believe them, coz they were none other than the Mearns brothers, the most straight-talking pair of rodents I've ever known...uh, back then, I mean.

No, Wez never did find out about the other questions I'd been asking. Mostly that was dumb luck. He might have heard, but then…

It started one morning, right after breakfast—which for once, was a decent meal, much to the surprise of just about everybody. When we were done, they marched us out to the yard and assembled us in rows. It was cold out and it had rained the day before. All of us desperately wanted to get back inside, but they kept us like that for a good half hour.

And then the guards began walking down the lines, passing out brooms, mops, buckets, sponges, and other cleaning tools—I was given a long-handled squeegee.

When that was done, the one-armed wonder, Warden Argyll came out to speak to us. Whoa, now we knew something serious was about to go down. That Marco-Polo sheep almost never put in an appearance with the detainees. Seriously, there were guys in that crowd who had to be told who he was. And what he had to say to us was…that today was the beginning of clean-up week, and that if we knew what was good for us, "By Saturday evening, Granite Point had better put the spic in span."

I know, right? What a dork…straight outta South Bark! I never heard so many kids trying not to groan.

We did a lot more groaning before the day was through; they worked us like stinkin' galley slaves. No kidding, they even made periodic announcements over the PA, telling us to 'put our backs into it—as if we weren't already.

The real surprise came just before the noon break, when a cleaning crew from FurPro showed up. We hoped against hope that they were there to relieve us, but sorry kids…as soon as lunch was over it was back to the salt mines. Even so…whoa, it looked like The Mammal was seriously serious about getting that place cleaned up. I wanted sooo badly to know what the heck was going on, but none of the kids I was working with had any more clues than me.

It wasn't until I caught up with Wez after we were done—five minutes before lights out, I might add—that I finally got my answer.

"There's only one reason this ever happens, Z," he gasped, almost completely out of breath. Sheesh, what the heck had they had HIM doing all day? "There's an inspection coming up, and they want The Point to look decent before it gets here."

Ahhh, okay…that made sense. So did what he told me next.

The bad news was we couldn't expect more work-days like this one for the rest of the week. The good news was that we could also expect some decent food, and plenty of it, for the duration, plus clean sheets and bedding, and fresh coveralls. The best news was we—meaning The Enforcers—would get a day off on the day before the inspection.

"The Mammal wants us rested, coz on the day it happens, it'll be our job to make sure the other kids keep their mouths shut." It was another thing that made perfect sense. "And if we pass the inspection, we'll get another week of good eats."

Yep, there it was again…the old Carrot-and-Stick routine.

Unfortunately, this time there was also a wrench…

It was nice outside when we reported for work the next day…but I couldn't help feeling uneasy. One group of about twenty kids was standing separately from the rest of us, maybe ten feet off to the left…and front and center of that group was none other than Marc Shevaldo.

To this day, I have to wonder why the guards didn't break up those guys and make 'em stand with the rest of us. They knew that hippo-kid's reputation…didn't they see what was coming?

Or…maybe they did and they welcomed it.

Things started off pretty much as they had the day before. After being issued our tools, we were treated to another speech by the warden…who spent five minutes telling us what a good job we'd done the day before, and then another fifteen, telling us that it hadn't been good enough.

When he finished up, Lurch took over. "All right, you heard The Superintendent…get to work."

Everyone didn't get to work. All the kids with Marc Shevaldo threw down their tools and refused to move.

That brought Lurch stomping over, along with two other guards.

"Hey, you little snots, I thought I told you to get to work."

They just stood there, not even looking at him. You can guess what he thought of that.

"HEY…WHAT DID I JUST SAY?

Someone rapped me on the shoulder; it was Crazy Wez, along with Stoney and Jawbone. "Come on Z, we gotta get over there. On the way, we picked up the rest of the crew, but it turned out to be an unnecessary gesture. When we got there, Lurch just waved us off with his stick.

"Back in line; I got this."

Meanwhile The Warden had just shown up…and he was not a happy camper.

"What's going on here? Why aren't these boys at work?"

It was Marc Shevaldo who answered him, stepping forward and thrusting out his chin defiantly.

"Bad enough that you abuse us and make us live in filth," he said, speaking loud enough for the rest of us to hear.

"Now, you listen, you little…" Lurch snarled, waving his stick. He might as well have been brandishing a stalk of grass for all the effect it was having. Marc raised his voice even further.

"But if you want to cover it up, you can do it yourselves! WE WON'T HELP YOU!" And then he looked right at Wez McCrodon. "Some of us have our pride!" he bellowed…and it took me, Cutty, and Scorp, to hold him back, plus a guard, blocking the way.

As for Lurch, it was a good thing he wasn't packing anything lethal; I can only imagine what would have happened. Warden Argyll, on the other paw, didn't look bothered at all.

"All right, let's discuss this" he said, stepping forward and putting a hoof on Marc's shoulder. And then glancing sideways for just the barest of second, he gave the polar-bear on his right an almost imperceptible nod.

At once, Lurch's finger shot out, "Knife!"

In a move I would have missed if I'd blinked, Argyll threw his good arm around the back of Marc's head and slammed him in the head with his horns…full-force and right between the eyes. At the same time, I saw a knife go tumbling to the ground…a brand new, bright, shiny K-Bear. I didn't see where it came from but no kid in The Point ever walked around with a shank like THAT.

Marc, meanwhile, went down without even a grunt, out cold.

"You just never did know when to let it go." Argyll sighed and shook his head, more in sorrow than in anger. And then to Lurch he said. "Better send him to The Clinic, Sergeant. It doesn't look good."

They made us stand at attention until he was taken away…and then Lurch stood up in front the rest of the refuseniks and kind of smirked. "Does anyone else have a weapon they want to pull?"

No one answered and his growl became a roar.

"Then pick up those tools and GET YOUR TAILS TO WORK!"

I wish I could tell you that they all stood firm…but I'd be lying if I did. For a second or two, it seemed as if they might. But then this deer-kid—the same one who'd come in on the bus with me and mouthed off to that polar bear—reached down and picked up the broom he'd dropped. That was the ice-breaker. Within half a second, all of the others were following his lead. None of them moved quickly and I thought I saw two of them crying.

Uhm, no actually… that wasn't the last my last encounter with Marc Shevaldo. There was one other…

Oops…someone's at the door. You wanna get that Erin?

Hi Doctor…what brings you…? Whoa, it's that time already? Sorry guys…we'll pick this up again when he's done with me.

Chapter 56: Conor's Story (Continued...Part 7)

Summary:

The dark side of the fox.

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

---

The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Continued…Part 7)

♪ Know I've gone too far
Much too far I've gone this time
Don't want to think what I've done

Coz I don't know how to stop
I don't know how to stop

There are always hidden silences
Waiting behind the chair
They come out when the coast is clear
They eat anything that moves
I go shaky in the knees
Lights go out
Stars come down
Like a swarm of bees ♫

Peter Gabriel  –  No Self Control

---

Erin Hopps was able to hold her tongue for a lot longer than even she would have expected—for almost three full seconds after she sat down with Vern Rodenberg.

"So….do you think Conor was telling the truth?"

They were seated at a table in the Mercy Star's wardroom, the only two animals present, her in a chair, him on a modified bandage-roll. set down on the table-top. She had to wait for a response until the grey rat finished taking a long sip of his coffee—and then she was greeted with a small frown and the sound of incisors working.

"Forgive me for playing lawyer here, Ms. Hopps…"

"Oh, please…just call me Erin."

"All right. I'm sorry Erin, but there's no short answer to that question. You see–-" he set down his thimble of Java, holding up a trio of bony fingers, "There's basically three types of things he told me. First, there's the items that I can't verify; the ones where I'll just have to take his word for it—like his claim about what happened in that farmer's market. Even if he was telling the truth, there's no way anyone's going to back his side of the story, not after all this time…and that's assuming I can find anyone who was there when it happened."

He ticked off a finger and continued. "And then there's the things I CAN verify—and believe me, I will—like the crummy medical care in the Zoo Jersey Juvenile system. First thing tomorrow, I'm having my investigator check it out."

Another digit vanished, leaving only the grey rat's index finger.

"Last but not least, there's the things he said that I don't need to verify—because I know all about them from fursonal experience." His teeth began to click again, and he leaned forward in his seat. "And in that category, your boyfriend…"

"He's NOT my boyfriend!"

"…gets an A+. Everything he said to me in that regard rings a hundred percent true; all of it, no exceptions, accept no substitutes."

At once, Erin felt her pique disappear, replaced by a mixture of fascination and surprise. Her ears, which had been flattened against her neck, were now standing at full attention.

"Really? Errr, such as…?"

Rodenberg sat back in his chair again, steepling his fingers.

"For starters, I have no doubt whatsoever that he was hooked up with Crazy Wez McCrodon. The way he described that meshugenneh little shmendrik…"

"I'm sorry…what now?" Erin's nose had begun to twitch.

Rodenberg smiled indulgently. "Coupla Yiddish words. Meshugenneh means 'crazy,' and shmendrik…" He scratched behind an ear, "Well, there's no literal translation, but it's basically an anti-social thug with no redeeming features. And that's Wesley McCrodon all over the place; Conor has that sea-mink kid pegged."

He paused and looked away for a second apparently lost in thought.

"I only met him once, but that was enough…believe me."

For a second the young doe-bunny hesitated; whatever memories the rat attorney was recalling right now, they were not pleasant ones.

But then SHE remembered something.

"Hold on…didn't I hear Conor say that you refused to represent Crazy Wez as his attorney?"

The corners of Rodenberg's mouth went in opposite directions; like one of those Greek comedy/tragedy masks. "Well, 'refused' is a little strong I think…and it's a lot more complicated than it sounds." He sighed and clapped his paws against his knees—as if to say, 'All right, let's get this over with.'

"Even before The Mister tried to get me to represent his nephew, I wanted nothing to do with that kid. I never liked having a loose cannon for a client; I get enough of that, lawyering for The Red Pig. And besides that, it was an almost hopeless case. Even if, by some miracle, I was able to convince a Zoo Jersey jury to let Wez McCrodon off the hook, there were only about a hundred other jurisdictions waiting to try him. Practically everywhere he'd been, you see, he'd made chumps out of the local law enforcement." He reached up and pulled at a whisker. "Believe me kiddo, if there's one thing that'll come back to bite you later on, it's humiliating the cops and/or the prosecutors. Look at John Gatti, all that swaggering around he did after those first acquittals; it only made the feds more determined than ever to take him down."

"So why did you agree to meet with Crazy Wez?" Erin asked him.

The grey rat's jaw set hard, and he shrugged. "Remember what Conor said about how James 'The Mister' McCrodon liked to handle folks—by way of leverage? No details, but that's more or less how he handled me. Even so, I only agreed to go talk to his kid nephew…but it's a meeting I'll never forget."

He sat back again, tight-lipped, paws knotting and unknotting.

"There was only one way Wesley McCrodon wasn't going to jail—and even then, it was a bajillion-to-one shot. I'm talking about an insanity plea over here."

"An insanity plea?" Erin's right ear was higher than the other.

A toothy smirk creased the grey rat's features. "Don't kid yourself, Erin…not guilty by reason of insanity is a tougher case to make than you might think—a lot tougher. If I HAD managed to get the McCrodon boy off on an insanity defense, it would have been the first time in more than fifteen years that anyone was able to make it happen—in the State of Zoo Jersey, that is." He laid an arm across the back of his makeshift chair, "The only good news was that he had an almost pitch perfect background for that kind of plea. Single mom, with substance abuse issues, and a rap sheet as long as your arm—mostly for petty theft and check forgery. Most of the time, she was nowhere to be seen; left the kid on his own for days or even weeks at a time. And when she was home, she usually had a boyfriend with her…more often than not, the type who liked to settle arguments with his teeth and claws. If Wesley McCrodon had been up for something minor, I could have gotten him into foster care, no sweat."

"So, what did he say when you told him?" Erin asked him, speaking with bated breath. All right, she was hooked. "About the insanity plea, I mean."

Rodenberg's expression went from sardonic to ironic. "He didn't say anything, he just swept me off the table and went for me with a chair." He held up his left arm. "See that? Ahhh, you can't without a magnifying glass, but it won't extend all the way. Wez McCrodon did that—and if the officers had come in even a second or two later, he'd have finished me."

"Whoa!" the young doe bunny sat back, stunned. Holy carrot sticks. Wesley McCrodon may have reveled in the nickname 'Crazy Wez'—but if you even so much as suggested that he might have some real psychological issues, it was time to watch the fur fly. "You must have had nightmares for a week." she said.

Rodenberg surprised her by waving a dismissive paw.

"Nahhh, I've had worse, and to tell the truth, I was actually kind of grateful. After that little incident, even The Mister couldn't force me to represent the kid. He paid me an extra ten grand for my troubles, plus medical expenses and put me on a plane back to Zootopia." He let out a breath and shook his head. "And if I NEVER see Zoo York or Zoo Jersey again, it'll be too soon. As for Crazy Wez, that was where he got his nickname—how's that for irony—and it was also how he ended up in Granite Point. I don't know if Conor's aware of that or not."

"I guess that was the end of the road for him and his uncle, too." Erin suggested…and was immediately rewarded with another toothy smirk.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? But nope…now nothing was gonna stop the old guy from tying to get him sprung."." He threw up his paws and now she could see that yes, his left arm couldn't extend all the way. "Why…I'll never understand. Everyone else around him thought bringing that kid into The Company was the worst thing since New Coke. Nobody liked the idea, not his brothers, not his captains, and not nearly every single one of his soldiers…and me too, you shouldn't be surprised. His other nephew, Kieran—the one that ran his cyber-rackets—was dead set against it. Even his son, James Jr., whom he otherwise doted on, tried to talk him out of it." Rodenberg's expression became even more sardonic. "And that's something ELSE that Conor got right; if Wez had ever met Junior McCrodon face-to-face, he'd have whacked out that punk in a Zoo York second. I never saw such a spoiled, snot-nosed brat in all my life."

A small chill rippled through the white-furred young bunny. The more she heard about Wesley McCrodon, the more he sounded like an even more volatile version of Craig Guilford—if such a thing were possible.

"I…I just can't believe Conor would allow himself to get mixed up with someone that unhinged."

"I can," Rodenberg told her forthrightly, "Make no mistake kiddo, the joint—even a Juvie joint—is a dangerous place. When you're on the inside, you do whatever you can to protect yourself. And the best way, period, is to join a crew—even if it's run by someone you can't stand. That way, if anyone messes with you, they're also messing with everyone else in your group." He leaned forward again, this time giving her a penetrating look. "I don't blame Conor for hooking up with The Enforcers—not one little bit. If it were me, I'd have done the same thing, and never thought twice about it."

"So…what did you do to protect yourself?" Erin said it and immediately wanted to bite her tongue. She hadn't meant to voice it as a challenge.

But the grey rat only smiled, as if he'd been expecting the question from the get-go.

"I had my own way of shielding myself," He frowned slightly, "Though I never planned on things working out that way." He cocked a thumb in the direction of the examination room. "Assuming Conor's telling the truth—and for the moment I do—he's not the only animal on this boat that got put away on a bad rap." He tapped the base of his throat. "I was given two 75-year sentences, back-to-back, for a double mammacide—when I hadn't been anywhere near the place at the time. I was able to prove that on retrial—and also that the DA had suppressed and even fabricated evidence against me…and that the cops had coerced two of the witnesses into giving false testimony.

"Why would they do a thing like that?" Erin asked him in a quivering voice. Sweet cheez n' crackers Mr. Rodenberg had been…framed for murder?

"Three reasons," The grey rat's smile was as bitter as a January blizzard. "Number one, it was a high-profile case, both of the victims were cops. Second, the prosecutor was an ambitious little witch who'd do anything to build up her resume." His expression turned almost feral. "And—I'm happy to say—I paid her back in spades. She went to jail and lost her law license because of me. Last I heard, she's running a coffee shop in Salt Lick City."

For a long second, Erin was unable to respond. It seemed that being wrongfully convicted wasn't the only thing Conor Lewis had in common with his lawyer. Vern Rodenberg too, was unable to let go of the past…or a part of it, at least.

But then she realized; he wasn't done talking.

"Third, and last, when it comes to species-stereotypes, Conor's got nothing on me. If your average fox is shifty and untrustworthy, us rats are sneaking, filthy vermin that spread disease and attack babies in their cribs."

That was good for a guilty wince from the young doe-bunny. Rodenberg was dead right about that stereotype…and had she ever bought into it? Never mind; there was something he still hadn't explained.

"Okay…but how did that…?"

"Ah yes," the smile returned to the grey rat's face. "On the advice of another inmate, I began studying the law…trying to get my conviction overturned. Eventually, I earned two law degrees from correspondence courses I took inside the joint, and went to work on getting a new trial. Along the way I became the go-to guy for any prisoner needing legal assistance. Got a parole hearing coming up? Talk to the rat. Hoping to get your case reopened? Go see Vern Rodenberg. The thing that made me was when I was able to secure a compassionate release for Nunzio Midena, the elephant who headed up the Chicagoat Outfit; something that his six figure attorneys on the outside had been unable to pull off for the better part of a year."

Seeing her puzzled expression, he quickly raised a finger.

"That was my security blanket, Erin Hopps…the animals who owed for helping them out, and also…" his dark eyes seemed to sparkle for a second, "Nobody wanted to see the rat get clipped when I was their best shot at taking a walk." He looked away, and when he looked back again, the bitterness had returned to his face.

"That is…until the prison bureau got fed up with my 'antics', as they called them, and had me transferred to Lemmingworth. Soon as I got there, I found out that I was in a world of hurt. Some punk Tasmanian Devil—a guy I didn't even know—was spreading the word that I'd been a snitch at Jolion." He slapped his paws together and looked away for a second. "That was bad, Erin…really bad. As a newcomer to The Greenhouse, I wasn't well known. Likely some inmate that wasn't aware of my reputation might think he'd be doing the right thing by whacking me."

Erin almost asked him what happened, but at the last second, she realized it wasn't necessary. This rat was on a roll.

"Luckily—or that's what I thought at first—two of Don Nunzio's soldiers were also locked up in Lemmingworth. When he heard about my problem, he had them go pay Mr. Loudmouth a visit in his cell." He sighed and shook his head. "They were only supposed to read him the riot act, but he was such a jerk about it, they ended up killing him—and I ended up defending them. Oy, what a mess!"

Once again, the young doe bunny said nothing. And again, the grey rat wearily shook his head.

"There was nothing I could do. A guard caught them leaving the cell, and the devil-jerk managed to finger them before he checked out. They're still in the joint, both of them. and they won't be eligible for parole for another five years, at least."

"What the heck am I supposed to say to that?" Erin wondered to herself. She'd been curious about Mr. Rodenberg's background ever since Conor had touched on it—but she had never expected a full, unbridled confession.

Oops, he was speaking again.

"The point of all this, Ms. Hopps is…yes, I believe Conor's been telling me the truth, at least the parts where I've been there, done that myself." He raised a finger again, "And if I was a little uneasy about taking him back as a client again, that is most definitely no longer the case." He lowered the finger, and leaned forward. "Don't get me wrong, I still believe he made a big mistake when he broke out of jail. And he absolutely should have stayed away from your audition…"

"That's where you're wrong!" Erin snapped, surprising even herself. "Yes, I know what happened…but it wasn't his fault. He didn't start that riot. And even if I'll never get into The Academy now, I gave them the performance of a lifetime—and it was all thanks to him. No matter what happens next, that's something no one will ever be able to take…."

"What the…?" Rodenberg's chair seemed to have morphed into a catapult. He came flying up onto the table top, landing in a perfect, three-point stance. "Hello?" He straightened up rapidly, once again sporting that piercing look. "Conor sent your sister Judy to the ER, remember? Yeah, I know who she is… AND he nearly got himself killed, and now he's very much guilty of assaulting a police officer—you can't put what he did in that theater down to PTSD alone." He regarded her with an eye that had now turned laser-sharp. "Tell me, kiddo; is all that worth wowing an audience, huh?"

No…it wasn't; not when he put it that way.

But that didn't mean she was going to back down. "All right, no; but then why did you agree to be his lawyer again?" That should make him hesitate, she figured…and she figured wrong. The answer came back like a fastball.

"Because none of this would have happened if that fox kid hadn't been railroaded by the State of Zoo Jersey!" Erin shrank back a little; holy carrot sticks, NOW this rat was on fire. "Even if he did steal that bottle of juice, there's no way in creation he should have been sent to Juvie, much less a place like Granite Point. It was his first offense…and he was how old at the time? That's something else he should have told me in the beginning, but never mind. Whatever he's done since then, it doesn't come close to everything that was done TO him." He returned to his chair and sat down again—hard. "And who can blame him for not wanting to go through that experience all over again? Not me, that's for sure; I'll throw myself under a lawn-mower before I'll go back to Lemmingworth. THAT'S why I agreed to become his lawyer again. I may not agree with his actions, but I sympathize completely with his reasoning; you can take that to any bank you want."

Ouch, she should have known better than to argue with a lawyer. Still—his feelings towards the fugitive young silver fox dovetailed almost perfectly with her own. She decided to offer him an olive-branch.

"So…you've agreed to represent him for good?' He's not on, uh, probation anymore?"

"Provided his story checks out," Rodenberg informed her, lifting a finger to emphasize the caveat, "or at least as much of it as I'll be able to verify."

"But…you think it will check out?" Erin mentally crossed her fingers, not knowing why.

"I do," the grey rat answered, nodding sagely, and then angled his head in the direction of the examination room, "But there's so much he hasn't told us yet…so much that I still need to know."

At that moment, as if on cue, the door to the hallway opened and the otter nurse poked her head through the opening.

"'Kay, we're done with him."

She sounded about as enthusiastic as if she'd just finished taking out the trash.

So…we finished our clean-up and Granite Point passed the inspection—not with flying colors, but it was enough to get us those two days off and that week of good eats we'd been promised. It was kind of a surprise; most of us were sure that thanks to Marc Shevaldo's little stunt, we weren't getting anything but a boot up the tail. Instead, it was practically a festival—but not for me. I couldn't stop thinking about that pygmy hippo and everything he'd said to me.

When I think back on it now, I see that as the moment when Wez McCrodon's hold on me first began to loosen. I didn't realize it at the time, and I wouldn't for a long while to come, but that was when we first started to go in different directions. All that week, when I went to sleep, I kept dreaming about my mother. She never said anything, or did anything, she was just…there. But every time I woke up, I found myself remembering what she'd told me about being a good kid. What would she say, if she could see me now?

Anyway, shortly after the end of 'good week,' Wez made the announcement that he was going to be leaving us for a while. "I gotta make an appearance before the Judge down at Johnstone. Should be back in three, four days at the most. Cutty, you're in charge, 'til I get back."

"Dis your uncle's doin'?" the leopard-kid asked him, cryptically; the first time I ever heard a reference to The Mister.

"I wish," he shrugged, "But honestly, I dunno what the heck's goin' on. When I tried to ask the One-Armed Bandit, (The Warden) about it, Lurch told me to shut my cake-hole."

That was good for a knowing nod from every single Enforcer. None of us were worried though—mainly because Wez didn't seem worried. After he left, Cutty surprised me by designating me as his second in command. In the days that followed, we spent a lot of time together and I got to know that leopard kid even better than before.

Things went smoothly in Wez's absence—for the simple reason that there was nothing going on, no 'work orders' from The Mammal, no snitches to be handled, no problems with any of the other crews, nothing. It was what we used to call 'dead time,' and both Cutty and I were perfectly content with it.

"Not like Wez, he go stir-crazy after two days widdout any action." The big cat grinned as we sat together in the library, one rainy afternoon.

"Can I…ask you something about him?" I said; I'd been wanting to for a long time but had only just now got up the courage.

Cutty frowned and his ears laid back a little. "Not good to be talkin' bout Wez behind his back, Z."

"It's nothing fursonal." I said, quickly raising my paws, "It's just that…well, everyone knows that he was the Bearfoot Bandit. I read all about him online, before me and my best-bud Jimmy tried to take off for the summer." I had told Cut the story during one of our training sessions, "But before I actually met him, I had no idea he'd even been arrested…much less sent to Granite Point."

At once the grin returned to Cutty's face—now with extra toothiness.

"You check de date on any of those t'ings you read?"

"No," I admitted, trying not to sound annoyed. I had already figured that much out for myself. "But shouldn't I have seen something about him getting busted? It's not exactly the kind of thing the cops are gonna keep quiet about."

"Ohhhh," Just like that Cutty was nodding soberly, "Yah, I see where you comin' from, mommal. Dat was his uncle's doing."

"Uncle?" I said, feeling my head tilt sideways. For as long as I'd been in The Point, Wez had never mentioned having any relatives; at least, I hadn't heard him talk about them.

"Yep," Cutty nodded, "He's got dis uncle, up in Zoo York City; crime boss." He held his paws apart, as if describing the size of a fish he'd caught, "BIIIG crime-boss—weapons dealah. He de one sends Wez his care-packages every month. Boss's got dis other nephew; don't remembah his name but he's big-time computer hackah. Fixed up Zoogle so dat if you search for Wez McCrodon or Bearfoot Bandit, anyt'ing 'bout his arrest or him bein' sent to Juvie gets shoved back to somethin' like tenth page."

Whoo…I wanted to laugh sooo bad. Was this the same leopard kid who, less than a minute ago, had tried to warn me off asking anything about Crazy Wez? I might have at least sniggered, if I hadn't been so confused.

"Why would he do a thing like that…the uncle, I mean?"

Cutty looked away for a second, pinching at the bridge of his nose.

"Your guess, good as mine, Z." Back came that pearly grin again. "But he IS Wez's uncle. So, mebbe doin' t'ings, don't seem to make no sense, runs in de family eh?"

"Riiight," I agreed, offering a toothy grin of my own. Later, of course, I found that Cutty had been dead-bang in his speculation. And you saw it too, didn't you Mr. Rodenberg?

Anyway, there wasn't anything more that leopard knew about Wez's 'Uncle Crime Boss.' Or…anything that he was willing to tell me at least. And so, the subject shifted to his own background…and how HE had ended up in Granite Point.

"I got busted in Voletee Park, up Teaneck Zoo Jersey for possession of catnip. I wasn't usin', just transportin,'" he hastened to explain, and then shook his head. "Ohhh, I was havin' some bad juju dat day. If Sheriff John Brown had shown up just two minutes latah, I'd have been clean, and if I'd had just one less ounce on me, would have been misdemeanah, not felony."

"Awww. Jeez…" I groaned; talk about a tough break.

The incident that had gotten him sent to Granite Point had taken place during a brawl on the basketball court of the Essex County Juvenile detention center. Like many another jailhouse fracas, this one had started out as an argument between two players and quickly escalated into a melee between their rival gangs. Cutty, who had been waiting his turn on the bench, had quickly found himself in the thick of it.

"I was goin' at it wit' dis black bear kid, when suddenly anodder bear grabbed me round my throat. I hit him in de gut wid'me elbow, and den t'rew him off and went for him wid my claws. Dat was when I saw—oh, no—it wasn't a detainee, it was bloody guard. I stopped myself from slashin' him, just in time, but de damage was done."

"Yep…" I nodded, grimly. It was a no-brainer that assaulting an officer would get you sent to Granite Point.

Actually, in Cutty's case…

"Could have probably avoided De Point, if I'd apologized and said it was mistake." He said, and then his ears laid back and his tail stiffened, "But no way was I sayin' 'sorry' to a hack…'specially not to DAT bloke," he spread his arms, "An' so…here I am."

There was one upside to that incident at least; it was Cut's refusal to apologize for his actions that had gotten him into The Enforcers. "I like your attitude, cat." Wez had told him, offering a high-five. And unlike me, that leopard kid had been hoping to get recruited into the crew.

When Wez got back from the Johnstone Campus, he had to spend three days in The Hole before being released back into the general population.

"Don't know what he did to make De Mammal mad at him," Cutty told us, when he got the news, "But dey holdin' him in de dry cell." That was good for a low whistle from everybody. The dry cell was reserved exclusively for troublemakers of the aquatic and rainforest type. As the name implied, it was equipped with de-humidifiers that made it drier than an airline cabin in there. They could also adjust the heat as needed, close to freezing for any tropical species, hot as an iron-works for a cold-weather animal like Wez. If they'd put him in that cell, it meant that they were seriously torqued with him. Normally, he did his solitary in the same generic hole as the rest of us.

When Wez finally came out of isolation, his fur was like dried grass and some of it was falling out in clumps, but he was otherwise in an upbeat mood.

The story he told us was this. He'd been called to Johnstone Campus to give a deposition in the case of another kid, a bunny of all things, who'd been—Hey, put that down Snowdrop! What, do you think I only made that up to bug you? He WAS a rabbit; deal with it.

Now, as I was saying—before I was so rudely interrupted—he'd been caught burglarizing these summer homes down in Ocean City, using the same basic methods as the Bearfoot Bandit. In fact, their M.O. had been so similar, John Q. Law had leaped to the conclusion that they must have been partners at some point. When Crazy Wez had gotten the news, he had refused point blank to give that deposition, but the thing was…

"I wouldn't have talked anyway," he told us, "But honestly, I couldn't have given up that bunny-kid, even if I'd wanted to. I never saw him before in my life."

That was what he'd told the prosecutors…and naturally, they hadn't believed him.

All of us either growled or hissed…so typical of The Mammal.

During his absence Wez had received another care package, which he opened and shared with the rest of us. At the bottom was something I hadn't seen before, a small bag of cookies. At first, I thought they were raspberry cookies, but the filling was too dark. No, wait they were blackberry cookies. Ohhh, be still, my growling stomach. I love blackberries, always have, and I hadn't had any since running away from foster care.

Wez must have noticed the way I was looking at them, because he reached down and grabbed them…and then offered them to me.

"Here Z…why don't you take these?" I did, of course, he would have been insulted if I hadn't.

Stuke Stuckey later told me, "He must really like you, Z…those cookies are some of his favorites."

Yeah, Wez did that…it's the kinda guy he was. Generous one minute, ready to smack you around the next. When our group broke up, he told me to come and see him in his cell. "I got something private to talk over with you."

I had some business to take care of that afternoon, so I didn't get the chance to visit him until after what passed for dinner. When I rapped on the door-frame he had me sit down on the bunk, and then went to the door, checking to see if anyone else was within hearing distance.

And then he gave me the news. "I took care of those two punks for ya, while I was down at Johnstone."

I felt my ears go up and my eyes widening. What the FOX was he talking about?

I soon found out.

"That dhole kid and that coati kid." He said, pointed briefly at my face. "The ones who did that number on your muzzle. I caught up with 'em in the lavatory and smoked 'em both."

I knew right away that he hadn't taken on the two of them together; a mink, even a sea-mink couldn't have handled both of those guys at once. Wez McCrodon was crazy but he wasn't suicidal. I also knew that he must have gotten the jump on them—and I was pretty sure that I knew how he'd done it.

Uhhh, sorry Erin…but I'd rather not say. You know what I'm talking about though, right Mr. Rodenberg? How did I feel…? Well, later on I got a look at exactly what he'd done to those punks; he'd used a pipe, and this time it hadn't been wrapped in newspaper—and there'd been bolts sticking out of it. I nearly puked my guts out when I saw…

Huh…? What do you mean, I still haven't answered your question?

"Ahhh…okay. At the time, all I felt was disappointment. Yeah, those guys had jumped me; but it wasn't them I wanted, it was the jerk who'd actually done my face, the one I couldn't remember. I didn't say so to Wez of course, but that was what I was thinking. I consoled myself with the reminder that it was just as well he hadn't been there; I wanted that jerk for myself. And when I caught up with him…

Aw, cool yer jets, Erin. That's not how I feel now…okay? My muzzle's all fixed, and I'm done with wanting payback on the guy who did that to me.

On a related subject—no, I'm not dodging—Wez had long since disabused me of the idea that Wayne Babin was the kid who…

Oh right, I never... I mean the sable kid who came in on the bus with me, the one with all the restraints. By then I knew for sure that it hadn't been him; he'd been at large at the time. He had run away from Youth Forestry Camp #2, near Wild Haven Bunnsylvania, and hitched his way to Zoo Jersey—where he'd managed to con his way into this shelter for abused kids. It was what he'd done while there that had earned him a trip to The Point…and also the muzzle and collar-chain I'd seen him wearing.

Surprisingly, after landing in Granite Point, he'd become an almost model prisoner; he did what he was told, when he was told, and never mouthed off to the guards, never got into any fights. If someone stepped on his tail, he would apologize.

And yet…there was something about that sable-kid—and it made everyone want to keep their distance. He was never bullied, never picked on, despite the fact that he was relatively small as predator species go. Myself, I saw him mostly in the gym; he was maybe the biggest workout fanatic in Granite Point—which is really saying something. When he ran circuits around the yard, the weather didn't exist for him. Rain, snow, broiling heat; he was always out there. Once, he peeled off his glasses and went running through a hailstorm that was dropping stones the size of cherries. Came back with an ear all swole up.

You would have thought a guy like that would be a prime candidate for The Enforcers, but no way, Renee. It took less than a week for his story to make the rounds and it pretty much wrecked his chances of being accepted into any crew. Not that he ever seemed interested in joining one—strictly a loner.

I'm telling you this because I'm about to get into the worst thing that happened to me when I was locked up in The Point; the worst thing I ever saw—and the worst thing I ever did. Look at me, Erin; I mean it this time.

Okay…but don't say I didn't warn you.

It was Saturday afternoon and I was tracking this Saiga antelope kid through the hallways. Somebody had been shooting out the overhead lights with a homemade slingshot and there'd been several warnings broadcast over the PA. "Unless the guilty party gives himself up…blah, blah, blah…" As luck would have it, I was the one who spotted Saiga-boy in the act. He didn't notice me, thank goodness; I was able to duck around a corner in the nick of time. And naturally, I didn't tell The Mammal—but I did tell Wez. "He's not being real careful about it. Sooner or later the guards are gonna find out that he's the guy. Honestly, I dunno how he's been able to get away with it this long."

"In that case," Wez leaned across the table with his paws folded. "I want you to start tracking him and get his movements clocked. Chances are, when the guards figure out it's him, they'll want us to handle it."

"Right."

Saiga-boy turned out to be almost ridiculously easy to follow; the whole time I was tailing him, he never looked back, never checked over his shoulder, and he always took the most direct route to wherever he was going.

That is…except for today. Without warning, he suddenly veered down a corridor to his left. Now, what the heck was that all about? I knew he hadn't made me; his ears had never once turned in my direction, much less his eyes. Just the same, I thought it unwise to follow him directly—but I happened to know that the next hallway over ran parallel to the one he'd taken. If I went that way, with a little luck, I'd be able to catch up with him on the other side.

At the end of the hallway, there was a T-junction. To the left was a shortcut to the commissary—which was where I figured the Saiga kid was headed. There was nothing to the right but a narrow corridor leading to the laundry-works. And it was closed today; he'd have no reason to go there.

Just the same, when I got to the end of the hallway, I flattened myself against the wall and listened. That's the nice thing about tracking a hoofed species across a concrete floor; hoofbeats on cement are the easiest thing in the world to follow. And sure enough, when that Saiga kid came out of his hallway, he turned left, towards the commissary. I made a quick, mental note. If we did get word from The Mammal, this would be the perfect place to set up a…

That was as far as my thoughts went, before I heard something else.

It was very faint, and very high pitched; only a fox or a canine species would have been able to pick it up. But I recognized it at once, the shriek of a shrew…and not just any shrew, my fellow Enforcer, Thread.

At once, I felt my tail frizz, and my neck-fur standing up. I had heard him shriek before, lots of times—but not like this. In all those other instances, he'd been angry. THIS was a shriek of terror.

And there was no mistaking the one that followed from Needle, "Somebody…HELP!"

I swung to the right and dropped to all fours, running for all I was worth. The heck with Saiga-boy; one of my crew was in trouble! With every step I ran, I could hear Thread's screams getting louder and louder. And then he let out this one, massive shriek…and then nothing, like someone had flipped a switch.

When I hit the laundry room, I didn't see anything at first. But then I heard something, a kind of crunching, smacking noise…coming from the other side of one of the big support pillars.

Moving quickly but cautiously. I crept over to the support column and ducked my head around—and then it was my turn to scream.

I-It was…Wayne Babin…the sable kid. He...He had Needle in his paw, and was…k-keeping his muzzle pinched shut with a thumb and forefinger. And…he was chewing…there were…stains, a-and I could see, sticking out of the corner of his mouth…

Awww, NO! Dangit, I tried to warn her. No, Mr. Rodenberg, let her go. She'll come back when she's ready…I hope.

Yeah…okay. When I saw what was happening, I was too stunned to move…but Wayne wasn't. He threw away Needle like an empty pop-can, and was all over me before I had time to think. Oh, my God…he was maybe two thirds my size, but his strength was like…he handled me like an empty back-pack; threw me face first, up against one of the dryers and then jumped on me from behind…

And…the next thing I knew, I was waking up, cuffed to a bed again. Only this time, I was wearing a muzzle.

Yep, you're right. That was the first time I lost it when someone grabbed me from behind—although at the time, I naturally had no idea what had happened. I couldn't remember anything from after that sable-kid jumped on me. Heck, the biggest question on my mind right then was, why wasn't I dead? And where the heck was I? This wasn't the Johnstone Campus infirmary, I knew that right away, and it wasn't The Hole either. Was I even still in Granite Point…or had they taken me somewhere else?

I called out "Hello?" or tried to; it sounded like I was gargling. I swallowed, cleared my throat, and tried again. "Hello? Hello!" That was only a little better, but it had an effect. The lights came on—blinding lights—and I heard a door open. For the moment I couldn't see anything, but my nose was telling me that there were two of them. The first one, I could barely smell, but she was a dormouse. The other one though was hard to miss; it was my old buddy, Lurch. So, I was still at Granite Point, or…was I? As my eyes began to adjust to the light, I found that I was in a room that I totally didn't recognize. Way too clean for one thing; almost spotlessly clean. And the bed was actually…Heh…wouldja believe an examination table? Yeah, I was in the same kind of room where I am right n…

Hey Erin…you okay? No, it's all right, c'mon in. Look, I'm sorry if I spooked you. Wanna grab yourself some water before you sit down? No, I'm done with the worst of it.

I'll just give you the quick version of what happened next. Wayne jumped on my back and I blacked out again…and then I woke up in The Clinic.

Yeah Mr. Rodenberg, that's where I was—specifically in the intake room of the Incorrigible Section, the place where they put the violent kids.

I spent the next hour undergoing a medical exam that made the one I had just now look foxin' casual. The dormouse-doc climbed up on my chest and shone a penlight down my throat, my nostrils, and then in both of my eyes. While this was going on an armadillo-nurse came in and started taking my blood-pressure and other vitals. All the while, I kept still and kept my mouth shut—mainly coz Lurch told me to. They stuck me with a needle at least five times, put electrodes on my chest, and also on my head. It was while all of this was going on that I became aware of something. My arms and midsection were swathed in bandages. And this time, it wasn't your quick patch-up job.

When at last they finished, Dr. Dormouse jumped down to the floor, and I heard her say, to no one in particular, "Well, we won't know the full story until we get the labs back—but so far, everything looks perfectly normal from my end."

That was it, Lurch or no Lurch, I couldn't stand any more.

"What's going on?" I cried, "Where am I? How did I get here? Please…what happened?"

I half expected a smack for that outburst, but all I got was a moment of silence.

And then I heard Lurch again…sounding surprised rather than ticked off. "Holy crow, I think…he really doesn't know."

I saw his big, white, polar-bear face looming over me, studying me even more intently than Dr. Dormouse had, a moment ago.

"What's the last thing you remember, fox-kid?" Sheesh, did he actually sound a tiny bit sympathetic?

"Th-That sable-kid, Wayne Babin, jumping on me from behind. And that's all until I woke up here." I felt like I could almost remember the rest of it…but didn't want to.

And with good reason; what he said next felt like someone dropping a sheet of ice on me.

"He's dead, Murphy…you killed him."

"I…what?" My voice was a high, squeaky gekker. "But…but…"

"Hey, don't sweat it kid." Lurch just kind of shrugged. Oh my God, now he sounded genuinely sympathetic, "We know what he did. If it was up to me, you'd get a medal for taking out that freak. And you probably saved that other shrew-kid's life."

Okay…I need to jump forward again here. I only learned the full story in bits and pieces—and some of it I didn't pick up until much later. No Erin…there won't be any gory details, promise.

Remember that Saiga kid I'd been tracking? When I ran out into the hallway and bolted for the laundry-works, he saw me—and then followed me. How I missed him, I don't know, but he got to the laundry room only a minute after I did.

…And saw everything that happened.

Rather than get involved—prolly a smart move on his part—he turned and ran for help.

But the guards were already on the way. We were making a LOT of noise, Wayne and me; they'd been able to hear us clear up in the Warden's office, or that's the story I was told later on. This one guard shot me with a tranq dart and another one pulled me off the Babin kid —in that order, which was probably a wise move on their part. If they'd grabbed me first, I don't know what the heck I would have done.

But getting back to the present, at last, finally, I knew where they'd taken me. No way would I not be sent to The Clinic after offing another kid—especially in the middle of a blackout.

How did I feel about…? For cryin' out loud Mr. Rodenberg, what are you…my lawyer or my shrink? Okay…sorry, but the answer is, I didn't get the chance to feel much of anything. Right then, someone stuck me with a needle and I was out of it again. As I started to slip away, I thought I heard Dr. Dormouse going off on Lurch for having told me what I'd done.

When I woke up again, I was in a…ahhh, you ever seen those pics from the Cliffside Sanitorium—the ones from after Erin's sister, Judy helped bust the place? It was like one of those rooms where Mayor Lionheart had the missing preds stashed; inch-thick plexiglass, with perforations, big, sliding doors, with electronic locks and warning lights all over the corridor walls. The door to each cell had a holder with a clipboard stuck in it.

Other than that, though, it was totally different; the lighting was soft and so were the colors; everything was in this kind of low-key pastel. The walls were even painted with flower decorations. Honestly, if it hadn't been for the fact that all the furniture was bolted in place, you could almost have mistaken it for a motel room. There was even a flat-screen TV—set into the wall, behind armored glass, but there it was.

Heh…but, as I think you can imagine, it wasn't there for my entertainment. There was no remote, no controls of any kind. And at the moment, it was dark.

After opening my eyes, I started to get up…and then lay back down again, staring up at the ceiling. Had I really done that sable kid? If Lurch had been lying to me, it wouldn't have been the first time.

Yeah, right…but he'd approved of my actions. Why would he do that, unless…?

All right, maybe I had…done it. What would happen to me now? Wayne Babin had attacked me before I'd even had time to blink…and he'd already proven that he was capable of killing. Whatever I'd done, I'd acted totally in self-defense. Any reasonable mammal would know that in a heartbeat.

Only…since when was the State of Zoo Jersey a reasonable outfit?

I spent the next few minutes conjuring up all sorts of unpleasant fates for myself; being confined in here for the rest of my life, being sent to an adult prison… In my worst-case scenario I imagined getting the death penalty. What can I say, I was one seriously scared fox-kid. Who wouldn't be, in a situation like that?

For the next two days, I was pretty much left alone. The only time I saw anyone was when the orderlies came by to drop off my meals.

Yep…orderlies. They were never called guards, or even officers in that place—and never dressed like 'em either. They always wore scrubs, even the heavies, the guys carrying the sticks, mace, and tranq-dart guns. They didn't act like the guys back at The Point either, always polite and soft-spoken.

But make no mistake—try getting rebellious or uncooperative with those dudes, and you'd find they were every bit as quick with the thump-therapy as Lurch and Company.

I should mention here that the food in that place wasn't just good, it was excellent; even better than what I'd had at home, much less back at The Point.

The Point…

What'd Wez had to say when he'd heard about me being sent off to The Clinic? What about the rest of the guys? Had they already found a replacement for me? Ohhh, what I wouldn't have given right then to have been able to shoot them a message.

On the third day, Dr. Dormouse—her actual name was Dr. Winters—showed up at my cell with a pair of orderlies, both heavyweights, a bighorn ram and the most humongous wolf I'd ever seen.

The sheep was carrying shackles and a muzzle, while Wolfie was equipped with pepper gas and a stun baton.

It was Doc Winters who did all of the talking.

"Good morning Mr. Murphy. Please face the wall, and put your paws behind your back. Oh…and you'll need to keep your claws sheathed." She was as chipper as a Howl-Mart greeter—but sugar-coated poison is still poison. I turned around and did as I was told; nothing else would have pleased her.

When they led me from my cell, I hesitated for a second. My nose had just caught a familiar scent—very familiar; it was Marc Shevaldo. He was in the cell, just to my right. I tried to look, but before I could even begin to turn my head, I heard Dr. Winters' voice again. "Come on now, let's get a move on, shall we?"

I had never wanted to step on someone so badly.

Even without looking, I knew it was the hippo kid's odor I'd picked up. And yet…there'd been something different about it; an undercurrent that no pred species will ever fail to recognize; the smell of adrenaline.

The smell of fear.

I had thought they'd be taking me back to the examination room, but instead they brought me to a padded cell with off-white walls and no furnishings. They took me inside, closed the door, and then, to my considerable surprise, the wolf began removing my restraints while the sheep kept a taser trained on me.

Soon as that was done, Bigwolf started suiting up in a heavy-duty Kevlar suit with a laminated helmet and a stainless-steel face mask. What the heck was going on here? When I tried to ask, I was politely told that I'd be informed later. Ah, well…at least I hadn't been ordered to shut my face or else.

Things got even stranger when they put this thing on me that, at first, I thought was a straitjacket. Turned out to be some kind of vest, with a battery pack and something like a dozen wire leads. Three of these were stuck to my chest, and the rest were fastened to my head. They were tiny little things; no bigger than pinheads, and fit easily through the spaces in my fur. As soon as they were in place, a cap was put over my head, to keep them there, and a bandage was wrapped around my chest.

And then everybody left, except for the wolf in the body armor.

For a long moment, nobody said anything, except for me being told to stand still over the intercom.

Then I heard Dr. Winters again, "All right, turn around please."

I did…and the armored wolf immediately grabbed me from behind.

And again…the next thing I knew, I was waking up in bed—but in my cell, not the examination room. And this time, I wasn't shackled or muzzled.

But I could feel a pain in my…errrr, a pain that told me I'd been tagged with another tranq dart.

Huh, what do you mean, exactly where did it hit me? Why the heck do you need to know that for, Erin?

Ohhh-kay, bunny-girl…if you really wanna know, it'd be easier to show you than to tell you. Here, let me just…

THAT'S better. And next time, Snowdrop, try to remember which one of us is the clever species.

Whoa, does your sister know you use that kind of language?

Yeah, yeah…okay. This time I wasn't worried that I'd hurt anyone. Somehow, I knew that I hadn't. I couldn't remember, but I just knew.

As my senses continued on their comeback tour, I became aware that my bandages had all been changed…and that I also had a new one, a small patch on the back of my wrist. They must have taken a blood sample while I was out.

For the next few days, once again my only contact was with the orderlies. There was no sign of Dr. Winters. Once, when the air seemed to shift slightly, I caught another, very strong whiff of Marc Shevaldo. I tried to call out. "Hey Marc, is that you?" There was no answer, but before I could try it again, the door to the ward swung open and a pair of orderlies came in; a rhino and another bighorn sheep.

"Son," the big ram told me, "Please try to keep it down here, okay?"

He was friendly enough, but I barely heard him; the stun-baton, the rhino kept slapping against his hoof was getting most of my attention. Needless to say, I put a zipper on it. Aggggh, grrrrr…I should have remembered that they were watching me—and also listening.

Two days later, I was taken back to the padded room, the same routine as before.

Well, not quite… When I woke up in my cell again, I was in a fetal position—and why was it so dark in here, and why was the bed so hard? Wai-i-it a minute, I wasn't in my bed; I was under it. I crawled back out into the light again, brushing myself off and then stopping. At least, it hadn't been dirty under there.

It didn't take long. Even before I finished standing up, the door to the ward opened and the bighorn sheep came in again. This time he had a pedestal in his hoof and Dr. Winters riding on his shoulder. He dropped the pedestal in front of my cell, set her down on it, and then stepped back.

For a long few minutes, she just peered through the plexiglass at me; her expression was unreadable. I remember once, the orderly telling her, "Don't get too close." She ignored him.

Finally, she said, "Mr. Murphy…how are you feeling right now?" She didn't sound particularly sympathetic—or especially angry. The vibe I was getting from this dormouse was…she sounded puzzled.

And she wasn't only one; what the heck kind of question was that? I felt pretty much the same as I had when they'd come to get me. That is, except for a lingering sting in my arm and shoulder—from two different needles this time.

"I feel okay," I shrugged, "same-old, same-old…why, what's up?"

Instead of answering my question, she turned to the orderly.

"I need the exam room prepped ASAP for a small species, plus another orderly…no, make that two. And make sure they bring restraints."

"Yes Doctor." The ram replied and then went to the door and left.

On the way to the examination room again, they took extra care to make sure that no one was walking behind me. And then it was the same routine as last time, vitals checked, lights in my eyes, and the rest of it. When they were done, Dr. Winters seemed even more bewildered than before. And then, after some deliberation, she reluctantly gave instructions for someone by the name of Dr. Ponder to be called in.

When he arrived, the reason for her hesitancy became instantly and perfectly clear. He was a beaver and highly irritable—spent the first few minutes reaming her out for having called him away from…Ah, I don't remember, but he was one seriously torqued rodent. He then proceeded to give me a brief examination…much quicker than the one I'd just been given.

Then he and Dr. Winters went into a huddle on the far side of the room, with her sitting on a shelf in order to maintain eye contact. I pretended not to hear—and I couldn't hear all of it.

And most of what I heard didn't seem to make any sense.

"…found him under the…?"

"…check his pupils? Then it…a reaction to the light."

"It still doesn't…should have…"

"How big of a…"

"…Milligrams."

"What…impossible!"

"…what I thought but…records."

"…And he's fully…?"

"Completely! Now do…understand why…"

"Okay…but you're sure…not the same…?"

"Positive.…Nighthowler…wouldn't be fully…."

That was the first time I ever heard mention of that flower—though it goes without saying that I had no idea what they were talking about. When Dr. Winters spoke again, she sounded positively thrilled.

"...understand? …could be…breakthrough we've been…"

That was the last thing I heard out of either one of those docs right then. As if suddenly remembering something, Doctor Winters turned and gave orders for me to be returned to my cell.

It was when they brought me back into the ward that I realized something; Marc Shevaldo's scent was no longer present in the air. It was gone—and so was he.

Once again, I spent the next few days alone in my cell, seeing nobody but the orderlies.

But then, on the third or maybe the fourth day, I woke up in the morning, and immediately felt my ears laying back and my neck-fur spiking. There was a new scent in the air…and it was getting me seriously triggered.

I had no trouble placing it; it belonged to a certain mustelid—one that I knew a whole lot better than I'd have liked.

Wayne Babin was somewhere on the ward.

So, I hadn't killed him after all.

When I think back on it now, I'm not 100% sure that Lurch lied to me about offing him—at least not knowingly. He may have only been repeating what he'd been told by the docs. As I later found out, those jerks were the most bald-faced liars on the planet. I swear, if you hooked one of 'em up to a polygraph machine, the readout would prolly tell you, 'Shoot Me Now!'

But when I took another whiff of air, there it was again; that same smell of fear I'd detected from Marc Shevaldo. What I didn't know—at least not then—was that when that hippo-kid had been put here, it had been a mistake. Wayne's presence, on the other paw, was purely intentional.

As I was to find out for myself, very shortly.

It happened right after lunch. When the orderly came to collect my tray, he wasn't alone. Once again, I was put into restraints and a muzzle. Only this time, they stuck me in a wheelchair and attached monitor leads before moving me.

And then they rolled me up in front of the cell where Wayne Babin was being held.

At first, I couldn't see much. He was crouching on the bed in a fetal position, with his face turned to the wall. He was shivering slightly, and I thought I could hear him whimpering.

Then I heard the voice of Dr. Winters, on the intercom.

"Mr. Babin…you have a visitor."

He didn't seem to hear her, and she spoke again, this time more forcefully.

"Look out through the window, please."

Now, finally, he turned to face me.

No…I hadn't killed him, but…

Ahhh, I'll spare you the full description. Let's just say that if the Babin kid HAD been the guy who'd wrecked my face, we would have been more than even.

Yeah, it bothered me…but not nearly as much as what he did when he realized who was there. He screamed, scampered over to the corner of the bed and buried himself under the covers, sobbing his head off. The smell of fear coming off of him was so strong, it almost made me want to gag.

Right away, I knew that it wasn't just coz of…whatever I'd done to him after he jumped me. Something else was going on here; something a whole lot worse. Anyway, after maybe five more minutes, I was taken back to my cell, with no explanation given. A little while later, Dr. Winters showed up with a clipboard and notepad. What she wanted to know was…had the sight of Wayne Babin triggered any memories of what had happened after my blackout. It hadn't, and I told her so; I still couldn't remember a thing from after he'd grabbed me. This time, though, she didn't look puzzled; she just nodded and made a few notes.

I didn't see her again for another three days…but when I woke up the next morning, there was no sign—or scent—of Wayne Babin. Whoa, was I grateful for that; he'd been blubbering non-stop ever since our encounter, and I had barely been able to fall asleep.

Hmmm, knew you were gonna ask me that Erin. And to tell the truth…no, I didn't feel the slightest bit guilty over what I'd done to that jerk—not after what I'd seen him do in that laundry room. What concerned me a whole lot more was…was the knowledge that the same thing would happen to anybody who grabbed me from behind…even someone that I cared about.

No, Mr. Rodenberg, it's true…as matter of fact, that's how I ended up on this boat in the first place. You see, after I caught up with Erin, the other night…

What, now? Okay bunny-girl, if you're sure…you tell him.

Chapter 57: Conor's Story (Continued...Part 8)

Summary:

Inside The Clinic...and out

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

---

The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Continued…Part 8)

♪ Can you feel my skin?
Can you feel my bones?
Can you put my spine in plaster and take me home?

So unpleasant, inside and out
So unpleasant, inside and out
If you like, I'll tell you about it
You wouldn't want to know

My heads full of water
Tears I never cried
Could you hold me under the shower
In the cold outside?

So unsteady, inside and out
So unsteady, inside and out
If you like, I'll tell you about it
You wouldn't want to be

Separated out! ♫

Marillion – Separated Out

---

"This kid is either the craziest, cleverest, dumbest, or bravest bunny in the city of Zootopia. No, scratch that—in all of CREATION. And when you consider who her sister is…that's saying something and a half!"

As attorney to The Mob, Vernon J. Rodenberg was no stranger to stunning revelations. He'd stopped counting at ten the number of times a client had told him, "Lissen, there's something else I needa tellya..."

Even so, the bombshell Erin Hopps just dropped had been an absolute stunner; enough to blow him clear into the middle of next Passover. When she'd finished her story, the grey rat had insisted on hearing it again.

And both times, the young doe-bunny had held up like a rock. She really had grabbed Conor from behind—on purpose—in order to deliberately set him off.

Flabbergasted as he was by what she'd done, Rodenberg couldn't fault the reckoning behind it. Yes, that fox-kid might have killed her, and yes—her gambit had nearly brought him to death's door.

But better that than Conor Lewis becoming a murderer. However recklessly Erin might have gone about it, she'd been 1000% correct in wanting to stop him from clipping that coyote-kid. Once you crossed that line, you never came back—and no one knew that better than a mob lawyer.

There was just one thing still eating at him.

He knew who Craig Guilford was, yet another meshugenneh little shmendrik…the 'yote-kid who'd served as his father's eyes-on-the-ground, when he'd tried to launch a chemical attack on the Carrot Days Festival. Certainly, that punk hated rabbits…and the Hopps clan in particular. It was Erin's sister, Judy, who had busted him after all.

All right, BUT…had that been reason enough for Conor to go after him with lethal intentions? True, this was assuming Ms. Hopps account just now had been accurate—but Rodenberg was all but certain that it had. As he'd recently reminded his once-and-prospective client, he had radar for that sort of thing.

Except…Erin had told the truth all right, but it hadn't been the whole truth; of that the grey rat was equally certain. Something was missing here; something that he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Unfortunately, it was also something he needed to know.

With that in mind, he assumed his most formal manner.

"Ms. Hopps, there's still one thing I don't understand. Why would Conor want to END that coyote-kid?" He shifted his gaze to the silver fox on the exam table, putting extra emphasis on the word, "WHY?"

Erin tried to answer, but all that came out was a tearful whimper. The young silver fox on the exam table had better luck.

"Nooo, better let me tell him, bunny-girl." With that, he shifted his gaze in Vern Rodenberg's direction, sending a small shiver through the grey rat's tail. His client's eyes were like coals in a forge—and when he spoke, his voice was as cool and precise as a stiletto. "Craig Guilford killed a friend of mine…in the Precinct-1 jail, during the riot. Sand-cat I know…uh, knew from school, kid named Saad al-Zaqir." He angled his muzzle sideways for a second, "Erin saw him do it,"

For the second time in less than five minutes, Vern Rodenberg was nearly bowled over backwards. "What is this?" Oy, just when he was starting to recover from that last blockbuster. He shifted in his chair, favoring the white-furred young bunny with his famously penetrating gaze. "This is true?"

She blinked back tears and nodded, still unable to speak.

Rodenberg hurriedly checked himself, allowing his expression to mellow and also his voice. Stupid, stupid, stupid…this was no hardball gangster, just a frightened young girl, "And with good reason," he reminded himself.

"Tell me what happened…please," he said.

"She was…" Conor started to say, but was stopped by the rat's raised paw.

"Sorry Booby…I need to hear it from her." He turned to Erin again, his eyes and his tone not unkind. "Please…I know this is difficult, but please try."

Somehow, the young doe-bunny managed it. She stammered her way through most of the story, and broke down sobbing at one point—but she was able to get through it, just the same.

Glancing sideways at Conor for a second, Rodenberg had no lingering doubts as to the fugitive young silver fox's murderous intentions—nor was he surprised, given what he'd learned of his client's history since arriving on board the Mercy Star.

And on that note, he had business to attend to—serious business, very serious.

He stood up and cleared his throat.

"Ms Hopps," he said, once more addressing her formally, "I came here in order to make a final determination as to whether I should continue to represent Mr. Lewis there as his attorney." He cleared his throat a second time. "But now…I should like to offer you my services as well."

"You…huh, what?" Erin's left ear was up and her nose was twitching.

It was Conor who explained it. "He's offering to become YOUR lawyer, Erin."

"Wha…Why?" Now both of her ears were up. "What do I need a lawyer for?"

"Well, for one thing," Rodenberg sat back down again, his face assuming a dry expression, "Correct me if I'm wrong young lady, but didn't you break out of jail the other night?"

"Well…yeah," she admitted, ears pulling backwards as if someone were yanking on them, "But I had to; Craig Guilford was chasing me. It was the only way to get away from him."

Rodenberg sat up again, fast. "So, that coyote-kid knows…he knows that you saw what he did?"

"Y-Yes," she admitted, trying not to turn away.

"Hmmmm" the grey rat stroked at his whiskers, mulling her words. Oy, this put yet another spin on Conor's attempted vendetta; maybe it hadn't been so much an act of vengeance as a pre-emptive strike—getting to that psycho-coyote before HE could get to Erin.

And speaking of Conor…Ahhhh, he should have told that kid to zip it when he had the chance.

"Right, and THAT'S why you should accept Mr. Rodenberg's offer, bunny-girl." He tapped himself in the chest, "Take it from a fox who knows; you absolutely don't wanna have to explain all that for yourself."

"Exactly," the grey rat concurred, nodding and hiding his relief. "Listen to your boyf…your boy, Erin. He's exactly right." He narrowed his eyes and looked sideways, lowering his voice to a murmur, "for once!"

"I..." Erin shrugged helplessly, "I don't know if my family can…how much…?"

"Ah, don't worry about that, kiddo" The grey rat answered, waving a breezy paw, "The offer's pro-bono."

"Pro-bono," Conor started to say, "that means…"

"I know what it means, Charcoal-Boy!" Erin glared at him for second, before returning her gaze to Mr. Rodenberg. "Can I…? I need to think about it."

"Sure…you don't need to answer right now," he told her, nodding, "Tell you what—why don't you hold that thought until Conor finishes with the rest of his story?"

As he said this, he shot another sideways glance at the fugitive young silver-fox, a look that practically screamed, 'So, get ON with it, Booby!'

Ohhh-kayyy, where were we, again? Oh right…the morning after they brought me to see Wayne Babin. Right…well, I didn't have a whole lot of time to feel glad that he was gone. I had barely finished my morning yawn-and-stretch when Dr. Winters came by for another visit. "Ahhh, foxin'-A!" I remember thinking, "here we go again!" She had orderlies with her, both of them packing restraints—and that only meant ONE thing.

Yes…and no. I was not—thank God—subjected to another game of 'Grab-The-Fox-Kid's-Neck-And-See-What-Happens.' Instead, I was brought to the examination room, where Doc W gave me the usual twice over before sending me back to my cell. Just the same, I couldn't help but feel antsy—because that was how she had been acting. All through my checkup, she'd looked like she was ready to scoot out under the door at any second. When she went to take a blood sample, she had to stick me five times before she found a vein. Goes without saying that I didn't complain, much less ask her what the problem was…not with that moose standing by, taser in hoof.

Mind you, my anxiety level had managed to build up pretty good on its own by then. The heck with all those nice colors and soft lights, the ward where they were holding me had turned into one seriously creepy place by then. There were always at least two other kids in the cells close to mine—I could smell them if I couldn't see or hear them—but none of them ever spoke to me, or even to any of the staff.

I heard lots of whimpering and sniffling, though. Sometimes I heard screams—which always brought the orderlies on the run. They also showed up pretty sweet quick if I tried to call out to any of the others. And none of 'em ever answered me, not even once. Heck, they never even seemed to notice I was there; it was like I was shouting into the wind or something.

But then, one time, Dr. Ponder came by to pay me a visit…sort of. He didn't have me brought out of my cell, and he never said a word to me. He only stood there at the window, looking me over as if I'd just crawled out from under a rock. I was sorely tempted to give him the tombstones, but I knew…

Oh, uhhh, the tombstones? That's Point-Speak for baring all your teeth at someone. Anyway, I didn't do it. Dr. Beaverboard had some major backup tagging along; a hippo and a grizzly bear, both of them fully loaded. Finally, he just turned away, muttering under his breath, "Idiot!"

Somehow, I knew he wasn't talking about me.

For the next few days—I don't know how many—it was me, myself, and the orderlies again. Oh, and the flat-screen, I forgot to mention that bad boy.

You've read George Boarwell's 1984, right? Remember that mandatory gadget everyone had in their den, the…telescreen, I think it was called; played propaganda 24/7, and you could never turn it off? That's basically what I had. Whenever it was on, it would either show relaxation videos, or these really cheap, bad, motivational cartoons. The stories varied, but the messages were all the same—be good, behave, and do as you're told—and remember that we're only here to help you.

Gahhh, those vids were awful. I used to wonder, where the heck they got those things, North Korea? And there was no way to shut them off or even turn down the volume.

Ah, but eventually I found a way to make it stop. I started playing Rifftrax with those cartoon-vids whenever they came on—talking way raunchier than what you see on DVD. Hee…it used to bug the snot out of orderlies. Whenever they'd come in and ask me to cool it, they were always polite and friendly, but I could tell; they wanted nothing more than to throw open the door to my cell and shut me up the hard way.

Uh, no…honestly, I wasn't afraid they might. Somewhere, deep down, I had come to the conclusion that I was too valuable to be given any thump therapy. I had no idea why but I knew. Whatever…my plan worked. After only a couple more days, bang…no more propaganda videos, no more anything on that stupid flat screen.

That is, until late one night, when I was sound asleep, and heard a buzzy voice barking, "Wake up! Wake up!"

I sat up quickly and saw that the monitor was powered-up. There was no picture; the only way I could tell that it was on was coz it was almost pitch-dark in my cell.

But then this super-bright light hit me from somewhere outside in the corridor. I remember that it looked a little bit prismatic from passing through the Plexiglas. And then, I heard the door slide open.

For a second or two I panicked. Oh, no…this was where the orderlies paid me back for all the wisecracks I'd dropped during those motivational cartoons.

But then I heard Doc Winters speaking. "Hurry up…quickly," her voice was hushed and anxious—almost a whisper.

Responding to her command, the orderlies fitted me with the usual restraints. I began to wonder…why the heck didn't they turn the lights on? And what time was it anyway? I had no way of knowing—there was no clock, and I hadn't seen the sun since I'd been brought here—but somehow, I knew it was the dead of night.

When I got a better sniff of the orderlies, I was even more certain. Usually, there was at least one hoofed mammal in the mix, but not tonight. This time it was Bigwolf, a smaller wolf. and a swamp bear—three species with excellent night-vision and a super-keen sense of smell. Just what the heck was going on here?

They cuffed me to a wheelchair and brought me straight to the examination room. They'd never done it that way before, and at first, I thought it was in order to get me there quickly. But no, they wheeled me along at a slow walk; really slow, almost sloth speed. After a minute or two, I began to notice that everyone was doing their darndest not to make any noise. No one spoke a single word, not even under their breath. And—why were they all wearing booties on their feet and walking extra soft-like? Myself, I didn't need to be told to keep quiet, the wolf holding a stun-gun to my ear pretty much took care of that problem.

When they brought me to the exam room, things got even weirder. There was a camera, mounted directly over the table, but this time it was pointing in a different direction.

Not only that, why was the smaller wolf watching the hallway through that little window in the door? That'd never been done the previous times I was brought here.

And then there was Dr. Winters. Except for my first session, she had always spoken into a voice recorder while examining me. This time, she used a tablet and kept stopping to make notes on it.

Other than that, it was the usual routine; blood pressure, temperature, and the other vitals, followed by electrodes and blood samples.

But then, something different happened. Doc Dormouse climbed up onto my chest, gazing down at me with her teeth clicking. I could also see her tail shivering…so fast that it looked like it was going to snap off at the base at any second. All the while, she kept taking in these slow, deep breaths, like she was trying to calm herself.

And then, finally, she looked to her right.

"All right, go ahead."

I felt a sting in my arm, and for a moment, I thought they were taking another blood sample. But then I felt a spreading warmth, and knew that I'd been injected with something.

And that was all I felt; as soon as the warm-thing faded away, it was like I'd been given just saline solution or something. There were no anxious feelings, no drowsiness, no nothing. From where I was lying, I had a decent view of the readout monitor and as far as I could tell, there were no changes in any of the lines. For some reason, I thought Dr. Winters would be bothered by that, but she only nodded in satisfaction.

She did, however, give me a thump in the chest—pretty solid for someone her size—and then I heard her hiss, "Work, dang you!"

I just lay there, feeling no different than I had before getting that injection.

Except for one thing…the pain in my arm. It wasn't bad, nothing more than a little sting.

Except…it felt exactly the same as the one from last time—when I'd awakened in my cell after being set off on purpose. I had assumed, back then, that it had come from a tranq-dart. Now, I wasn't so sure.

And…what the heck had they just given me?

They left me like that for an hour—I think—and then brought me to the 'trigger-room,' as I'd started to call it. When I realized where they were taking me, I started begging and pleading, "Please, not again…please!" Even though I couldn't remember anything from my previous blackouts, I for sure didn't wanna go through another one. No way did I want to wake up, feeling like THAT again.

As you prolly guessed already, they ignored me. The only difference was…this time, they had Wolfie suit up before they removed my restraints. Other than that, it was the same old song and dance.

But then, after everyone else left the room…nothing happened. Bigwolf just stood there, watching the window and waiting for the signal—but it didn't come. What the fox now? Glancing to my left, I saw Dr. Winters peering intently through the Plexiglas. The expression on her face reminded me of the way Mr. Kaneska used to look, while watching the Pawerball numbers being drawn.

And then, finally, she said it. "Turn around, please."

"No!"

"Holy foxtrot", I remember thinking, "where did THAT come from?" It was the first time I'd refused an order since—whoa, since the day I'd been arrested. Just the same, I was determined to stand my ground.

Doc Winters only stared for a second, like she couldn't believe what she'd heard. Then she repeated the order, this time stapling each word to the ground as she spoke. "Turn—around—please."

Again, I refused…and her next command was directed at Wolfie. "All right, make him turn around."

Bigwolf promptly made a grab for me, but I ducked easily out his reach. That was when I realized something—something I should have noticed earlier, dumb fox! All that body armor might have made wolf-guy untouchable—but it also made him slower than a wind-up robot-toy. And don't forget…you're talking to the Ringolevio Kid over here.

He chased me all over the trigger room, and never came close to laying a paw on me. All the while, I kept up a steady stream of trash talk…mostly about his species. "Whoa, you guys really CAN huff and puff, can'tchya?" On the other side of the Plexiglas, Dr. Winters was jumping around like a kangaroo mouse, and looking like her head was two shakes from exploding.

Yeah, I knew that what I was doing was dangerous—but for once, I didn't care. A fox, even a fox-kit, can only take so much. And anyway, what were they gonna do, send me to The Clinic?

Then Bigwolf made another grab for me, and almost fell on his face. He straightened up fast, a little too fast, and I couldn't resist the opening. I jumped up in a fox-pounce, hitting him square in the chest when I landed. And just as I'd hoped, the impact, plus the extra weight made him topple over backwards. I bailed off just before he landed, yelling, "Timberrrrrr…WOLF!" The icing on the cake was that when he hit the floor, he was like a turtle rolled on its back; couldn't get up to save his life.

So, what was I supposed to do? I jumped on his chest, lifted my nose, and howled at the ceiling.

Yeah, foxes can howl—not as good as wolves or coyotes, but we can pull it off when we have to.

And that was when someone else snagged me from behind.

When I came to, my first thought was "Dangit, I should have been watching the door." Looking around, I saw that I was back in my cell again. The next thing I noticed was that my body was a mass of aches and pains…but hey, at least I wasn't cuffed or muzzled. Swinging off the bed, I felt a burning, slashing sensation across my chest. When I looked down, I saw that it was wrapped in a thick layer of bandages. I knew then that I'd probably done some damage this time—and I couldn't have cared less. As far as I was concerned, Dr. Dormouse and her merry band of jerks had brought it on themselves.

It was then that my nose caught a familiar scent, and when I looked up, I saw one of the orderlies I knew, a bighorn sheep, standing sentry outside my door. Hmm, there was another new development. When I'd awakened after my previous trigger sessions, I had always been alone. Anyway, when I tried to talk to my new bud, he ignored me like I wasn't there.

Okay, NOW I was beginning to feel uneasy.

I was kept under guard for two more days, with an orderly outside my door at all times. They worked in three, rotating shifts, and not one of them ever said a word to me. Whoa, what the heck had I done the other night?

On the third day, Dr. Ponder came by again. Sheesh, was this beaver-guy ever not in a bad mood…although, just like last time, I sensed that it wasn't because of me.

And once again, he was stingy with his words.

"You'll be leaving us tomorrow; we're sending you back to Granite Point." That was all he said, before he turned to go.

Okay…that was it, I couldn't keep my fox-trap shut any longer. "Where's Dr. Winters?"

Why did I ask…? Coz, I was beginning to think I might have hurt her, or even worse. When I'd been grabbed from behind that other night, had the door to the trigger-room been open? More and more, I was starting to think that yes, it had. It wasn't that I felt guilty or anything; I didn't. But if I had done a number on that dormouse…hear that loud, jingling noise? It's the sound of a key being tossed.

Anyway, Dr. Ponder just looked at me over his shoulder for a second. "You won't be seeing her again," was all he said…and then he left without anther words; it was the last time I ever saw him.

But not Doc Winters; he was wrong about that…we both were.

As far as going back to Granite Point went, I had very mixed feelings. The food might be terrible and the cells garbage dumps…but at least I wouldn't go stir-crazy, locked up day and night, with nobody to talk to.

Nooo, I didn't stop to wonder why they were sending me back; that came later. My biggest concern right then was…by now The Enforces must for sure, have found a replacement for me. Would I have to wait for another opening before they'd let me join up again? Or…would they let me back in at all? I finally decided, no sense fretting…I'd find out when I hit The Point. The only thing I knew for certain was that I wouldn't be coming back here again, at least not any time soon. Unlike the last Enforcer kid who'd done time in this little funhouse, I was still in full possession of my marbles.

Okay…yeah, but I still had something like a zillion unanswered questions.

For starters, I didn't have to be a whiz kid to know that my last session in the trigger room had been completely unauthorized; deep down, I'd known it all along. That was why I'd said no when Dr. Winters had ordered me to turn around…or that had been part of it, anyway.

But, assuming that dormouse-doc was still alive, what the heck had happened to her? I had no idea, but I was willing to bet that whatever it was, it went way beyond a pink slip and an order to clean out her desk. And on that same subject, had my refusal to play ball with her been the thing that blew her cover? Was that at least part of the reason she was gone? Once again, I didn't feel guilty, only curious. As far as I was concerned, whatever had gone down with her, she'd been asking for it.

And nobody had MADE her leave the door to the trigger-room open.

Besides, my game of Ringolevio with Bigwolf had been the most fun I'd had since the day I'd hit the road with Jimmy.

But the Final Jeopardy Question was…WHAT had been the point of all my visits to the trigger-room? What the heck had Doc Winters been trying to accomplish? And—okay, one more question—what the fox had been in that shot she'd had them give me?

Well, I figured, flopping back down on my bed and closing my eyes, I'd probably never know, so why dwell on it? And on that thought, I drifted off to sleep.

They came for me two days later…around noontime rather than the crack of dawn, which surprised me. I was shackled and cuffed, but no muzzle, thank God.

It was my first time seeing The Clinic from the outside, and let me tell you, that place was every bit as spotless on the outside as on the inside; gleaming steel, squeaky-clean glass; the hedges were so neatly trimmed, I thought at first that they might have been artificial. Seriously, if you didn't know better, you could have mistaken this joint for the office of some super hi-tech outfit—although you'd never have known for certain. There wasn't a clue to be seen anywhere as to who the heck owned this place; no name on the front, no corporate logo, nothing. The number above the entrance was printed in such tiny numerals, you'd have needed a pair of hi-def binoculars to read them.

After about a ten-minute wait, a gray van with the AKER monogram pulled up and a pair of guards got out. I recognized one of them immediately; Ravenclaw, the puma whose pet tarantula had been the Mearns brothers' unwilling lunch guest. The other guy was a bighorn ram I didn't recognize. There was no sign of Lurch, which was kind of another surprise.

I remember the orderlies who brought me outside, telling The Point guys, "Whatever you do, don't grab this fox-kid from behind."

"We know, we know!" Blackbird…excuse me, Ravenclaw growled. "You should have seen what he did to that sable kid."

"Not that the little psycho didn't deserve it," the sheep added, spitting on the ground for emphasis. Hmmm, did that mean EVERYONE back at The Point thought Wayne Babin was toast?

That was pretty much the end of their conversation; without a bleat or a growl, they put me in the van and we were off.

I had no idea where we were or what route we were taking; there were no windows in the back of that van, and a mesh barrier, between me and the driver's compartment, kept me from seeing out through the windshield. Oh well, no biggie; I knew where we were headed, so what difference did it make?

The trip back to Granite Point took maybe three hours. It would have been quicker if my escorts hadn't insisted on stopping for lunch at this diner on the way. And of course, they didn't order anything for me.

"Tough luck, fox-kid," Blackbird told me from the driver's seat, licking his chops as we drove away.

I just shrugged. "No worries; I don't think they had tarantula on the menu anyway."

We came that close to going off the road.

Yeeahhh…I knew I was gonna get it later on for that little snark; but right then, my attitude was the ol' standby, 'then that's what's gonna happen.'

In the end, Ravenclaw never got the chance for any payback…at least not right away. When we arrived back at The Point, who should be waiting to meet me at the gate, but my dear old friend, Lurch. "I'll take it from here," he said…and poor Blackbird looked sooo disappointed.

Not that I was getting off scot-free, the next thing that polar bear said was addressed to yours truly. "Heard you made some trouble at The Clinic." And with that, he hauled me off to The Hole.

Even as the door closed behind me, I suspected that Lurch didn't have a clue as to what had really gone down with me while I'd been away. Tossing me in The Hole again was prolly standard procedure for any kid being brought back to The Point from The Clinic. Hmmm, should I tell him that Wayne Babin was still alive? Nooo, he may have known already—and if he didn't, it might be better to wait for a more strategic moment to give him the news. In the meantime, there was nothing to do but wait to be let out of here.

The next morning, after a 'breakfast' that almost made me homesick for The Clinic, the flap over the floor-level door slot creaked upwards, and wee, familiar figure came scurrying into my cell.

It was Bob Mearns.

I drew back fast, hunkering in a protective crouch. The last I'd seen this grasshopper mouse, I'd been working him over with a piece of rope, along with his brother, Ben. Well…okay, not the very last time, but you know what I mean.

When Bob saw what I was doing, he sat up fast on his haunches and raised his paws. "No Al…it's okay, Wez sent us."

I relaxed…but only a little. "Us? Where's your brother?"

"Ben's outside, keeping watch," he hissed, glancing furtively over his shoulder at the door-slot "Look, I only have about a minute."

I relaxed the rest of the way—at last realizing what the deal was. The shrew-kid Thread was gone, and probably Needle too. And who better to replace them in The Enforcers than the Mearns brothers?

"Okay, I getcha," I said, getting to my feet again, "But what the heck are you doing here?" He'd taken no small risk, sneaking into my cell like that.

His answer came so rapidly, I had trouble understanding him.

"Two reasons; to make sure it's really you…and to give you a message. Next opening we get in the Enforcers, you're back again. Okay, I gotta boogie."

And with that, he darted back out the door-slot and was gone. I watched him go and then went to the corner and sat down.

So…I had been replaced. I wasn't surprised, but I couldn't help feeling disappointed. Hmmm, I wondered who the new guy was? Well, whoever it was, there was no point holding my breath, waiting for another opening. When I'd originally been recruited into The Enforcers, I'd been their first new in almost a year. Okay, fine…but what should I do in the meantime, try to hook up with a different crew? Would any of them even have me? And even if I was good to go, what would Wez say…? Well, I'd certainly consult with him about it first, I owed him that much, if nothing else.

One thing I wasn't worried about was getting my tail kicked by another kid when I got out of Total Iso. Though I was no longer a member of the Enforcers, I had the very strong feeling that I was still under their protection. Why else would Wez have had Mearns brothers come see me? Knowing him, that had been his way of sending a message: 'Lay off the silver-fox—or else!'

When I did get out of the hole, three days later, I was surprised to find myself assigned to a private cell—on the ground floor no less. Was this more of Crazy Wez's doing? Yes…and no, as I was about to discover very shortly. I had just finished getting my bunk stowed away, when someone rapped on the bars, and a familiar scent caught my nose.

I turned around, and there he was, "Cutty!"

I ran over and hugged him. He picked me up and returned it, and then set me down again, wiping his nose with the back of his paw.

"Whoa mommal," his voice was slightly cracked, and his accent way stronger than usual. "When dey took you 'way to De Clinic, I t'ought for sure I nebbah gonna see you again."

I waved a paw, "Ahhhh, takes more'n a place like that to put ME down!" What can I say, I was feeling cocky right then. And then, I just couldn't help asking, "Who'd they get to replace me?"

Cutty's eyes shifted sideways for half a second,

"Bloke named Calvin, Calvin Givers; Furrida Pan'ter. We call him Hitch."

I felt my ears go up. Didn't The Enforcers already have a big cat? "What, not another small mammal?"

Cut threw up a paw in a one-armed shrug. "I know, right? But Wez knows him from outside, from back when…" He stopped and flipped a paw back and forth. "Ahhh, betta let him tell it. He waitin' to see you, in de library."

"Good," I said. I wanted to see him too.

On the way there, Cutty filled me in on some of the other events that had taken place in my absence. Although Needle had sustained only minor injuries from being thrown against the wall by Wayne Babin…just as I'd figured, he'd been basically done afterwards, a basket case. In fact, he'd been sent to The Clinic only a few days after me.

"You didn't see him while you deah?" Cut asked me, tail twitching in confusion.

"Nope," I answered honestly, "Except for the docs, I didn't see any rodents while I was there; didn't smell any either."

On the subject of rodents, the grasshopper mice who'd replaced Needle and Thread had been a hit with the crew from the moment they'd joined.

"'Specially wit' Scorp." Cut informed me, flashing his trademark pearly grin. "Grasshoppa mouse an' honey-badgah, dey bot' got immun'ty to poison, eh?" That, in fact, was how Scorp had gotten his nickname—by being repeatedly stung by his namesake and suffering zero ill effects. Needless to say, he got along splendidly with a pair of rodents that ate those bad boys for snacks. Ben and Bob's nicknames in The Enforcers were Slice and Dice—a reference to what happened to any large insect unfortunate enough to cross their path.

When we got to the library, I was surprised to find not only Wez but the entire crew waiting to greet me. And, would you believe it? When I walked in, they gave me a standing ovation—and then some. They whooped, they cheered, they bellowed; the Mearns brothers were up on their haunches and howling their little heads off.

It just plain blew me away. Holy foxtrot! I had been hoping for a friendly reception when I got back to The Point, but I'd never expected a stinkin' hero's welcome…and what the heck FOR?

Then Wez came bounding over the table, and threw me in a hug that nearly dislocated my neck. Heh, same old sea-mink; he never did anything half-way. In the next few minutes, I found out the reason for my joyous reception.

When I'd been hauled off to The Clinic, everyone had been sure they'd seen the last of me—especially considering the reason I'd been sent there. Even the kids who got transferred to that place as a disciplinary measure didn't always come back. At least a third of the time, they were never seen again. And of those who did return, maybe half came back as damaged goods.

But me? I'd gone berserk and nearly killed another kid…and I couldn't remember any of it. There isn't a Juvie in the world that won't send you to straightjacket-city after an incident like that. Honestly, if there's anyone who should have been hauled off to The Clinic with no return ticket, it's this silver-fox kid right here. Instead, I was back in Granite Point again—and I had returned not only with my head on straight, but looking better than before I'd left. At least, that's what the guys kept telling me—and could it be true? I sure as heck no idea; I hadn't seen myself in a mirror since…well, since I could remember.

Yeah, Erin, there'd been mirrors in The Clinic. I could have checked myself out if I'd wanted to—only I didn't want to; don't forget what my face looked like back then. Since the day that jerk of a guard had forced me to see my reflection, I'd been avoiding it like the plague.

But that wasn't the only reason for my spike in popularity. A lot of it came from my fight with Wayne Babin. As far as everyone in the room was concerned—after what he'd done to Needle and Thread that dirt-bag sable had gotten exactly what was coming to him,

And I was the one who 'd given him his payback.

"Burn forever, slimeball!" Wez hissed, spitting hard on the floor.

Whoa, so they thought that sable-boy was dead, too. Aggggh, grrrr, like it or not, I had a few records to set straight.

"Guys, listen," I said, raising my paws like a preacher, "There's some things you need to know over here. First of all, Wayne Babin isn't dead; I saw him in The Clinic."

"What?" everyone gasped in unison, and the look I was getting from Crazy Wez was seriously unpleasant. I moved fast to qualify myself.

"No, it's true. His face looks worse than mine, and he's practically a vegetable; had a huge, honkin' panic-attack when he saw me—but he's alive."

That fixed it; everyone immediately calmed down, and I saw Wez nodding his head in approval. Okay, good, he seemed to be saying.

"What're the other things?" Scorp asked me, raising an eyebrow.

I took a breath before answering him.

"Well, the big one is…I don't remember what I did to that sable-punk. One minute, he was grabbing me from behind, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up in the clinic with a muzzle on my face."

That really blew 'em away.

"What, seriously?" It was Jawbone, the hyena-kid.

I raised a paw, "Swear to God, 'yeen. Back at The Clinic, they grabbed me from behind on purpose at least three times—trying to make me lose it. Don't ask me why, coz I don't know, but I can't remember any of what happened after they did." That reminded me of something else, and I tossed in a quick warning. "Ahhh, just so you're aware, guys…I lose it if anybody snags me from behind; friend, enemy, or whoever."

"Oh, we know 'bout dat, Fox," Cutty told me, waving a breezy paw.

"Yeah, Z," Wez nodded, seconding the motion, "That's how come you got a cell all to yourself. The Mammal doesn't want to take a chance on you going off on some other kid by mistake." Okay, so my cell assignment hadn't been his doing…tho' I later learned he was the reason I'd been put on the ground floor. Even so I had to admit that it made sense, keeping me by myself. If someone grabbed me from behind—even by accident—in a small space like that…

"So, what else happened to you in The Clinic?" Stuke Stuckey's squirrel-tail was flipping up and down like a sheet being shaken out.

"Yeah, Z, what's it like there, mate?" Stoney also wanted to know. Whoa, now there was something you didn't see every day. That 'roo was normally the most close-mouthed guy in the crew.

I raised my paws again, "In a minute, guys. First, I need to get something straight over here." I turned to the Mearns Brothers, who were sitting perched on the table-top between Krat and the new guy, Hitch. "The first time I saw you guys was on the bus that brought us here—but the first time we actually met was in the gym. We all know what went down with that encounter, but I gotta be sure of something…no hard feelings, okay?"

Everyone nodded, and Wez folded his arms, "Yep, right," he said and then looked down at the pair of grasshopper mice, with a raised an eyebrow. "Well, guys?"

Ohhh, I'll never forget their reaction. They stood up, got down on one knee, put a paw over their hearts, raised the other one—and swore an oath that there was no bad blood between us. Whoo-hoo, can you believe that? Whoo-hoo, can you believe that? Talk about bringing the drama! Still, it was good to hear them say it, and they kept that promise too. From the moment we shook on it, we always got along great. In fact, except for Cutty, they're the guys from the crew that I miss the most.

But now, with that little issue out of the way, I was finally free to recollect the epic tale of my sojourn in The Clinic.

Huh? What do you mean, 'look who's talking about drama'?

Yeah, yeah…whatever, Snowdrop. Anyway, they also said that most of their screams on that day in the gym had been fake, which made me feel even better

Okay, now…when I told the guys about my experiences in The Clinic, they mostly just listened. That lasted until I brought up my encounter with Marc Shevaldo. When Cutty heard, he hit the pause button, hard.

"What-ho, you sure it was him, Z?"

"Positive," I answered, nodding, "I'd know that scent anywhere; I was alone with him in his cell for a while—more than long enough to get an imprint. And hippos aren't exactly aroma-free as mammals go."

"Yeah, well," Wez put in with his nose wrinkling, a sign he'd heard all he wanted to hear, "whatever happened to that fool, he only has himself to blame."

Ahhh, I would rather have skipped that part, and I especially didn't want to talk about when they'd brought me to have look at him, trying to trigger me again. Wez insisted however, and so I was forced to give a detailed account of what I'd seen inside that sable-kid's cell. I didn't mind the telling so much as the way that crazy sea-mink seemed to hang on my every word. Sheesh, was this some bloodthirsty animal over here, or what?

I had to repeat the story of my game of Ringolevio with Bigwolf—not once, but twice. That didn't bother me, though. The reason I kept having to reboot was coz the first two times I tried to tell it, I broke up laughing before I could finish. And I wasn't the only one; everyone else was practically on the floor along with me. When I repeated the remark I'd made to Blackbird—the one about no tarantulas on the menu—it cemented the bond between me and the Mearns brothers for good. I had 'em both on their backs, hugging themselves and kicking their legs up in the air, literally howling with laughter.

…along with everyone else. "Hot dang, Wez," Hitch, the new guy drawled when he finally caught his breath, "I can see now why y'all were so eager to welcome this fox-boy back again." He immediately offered me a paw. "Hecka nice to meet you, Z. I'm Hitch…case you ain't been notified yet."

"Yeah, I know," I said, taking the paw and shaking it, "Cutty told me. And uh… he also said you know Wez from the outside, right?"

"Uh-huh, that's right." The panther kid nodded, and then promptly deferred to his crew chief,

It was Wez who gave me most of the story. He'd been driving northbound, through Georgia, in a stolen SUV, and having a seriously tough time handling it. It was only after he'd hit the road that he'd realized something…his new ride was two sizes too big for his species.

"I should have scoped that rig out better before I snagged it, but I didn't have time," he explained, "Cops were on me, and getting really close; I had to grab the first thing that came along and worry about it later."

He'd been just about to hang it up and walk when he'd happened upon a young Furrrida panther, standing roadside with his thumb out. Taking a chance, he'd pulled over and discovered that his passenger was also on the run…in his case, from an abusive family. Even better, Hitch not only knew how to drive, but had a credit card he'd lifted off his stepfather. It allowed them to make it all the way to Furginia before abandoning their ride and going their separate ways.

When his one-time road buddy had arrived at Granite Point—only two days after I had been taken away—Wez had viewed it as a near-heavenly miracle,

Before he'd run away from home, Hitch had never been in trouble with the law. His criminal career, boosting cars, hadn't started until after he and Wez parted company. He had landed in Granite Point after a high-speed chase that resulted in two serious injuries, including one of the pursuing officers. After that, getting thrown in Granite Point was a slam dunk. He'd been16 at the time.

Mind you, that panther-kid wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. When he'd tried to run from the cops, he'd been driving a Kia Soul, of all things. Sheesh, like you're ever gonna get away from John Q. Law in one of those hamster-cages. What Hitch lacked in brainpower though, he made up for in toughness—and in his loyalty to Crazy Wez, an almost fanatical devotion, although I didn't find that out until later.

Anyway, now that I wasn't with The Enforcers any more, I ended up getting assigned to a work detail on the loading dock. Heh, what a joke. All day long, all I did was press the button to raise the dock ramp, whenever a truck pulled in. The rest of the time, I either played cards or pitched pennies.

Yep, that was Wez's doing—and, as I think you can imagine, it wasn't all out of the goodness of his heart. Remember those bootleg phones and video-games I talked about…the ones the Enforcers used to sell to the other kids? Yeah, well whenever a shipment of those bad boys came in, it was my job to make sure things were cool with the guards…and of course, to help unload 'em.

But then, only two weeks into my new gig, The Enforcers lost another guy—only this time it wasn't such an unhappy occasion.

It all went down when Cutty was summoned to the Warden's office one morning, and came back nearly bursting with excitement.

"Dey lettin' me out, mommals; I'm gettin' me walkin' paypahs!"

Everyone cheered and hugged him, and then Wez sent Stuke to give me the news. Soon as I heard, I went running to the library and the HECK with my work detail.

I was happy for Cutty, but sad that I wouldn't be seeing him anymore. He had been more than just a friend to me, he'd been my mentor. I was seriously going to miss that leopard-kid when he was gone.

I didn't say that to him of course, and I especially didn't tell Wez. And it was a no-brainer that when Cut was gone, I'd be back with The Enforcers once again.

It was two more days before The Mammal—'scuse the pun—cut him loose. In the meantime, we had some time to talk, and my first question was the obvious one. What did he plan to do when he got out? "After you finish delivering your messages I mean."

Yep, messages…the one line of communication The Mammal can't touch, am I right Mr. Rodenberg? Anyone getting let out of The Point always had a stack of messages to deliver, and Cutty was no exception. In fact, Wez had me repeat the story of my time in The Clinic for him, "to pass on to my uncle." Why he wanted it, he didn't say, but that was the first time I ever heard HIM make reference to The Mister.

Anyway, when I asked Cut about his plans, he told me straight up that as soon as 'me chores' were done, he was catching the first boat back to Jamaica. "If dey don' deport me first, dat is," he added, showing that famous grin.

When that leopard-kid finally left us, there was no big farewell. They came for him in the middle of the night, and took him out so fast, he didn't even have time to write a note. He managed to smuggle one back inside a few days later though, confirming that he was okay, and that all of his messages had been delivered.

Likewise, there was no big deal when I was brought back into The Enforcers. Wez simply had me come to his cell to give me the news. There was no meeting, no ceremony; he didn't even have me repeat my promise never to snitch. As far as he was concerned, I guessed, my original pledge still held.

But then he informed me that as of now, I was his second in command, a position formerly occupied by Cutty. I was more than a little surprised; I was the youngest guy in the crew and, except for Hitch and the Mearnses, also the newest. Given my druthers, I would have chosen Scorp or Jawbone for that gig. I wasn't about to object though; by then I'd been around long enough to know something…that sea-mink kid's offers were always the kind you can't refuse.

And…okay, I'll admit it. I wasn't entirely unhappy with the idea. As the number two guy in The Enforcers, I'd get second pick of any care-package goodies that came in, and first pick if it was one of Wez's parcels. I would also receive a bigger cut from our electronics scheme than I'd gotten before, and I'd also be eligible to move into Cutty's old cell, the nicest one in the Point after Wez's…if you could call any of those mini-landfills nice.

I would also—as I next discovered—be privy to some info that had formerly been reserved for that leopard-kid's ears only.

First of all…Wez did indeed have a crime boss for an uncle; James, 'The Mister' McCrodon, head of The Company. "The numero uno arms merchants on the East Coast," and that was only one of their rackets, according to him. They also dealt in bootleg pharmaceuticals, black market diesel fuel, stolen securities—the only thing off-limits was drugs, and I mean strictly off limits. If The Mister caught you using, you got one warning, 'get clean or get whacked'...and it was never a bluff. And if he caught you dealing, he didn't bother with any warnings, you were automatically toast. That's what I was told anyway…and later on I learned, for once, that sea-mink kid wasn't exaggerating.

And then there were The Company's cyber-schemes; they were into online gambling, corporate espionage, ransomware, cyber-extortion…you name it. If it was illegal, made money, and could be done with a computer, they had their claws in it.

Ahhh, yes Erin…yes, they dealt in 'Adults Only' merch. And that's all I'm gonna say on the subject.

I more or less accepted that everything Wez told me was at least partially truthful…that is, until he started bragging that his uncle was, "working 24/7 to get me outta this place." Okay-y-y, now I began to doubt his story. If Uncle Mister really had that much clout…then why wasn't his nephew out on the street already?

Yeah, I know Mr. Rodenberg; this was the Bearfoot Bandit, not some kid who'd ripped off a convenience store. Of course, HE wasn't going to walk so easily, you're right about that, no argument.

But, listen to me here, okay? That wasn't the only reason Wez was still inside The Point. There was another, bigger one—and it wasn't until I was with The Company that I found out what it was.

Okay, I need to move on here. After I was made back into The Enforcers, things began happening and very quickly. Wez got into a gripe with some snow-leopard kid and ended up in The Hole. As soon as he got out, he went after the guy again and got his tail thrown in the Dry Cell. Both times, he left me in charge of the crew.

Whoa, I had NEVER felt so out of my depth. Me…giving orders to a rhino and some Apex preds. The first time Wez was put away, subbing for him was a cakewalk, it was another 'dead period' with nothing at all going on.

That second time, though…Ho-LEE foxtrot! No sooner was that sea-mink kid back in Total Iso, than I was handed an issue to deal with—and not a little one, either.

The kid's name was Eddie Derzala; he was a half-Bengal/half-Siberian tiger, and he was all bad. He had a rap sheet as long as his tail, and most of it was for violent offenses. He also held the record in Granite Point for the most time spent in The Hole.

Nobody could figure out why he hadn't already been packed off to The Clinic. The prevailing theory was that he was gonna be sent to adult prison the moment he turned eighteen. And since that was only a few months from now, why bother? In short, this was a big cat with almost nothing left to lose.

Up until then, Eddie D had managed to stay off The Enforcers' radar. He was one of the few kids the guards preferred to deal with themselves, rather than giving it to us. You'll excuse me if I don't describe exactly how they handled him.

But then, two days after Wez went into The Hole for the second time, he bought one of our bootleg cell phones on a four-fingered discount.

Ah, that means he walked away without paying for it, Erin. And when Scorp tried to stop him, he ended up in the infirmary, with claw-marks from here to Meowria.

Whoa, this was one serious sitch—and it demanded an immediate response. No way could it wait until Wez got out of Isolation; what kind of message would that send? Nope…this tiger punk needed to be paid back right now, and with major interest.

Obviously, we couldn't confront him directly—or individually. There needed to be a plan, and since I was the guy in charge while Wez was away, it was all on me. I spent most of that night racking my brain, but couldn't come up with an idea to save my life. Finally, I just gave up and went to sleep.

But when I woke up the next morning, I knew exactly what to do. It took me most of the day to set it up.

That afternoon in the yard, I confronted Scorp, with Hitch and Stoney at my back. "What the fox did you think you were doing, huh," I snarled, giving him the tombstones, "selling to that guy? Everyone knows his reputation—and you shoulda known better." I shook my head at the ground, gritting my teeth. "Sheesh, and I thought honey badgers were supposed to be smart or something." Stuke Stuckey, who'd been watching, later said he'd never seen me looking so totally steamed.

"Come on," Scorp protested, raising his paws. "We never had…"

"I don't wanna hear it," I interrupted, "Get that phone back, and get it back NOW!"

"Hey!" he started to say, taking a step towards me, "You don't…!"

That was as far as he got before the other guys moved in to block him.

"Get that phone BACK, Scorp!" I repeated, sharpening my words.

"All right, all right," he said, again raising his paws, and nodding at the big cat on my right "But I'll need Hitch and Krat to…"

I cut him off again. "You lost that phone by yourself…you get it back by yourself."

Without waiting for a response, I turned to go…but of course, I got one anyway.

"You snaggle-toothed PUNK! If Wez was here…."

"Well, he's not here," I growled. turning a fast 180. "So, phone back…by tomorrow, got that?"

And then I spun on my heel again and went on my way.

Later that evening, just before lights out, Eddie D was lounging in his second-floor cell—or doing whatever—when he heard Scorp calling him.

"Derzala…get out here, and bring that phone you took."

Tiger-boy only complied with half of the order; he came out of his cell, but left the phone. And when he saw who was there—a lone honey badger, showing damage and with no one backing him up—he started laughing, fit to bust.

"Hah, I knew you guys didn't care, but this is really stupid."

"Give back the phone," Scorp told him, holding out a paw.

Eddie's paws went to his hips, and then he shook his head…more in disdain that incredulity.

"Whoah…I don't stinkin' believe this." He purred, narrowing one eye, "You really gonna let some stinkin' FOX-kid tell you what to do?"

"Give it back," Scorp repeated, holding his paw out even further, and spitting out a final word. "Jerk!"

It was like shooting a flare into a fireworks warehouse. Eddie D roared, dropped down on all fours, and rushed to the attack.

He never made it. As he passed in front of the cell next to his, Krat, the rhino-kid came charging out through the door, hitting him broadside, full force—pitching him up and over the walkway railing and dropping him to the floor below.

When he hit the ground, Stoney, Hitch, and Jawbone were waiting for him, and commenced to do their little thing…stopping only to let Scorp get in the last few shots, as was his right. While this was going on, the Mearns brothers were rifling through his cell, looking for the phone he'd taken. They found it right away, and passed it on to Stuke, who brought it down to me. I unlocked it and proceeded to snap two fast pics of the hot mess on the floor in front of me…the tiger-kid that had once laid claim to being one of the toughest dudes in The Point.

And then I leaned over him, speaking in a low snarl.

"Two rules to live by, kittens: Rule Number One—don't ever mess with The Enforcers. Rule Number Two—don't ever forget Rule Number One."

And then we all just walked away.

The guards found Eddie D. in the middle of the nightly bed-check and the next morning he was sent off to The Clinic. He only stayed there long enough to get patched up, but he never returned to The Point. From there, he got shipped off to the Zoo Jersey State pen in Trenton and we didn't see him again.

No Erin, there were no repercussions. As you might expect, none of the other kids saw anything and for once, they didn't need much persuading; Eddie D had never been Mr. Popular in Granite Point. Lurch asked a few questions, here and there, but he never tried to push for any answers. Like Wayne Babin before him, that tiger-kid was someone that the guards were glad to be rid of.

Oh…that reminds me…

There was never any fallout from what went down between me and that sable-jerk Wayne either—none, zip, nada. No charges were ever filed, no investigation ever took place; heck, I was never even questioned about…

Okay, yeah…except for that time Dr. Winters brought me to his cell to try to get a rise out of me, but come on Erin, that's not the same thing. And other than that, nothing happened. When I got back in with The Enforcers, I learned that no one in The Point had been questioned about our tooth-and-claw either—not even the Saiga kid who'd seen it happen. After taking his statement, The Mammal never got back to him.

No, Erin…I never stopped to wonder why, not out loud anyway. The only thing that mattered to me was that I wasn't going up before a judge over that what I'd done to sable-kid.

But getting back to Eddie D, my plan to take him down was the thing that made me once and for all—not only with the Enforcers, but with every kid in The Point. Like I said a minute ago, it wasn't just the guards who were happy to see him gone. I discovered my new-found status the next time I went to the gym. Everyone stopped what they were doing, and a couple of kids even applauded me. And that was only the beginning. Seriously, I had guys step aside for me, when I came down one of the walkways…and I never heard another remark about my face, at least not from any of the detainees.

Yeah, yeah…all well and good, but there was a price to pay. When Wez came out of The Hole and heard about what happened, he was all over me with congratulations, grabbing me around the shoulder and throwing a fist in the air. "I was soooo right to bring you back, Z!'

Nice try, but I wasn't fooled; he wasn't happy…and I knew why. I had only done what the situation demanded and both of us knew it—except, however unintentionally, I had stolen his thunder in the process.

And nobody upstaged Crazy Wez McCrodon. Though we continued to put on a show of solidarity, deep down I could feel the rift between us getting wider. Eventually, I knew it was going to have to close again. And when that happened, would it be a reconciliation—or a collision?

Well, it wasn't going to happen for a while, anyway. Only a couple of weeks later, Wez was right back in Isolation…along with every other Enforcer, me included. And all because of a crummy watch that hadn't been stolen after all.

I already told you that part of the story, so I'm not gonna bother repeating myself. And besides…it's what happened after we got out of The Hole that's the real kicker.

Chapter 58: Conor's Story (Continued...Part 8)

Summary:

Conor's first encounter with Jack La Peigne

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Continued…Part 8)

There's a man goin' 'round takin' names
And he decides who to free and who to blame
Everybody won't be treated all the same
There'll be a golden ladder reachin' down
When the man comes around

The hairs on your arm will stand up
At the terror in each sip and in each sup
Will you partake of that last offered cup
Or disappear into the potter's ground?
When the man comes around

Johnny Cash – When the Man Comes Around

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Erin Hopps was in a quandary.

She had accomplished her mission. Somehow, she had managed to get Conor to the Mercy Star floating clinic, arriving at the last possible minute. Once there, he'd received the life-saving medical care he'd so desperately needed—and the prognosis was excellent; a full, if lengthy, recovery.

Finally, the young doe-bunny could breathe easy; her companion of these last few days was going to be alright. And now that Mr. Rodenberg had offered to represent her; she had no reason not to return to Precinct-1 and give herself up to the ZPD. Once the rat-attorney explained why she had run away from jail—that she'd had no-choice with Craig Guilford after her—the authorities understand, and they'd go easy on her. And when they learned the reason that the young coyote had been pursuing her—she'd been witness to a murder he'd committed—they might even drop the charges altogether. For sure, her sister Judy would be sympathetic, lawyer or no lawyer. It was a golden opportunity, and she should grab it like a winning sweepstakes ticket.

There was just one, itsy-bitsy little problem—she didn't want to.

Yes, Conor was going to be fine; his old self again, good as new. Only…not for a while; especially not where his knee was concerned. He was going to be on injured/reserve for at least the next two weeks, maybe more—probably more. And during that period, he'd be only partially mobile at best. How was he supposed to clean his residence, cook for himself, do any kind of repair work; what was he supposed to do if he ran low on provisions? Even uninjured, that silver-fox kid would be taking a huge risk, if he ventured out of…of…outside of wherever the heck he lived. Like it or not he was going to need someone to help take care of him—and like it or not, she was the only available candidate.

Erin knew, of course, that Charcoal-Boy's answer to any such suggestion would be a big, fat NO. And even if she could talk him into it, there was still the small matter of Vernon J. Rodenberg. For sure, HE would turn thumbs-down on the idea of her becoming Conor's nursemaid. Ohhhh, sweet cheez n' crackers…how the heck was she supposed to get the both of them on board? Erin Hopps was nobody's dumb bunny, but pulling this off was going to require some genius-level thinking.

Well…maybe best the thing to do was follow that fox-kid's example—quit agitating and see if, perhaps, the answer would find her.

In the meantime, he still had a story to tell.

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It was like one of those movies where a guy steps into a time machine—or a dimensional transport, or whatever—and then, when he steps out again, it's after The Apocalypse.

That was my first thought when I came out of The Hole after the riot. Granite Point had never been much to look at, but now it was like a landfill on steroids. Piles of garbage all over the place, rubble strewn everywhere, and X-rated graffiti on every wall. Every sink and toilet had been smashed to bits, and then the pieces had either been thrown at the guards or used as slingshot projectiles.

What? Yeah, the Point was still using porcelain fixtures, can you believe that?

But, seriously...if you think Savanna Central Plaza is a mess right now, it's stinkin' pristine, compared to what I saw in The Point's galley. Someone had turned over the fryers and then set fire to the cooking oil…and that was only the beginning. All of the oven and refrigerator doors had been torn off and turned into makeshift riot shields, and all of the cooking tools weaponized. They had even made clubs out of the fire-sprinkler pipes. In the mess hall outside, there wasn't a single usable table.

What's that? Yeah…we'd known something was going on; even down in Total Isolation, you couldn't escape all of the noise coming from upstairs. But none of us—not even Crazy Wez—could have imagined that things were going that far south. Other than all the crashing sounds and whatnot, it had been business as usual for the Enforcer crew. The whole time we were locked up in The Hole, we never missed a meal—such as they were—and the guards never said a word to any of us about what was going on in the main facility. Once, just once, I got up the nerve to ask…and got hosed-down with ice-water for an answer.

What now, Erin? Oh yeah, Hitch wondered about that too. It wasn't until one of the Rager crew, a cheetah kid named Zipper, came by to fill us in on the riot, that we finally got the full story. After he left, I remember that panther-kid shaking his head and looking all confused, "How come none o' them other boys ever tried to come down an' let us outta Isolation?"

It was Scorp who explained it to him; it was precisely because The Enforcers had been under lock and key that the others had felt free to riot. If they let us out again, who knew which side we'd take?

As for me, for once I was actually grateful at having been tossed in The Hole. It might not have been prime accommodations, but at least I'd been safe down there. During the riot up top, there'd been a LOT of scores settled between a lot of different kids. Not only that, The Enforcers were just about the only detainees who came out of that uprising completely blameless.

…Which was more than could be said for a lot of the officers and staff. For the moment, they were allowed to keep their jobs; AKER needed every pair of paws they could get to, just try and make Granite Point at least semi-functional again. Eventually though, heads would have to roll, and everybody knew it.

Heh, I remember a lot of kids hoping that one of those heads would belong to Lurch. Nice thought, but I knew something they didn't. Say what you wanted to about that polar bear, he'd fought tooth and claw to keep our guys from being sent to The Hole. And he'd repeatedly warned his higher-ups of the consequences of that action. Nope…HE wasn't getting canned, probably just the opposite.

There was nothing like a reprieve for the rioters, though…especially the leaders. When they let me out of my isolation cell, not one, not two, but THREE other kids were thrown in to take my place—and I mean literally. They were larger species too, an impala and two deer-bucks, including that kid who'd ridden in on the bus with me. It was gonna be seriously cramped in there—and that was in no way an isolated instance. They packed the Dry Cell so full that from that day on, it was known as the 'Black Hole of Granite Point,' later shortened to just The Black Hole. Meanwhile a whole busload of kids got shipped off to The Clinic—and those were just the guys being sent there as punishment. There were more than a few who went there by ambulance, if you follow what I'm bringing out. One or two of 'em even had to be air-evaced.

Surprisingly, though, there weren't any deaths…among the kids or the staff, although the officers didn't get away clean either. You could count on one paw the number of guards who came out of that fracas without at least a minor injury. Two of them even got taken hostage—including Ravenclaw, although he later managed to escape.

Don't get me wrong; not all of the detainees joined the uprising. When it started, Capper Lee and his guys barricaded themselves in their cells—against the rioters, not the guards. Bug Juice wasn't so lucky; when he tried to order the Jukes to stand down, they accused him of selling out to The Mammal and mutinied. He was one of the kids who had to be air-evaced—punctured lung and a major concussion; we never saw him again.

Whoa, that was a major shocker. Up until then, the quickest way to start a fight with Bug's boyz was to lay some trash-talk on him. Even Wez was blown away when he heard…blown away, but also delighted.

And that almost blew me away; Wez had never liked that marine otter but, up until then, he'd always shown him at least a grudging respect.

Not anymore…and that was only part of it. It was like the sea-mink that came out of The Hole was a completely different animal than the one that went inside. Wez had always been full of himself but now he was strutting around like Napolion or something. No kidding, he practically swaggered when he walked—and I couldn't figure it out; where the heck had he gotten all that 'tude?

It took some time before I found out. Three days after The Enforcers were let out of Total Isolation, Granite Point went into lockdown again and we spent the next two weeks confined to our cells…and since Wez's pad was nowhere close to mine, I couldn't talk to him. Our only way to communicate was through the grapevine…and that was a majorly risky move right then. In the wake of the riot, The Mammal was seeing threats and schemes around every corner and in every little nook and cranny. Seriously…you could nod hello to another kid and the next thing you knew, there'd be a guard in your face. "WHAT was that all about?"

Anyway, my cell had come through the chaos mostly intact—although the toilet didn't work; I had to rely on a bucket and a lid for the duration. On the other paw, the food was much improved. With the Granite Point galley a total wreck, The Mammal had been forced to bring in a National Guard field kitchen to supply our meals. It was almost as good as what I had in The Clinic, and sometimes even better.

While all this was going on, clean-up and repair crews were swarming all over The Point, working all through the day, and sometimes into the night. If we couldn't see them, we could always hear them.

…And smell them; this one outfit liked to use a cleaning solution that was strong enough to lift a jumbo-jet. No kidding; just remembering it now, I can feel my sinuses burning.

Locked in my cell with no reading material—they didn't allow us magazines at ANY time—my only diversion was exercising. Every morning, I ran in place for an hour, then did a thousand push-ups, a thousand sit-ups, a thousand jumping-jacks, and a thousand deep-knee bends. I used to do pullups on the bars, too…but had to make sure there weren't any guards around first.

After calisthenics, I used to practice the fight moves Cutty had taught me. Whoa, had HE ever been lucky to get out of here when he did.

When the lockdown finally ended, it wasn't just The Enforcers that got let out of their cells, it was every kid in The Point—including the ones who'd been shut up in Isolation. Phee-YEW, I didn't need a fox's sense of smell to know those guys were around; they hadn't been given time to shower. And that did not bode well for what I thought was coming next.

Yep…deja vu, all over again; we were marched out to The Yard—which now looked like the final scene from All Quiet on the Western Front—and then lined up and given cleaning tools.

And once again, there was a refusal. Only this time, it was the last kid anyone would have expected to raise a stink.

Would you believe…Wez McCrodon?

Whoa, when he downed that broom, you could have heard a hummingbird feather drop. Everyone was like totally stunned; even Lurch was shaking his head in disbelief…and it was all the opening that sea mink kid needed. Stepping forward, he snapped to attention so smartly, I thought I heard his heels click.

"Sergeant Denali…sir, may I speak please?"

Wha…? Wez had never shown that kind of deference to any guard, much less this big jerk. What the fox was he up to? Anyway, he didn't wait for an answer before continuing.

"Sir, it was my guys getting sent to Total Isolation that caused this stinkin' mess in the first place." As he spoke, he swept his paw around the yard, and then dropped it to his side again. "I know you tried to stop it, sir—and you were right. So, don't you think it would be a better idea to have us help keep order instead of giving us cleaning chores? I mean…who knows what might happen if The Enforcers were unable to carry out their assigned task."

Oh!

My!

GOD!

I thought my heart was gonna shoot up my throat and come right out the top of my head. If ever there was a time when Crazy Wez McCrodon lived up to his nickname, it was right here, right now. In so many words, he had just given that polar bear an ultimatum—pull my guys off cleaning detail, or you'll have another riot on your paws.

The only saving grace was that he'd at least offered up an escape hatch; a face-saving way to comply with his demand. Yeah, fine, but would Lurch take it—or would he take his stick to the sea-mink kid who was daring to defy him?

After a long, tense moment, he scratched his head.

"Grrr, yeah, that does make sense. All right, you and your boys can go ahead and fall out," And then, shooting a hard finger at Wez McCrodon, he fired off a veiled threat of his own. "But there better not be ANY kind of trouble, from any of the others…or you know who I'm going to hold responsible."

As it turned out, there were zero problems with any of the other kids that day—but ohhhh yeah, there was trouble. I found that out at a meeting we held in what was left of the library, after we knocked off for the day.

Meeting? Nooo, I couldn't really call it that. Wez did nearly all the talking…and while he was speaking, no one else was allowed to get a word in edgewise.

I have to admit though, that sea-mink kid knew how to spin a line—puffing himself up by pretending to act all humble and whatever.

"I shoulda seen it a long time ago, guys…but nooooooo, The Point hadda get wrecked from end to end before I caught on. Right now, I could kick myself from here to stinkin' Pawkeepsie."

He paused then, waiting…and I knew he wasn't going to say anything else until somebody asked 'the question.'

"Ahhh, sorry big guy," I remember thinking, "not me, not this time." I was pretty sure already where he was going with this.

Like anyone could have figured, it was Hitch who finally raised a paw. "What-all are you talking about, Boss?" He had taken to calling Wez by that name of late, and that sea-mink kid just ate it up. The answer that came was almost a sermon.

"The minute we got put in The Hole, what happened? Granite Point went right off the rails, that's what." He clapped his paws together. "And when we came out again, that was when I finally knew—the thing I shoulda known all along; the guards can't get by without us! Us Enforcers are the only thing standing between The Mammal and total chaos. If they lock us up again—or if we just plain decide to stand down—boom, here comes another riot." He clapped his paws again, twice this time. "We own it, guys! From now on, things are gonna be different for us around here."

Everyone stood up, whooping and cheering like they'd just seen the home team score a Hail Mary touchdown…but in my case it was forced, and I was sure that I wasn't the only guy faking it. There were only about a million holes in Wez Bunniparte's little supposition.

First of all, it might have taken a riot to make HIM realize how vital The Enforcers were to keeping order in this place—but you better believe that wasn't the case with Lurch. He hadn't fought so hard to keep us from being sent to The Hole out of any sense of compassion. He had seen that riot coming and, knowing him, he'd seen Wez's little blackmail scheme coming too; that polar bear was mean, but he wasn't stupid. Okay, he'd backed down once, and maybe he'd do it again. With The Point in shambles, he'd had little choice. But once this place was put back in order, then what? I didn't like to think about it.

Plus…yeah, Granite Point needed us now, but who was to say that situation was permanent? They could bring in more guards, beef up the security system…or even recruit a new set of kids to be The Enforcers. For sure, caving to Wez's demands wasn't the only option The Mammal had if he came up with another sugar-coated ultimatum. Couldn't he see that for himself?

And on the subject of that sea-mink's relationship with reality, he was also operating under a big assumption here—that in the wake of the uprising, Granite Point was a tinderbox, waiting on a spark. But was it, though? A lot of the kids I'd seen, when we'd been marched out into the yard, had looked pretty darn cowed to me—and the ones I knew to be troublemakers had been nowhere in sight.

There was one other thing Wez hadn't considered…and that I hoped like heck he wouldn't consider. Maybe Granite Point couldn't get by without The Enforcers—but The Enforcers could sure as heck get by without HIM. We'd proven that when we'd taken out Eddie D, while he'd been locked up in the Dry Cell. And since I'd been the one who planned that ambush, it wasn't impossible that he might get a little idea…that the crew wouldn't be able to manage without him so good if the silver fox kid was out of the picture.

I kept these thoughts to myself of course, although I was sure I wasn't the only one who felt that way. But until I could be certain about which of the other Enforcers were on the same wavelength as me, I knew I'd better keep my fox-trap tightly shut.

It didn't take nearly as long as I expected. When the meeting broke up, I found that I needed to use the head. The regular toilets were still out of commission, so they'd set up Port-a-Johns in the yard. When I came out again after doing my business, I found Scorp waiting for me, standing with his arms folded.

"You got a minute?"

He took me over by the basketball court—which no longer had baskets, or even poles—and looked me square in the eye. "Straight up, Z…what'd you think of what Wez said, back there?"

I crossed my fingers, took a deep breath, and told him—straight up.

His shoulders fell, and HE let out a breath.

"I was hopin' you'd say that, fox."

It was a good start, but it didn't go much further. The only other Enforcers who agreed with us were the Mearns Brothers. Most of the rest, Krat, Jawbone, and Stuke were down 100% with Wez's idea. Hitch thought it was the greatest thing since sliced bread.

Nooo surprise there; what a grovel-head! One time, strictly as a joke, Wez asked for a volunteer to go spit in Lurch's face…and guess whose paw went shooting up like a signal flare?

Stoney, on the other paw…we couldn't be sure about him. But then, nobody ever knew what that red 'roo was thinking. The guy was like the direct opposite of your stereotypical Aussie; he rarely, if ever, showed emotion. It was how he'd gotten his nickname, in fact.

As the days went by, and the repairs continued, one thing became obvious. The Mammal intended to go a lot further than simply bringing The Point up to pre-riot condition. The place seemed to be undergoing a complete renovation; new plumbing, new lighting, new flooring, they even put new shelves in the library—something that bugged Wez to no end, since he had to hold court elsewhere for the duration.

And this time, except for the floors, everything was in steel; steel sinks in the washrooms, steel toilets in the head, steel tables in the mess hall, you name it. And all of it welded together; there was nothing you could loosen with a wrench or a screwdriver. I had to move in with Scorp for a couple of days while they got my cell fixed up again.

During my stay, me and that honey-badger made a pact, later bringing the Mearns brothers into it. Any and all misgivings about Wez's new mindset were to be kept strictly to ourselves. We would never so much as mention the subject, not to any of the others, not even among ourselves—and especially not in Hitch's presence. And it wasn't just because that panther kid was turning into the crew's number one brown noser.

You see, when we'd taken down Eddie Derzala, he'd been relegated to the role of lookout. It hadn't been coz I didn't trust the guy; I simply didn't know him—and when you're dealing with a dude like Eddie D, you can't afford to take chances. Anyway, Hitch had seemed to accept it well enough at the time—but lately, he'd been acting more and more resentful of me; like he thought that HE should have been made the The Enforcers' Number 2 mammal.

Yeah, right…if that Furrida Panther dude thought sucking up to Wez McCrodon was a good way to get promoted, he was in for a way-big surprise. Wez may have had a humongous ego, but he also had his limits. Sooner or later, all that tail kissing was going to start grating on his nerves.

In the meantime, Scorp and I—and the Mearnses—continued to keep a low profile. We deferred to our crew-chief at every turn, and never questioned his orders…but without all of Hitch's bowing and scraping.

That turned out to be easier than we anticipated. Against all of my expectations—but much to my relief—Wez didn't throw down the gauntlet to The Mammal a second time. The following day, when Lurch gave us the job of helping to pass out the cleaning implements, he was almost eager to comply with the order.

"We may own it," he explained to me later, with a wink. "But that don't mean The Mammal can't take it back if we push him too far."

Hmmmm, maybe I had misjudged that sea-mink…or maybe I hadn't. Tomorrow morning, his 'tude might be totally different. In any case, I continued to treat him with respect. For all his efforts to hide it, I could tell that he still harbored some bitterness over my handling of Eddie D. Eventually, I knew, he'd get over it. But until he did, I needed to play it cool.

That was especially true in light of the fact that a lot of the other kids were none too thrilled about The Enforcers being excused from clean-up duty. Wez's attitude about it could be summed up in two words, 'Tuff Darts!'

And in this case, I agreed with him. Why should WE have to clean up the mess they had made while we'd been locked down in The Hole. Besides that, whatever I might have thought fursonally, I understood that The Enforcers needed to keep a united front, in the face of all that low-grade hostility.

Now…getting back to something I said earlier. Granite Point was a juvenile facility, and so it had no actual industry to speak of—child labor laws, and whatever. However, that didn't prevent the kids from running a few UN-official businesses—like, for example, a full-time rumor mill. And now a new story began to spread through the halls; one that I thought might be accurate for a change. As soon as the renovations were complete, another inspection was in the offing. And this time, it wasn't going to be any hack-bureaucrats checking us out; the big guns were coming, maybe even the Governor. For sure the head of Zoo Jersey Corrections would be putting in an appearance. In any case, if and when that happened, it would once again be The Enforcers' job to make sure the other kids kept their mouths shut.

"And if it's really the bigwigs coming," Wez reminded us, at a meeting we held in the washroom, "it's gonna be that much tougher than usual to keep the lid on,"

Nah, the library was still out of commission, Erin…it was fairly low on The Mammal's to do list. But anyway, Wez had the right idea; the presence of a mammal with real clout might be too much temptation for some kid to resist spilling the beans. Heck, I was feeling a little tempted myself; I knew I wouldn't act on it, but I couldn't help thinking about it.

That reminded me of something and I raised my paw. "It's not just the detainees they need to worry about giving the game away." That earned me several curious looks, and I hurried to explain. "I mean…we all know more'n few of the guards are looking to lose their jobs coz of that riot. Wanna bet they won't be tempted to blow the whistle…as payback for getting canned?"

Wez just shrugged. "That's The Mammal's problem," he said, but then nodded and cocked a finger at me. "He's right though, guys. And, that's how we'll know when the inspection's about to go down—when those jerks start getting the boot."

He didn't explain, and he didn't need to. We all got it, even Hitch. It was a slam dunk that when the big shots came to call, AKER wouldn't want any possible stoolies hanging around.

And sure enough; even as the work-crews were packing up and preparing to haul tail, the first heads began to roll.

It started all the way at the top. with Warden Argyll…who I later heard, broke down and bleated like a lamb when he got the news. To no one's surprise, Captain Corker kept his position; he'd been sunning himself on the beach in Cancoon when the riot took place. His Lieutenant, a lion named Neame, got demoted down to sergeant, and resigned rather than accept the reduction in rank. Everyone else held accountable for the riot was straight up terminated. As for Lurch, just like I'd figured, he ended up being promoted…to Neame's position.

No, that was actually good news. In Granite point, the lieutenant's job was mostly administrative—not a whole lot of contact with the detainees. It was the sergeants who did most of the paws-on work.

And that was the bad news. Guess who got promoted to Lurch's job? None other than good ol' Blackbird Ravenclaw. When Slice and Dice Mearns heard the news, they screamed louder than when I'd been working them over in the gym—and I felt a little like screaming myself. WHY hadn't I kept my fox-trap shut on the ride back to Granite Point?

Then something inside me told me to cool my jets. I took two deep breaths and let them out, slowly.

"Yeah, I know," I said, "But it is what it is, guys. Anyway, Blackbird won't try anything until after the inspection is over. We got that much in our favor at least. In the meantime, I'll go talk to Wez, see if he has any ideas." That was only partially true; what I was really hoping was that he might have some dirt on that puma-jerk. It was a long shot, but worth a try.

Well, if he did, he never said—I wouldn't have either—but he did promise to 'see what I can do.'

Oh, well…at least he didn't ask me what the heck I expected HIM to do about it; his standard response when someone brought him a problem he either didn't care about or couldn't solve.

As the day of the inspection drew near, it became a fact rather than a rumor. The big boys were coming, no question about it. At any given moment you could hear the guards talking about it and making no effort to keep their conversations a secret. Any new officers reporting for duty— and there were a lot of them—were quickly filled in by the veterans on how to behave during the visit.

In the meantime, The Point once again became a flurry of activity; new books for the library, fresh food in the pantry, and more soap for the washrooms. The detainees were issued new blankets and bedding, and two new pairs of coveralls.

…Except for The Enforcers; we got three of 'em…in blue, rather than khaki, and with a big, white letter 'T' on the back. Nobody could figure out what the heck it stood for until Blackbird called us together in the chapel—yeah, the chapel; I know, right? He had his claws bared as he gave us the news; for the duration of the inspection tour, we were to refer to ourselves as Trustees. "If I hear the word 'Enforcer', even once, coming from any of you punks…" to emphasize the point, he drew a finger across his throat.

All the while, I was stealing sideways glances at Slice and Dice Mearns, and chanting a silent meme. "Please-don't-say-it, Please-don't-say-it, Please-don't-say-it, Please-don't-say-it…"

They said it.

"Trustee? We thought it stood for Tarantula-Killer."

Lucky for those grasshopper mice, Wez McCrodon was there. Before Blackbird had time to recover from his shock, he got quickly in front of them.

"Easy, Mr. Ravenclaw…let me take care of it."

Blackbird grabbed his stick and showed his fangs, "Get out of the way, punk."

Wez stayed where he was, lacing his arms and planting his feet

"I-I-I wouldn't do that sir. How are the Trustees s'posed to keep things quiet during the inspection if I'm out of action?" He waved a paw at the Mearnses and then at me. And now his voice took on a slight edge. "Matter of fact, I dunno how we're gonna manage without ALL my guys available."

After some hesitation, Ravenclaw put the stick away, but his gaze never wavered. "Enjoy it while you can, smart guy," he snarled, and then he turned and stalked out though the door, slamming it behind him.

The second he was gone, Slice and Dice were rolling on their backs, laughing their tails off…until Wez stomped his foot so hard, it jolted them into the air by a good three inches.

"You think that was funny, you little morons…HUH?" He turned and looked at me, cocking thumb in their direction. "I got things to do, Z. You explain it to 'em." And then he was the one making an angry exit.

Aggghhh, grrrr…he'd been doing more and more of that lately, leaving me to handle whichever dirty job came up. This time, though, I wasn't especially torqued—because I wasn't any happier with those grasshopper mice than he had been.

"Need a few alone here, guys," I said, speaking to the others. I waited until the chapel was clear, and then sat down facing the Mearns brothers over the back of a pew. I didn't raise my voice, but kept it VERY even.

"What the fox is the matter with you two?" I said, shaking my head, and putting on my best look of disappointment. "Did you forget already that puma jerk's our new sergeant?"

Apparently, they had forgotten. After exchanging a nervous glance with his brother, Slice looked up at me with his paws clasped. "We're sorry, Z."

"What my bro' said," Dice added quickly.

"Accepted," I said, leaning over them, the better to make eye contact, "But there's something else you gotta think about, guys. Wez had to put the shake on to get Blackbird to back off on you. He can only do that so many times and get away with it; I think even HE knows it now."

"Really?" Dice was looking at me with his whiskers twitching. I could guess what he was thinking.

"Yeah, I remember what he said that first time, too…but trust me, I know the guy. Now that he's had some space to think things over, I'm guessing he understands that he's gonna have to be really careful about playing the power card." That was half-wishful thinking on my part; Wez would do that today, but tomorrow, who knew? In any event, the Mearns brothers got the message. That was the last time they ever taunted Blackbird about his dear, departed Boris, the Tarantula.

The day of The Inspection dawned warm and hazy, a little humid, but nothing we couldn't handle. For breakfast that morning we had French Toast…the prefab, frozen kind, heated up in a microwave…but still the first I'd had since leaving Danbeary. As before, The Mammal was keeping us well fed in anticipation of the coming assessment.

After we ate, we were crowded into the showers and then ordered to put on our cleanest pair of coveralls. Afterwards, we were marched out into the yard to await the arrival of our visitors.

It was there that something kind of odd took place. Instead of having us assemble in rows—as we had for the previous inspection—we were ordered to line up around the yard's perimeter.

Or rather, the other kids were. The Enforcers…excuse me, the Trustees were told to assemble in front of where the officers and staff were waiting. Just my luck, I happened to draw the spot right in front of Blackbird—who kept 'accidentally' poking me in the back of the head with his knee, until Lurch told him to cut it out.

Sheesh, I never thought I'd be grateful for that guy's intervention.

After maybe an hour, the morning haze had burned off, and everyone was getting a little fidgety, including the guards.

That was when I heard it…a faint, steady, whirling thump, coming our way from somewhere to the northeast.

Someone nudged me in the ribs. I thought at first it was Blackbird again, but it was actually Wez McCrodon.

"Z…what?" he whispered, speaking out the side of his mouth. Oops, he must have noticed that my ears were standing up.

"Helicopter…headed our way from somewhere upstate." I whispered back, not looking at him. The next thing I said was, "Huh…what's so funny?" I couldn't see him, but I could feel him shaking, the way he always did, when trying not to laugh.

"Well, at least now we know the Governor's not gonna show," he snickered, and now I wanted to laugh too. Zoo Jersey's Guv at the time was an elephant, and a heavyweight even for that species; it was a cinch that he wouldn't be coming by helicopter.

Then Blackbird growled under his breath. "Shut up…both of you."

We immediately zipped our mouths.

The helicopter appeared first as nothing more than a flyspeck in the sky. As it came closer, more and more ears pricked up, when they caught the sound of its rotors. That wasn't too difficult, because when the chopper finally came into full view, it turned out to have two of them.

From behind me, I heard Lurch let out a low whistle. "Melt my stinkin' glacier…a HOOK!" …military slang for a Ch47 Chinchook, I later learned.

It was done up in dark blue with red and white trim. And as it circled over us, I saw the AKER logo, proudly emblazoned on the side. That prompted another comment from the polar bear behind me. "Whoa, who the heck uses one of those babies for an executive chopper?"

Myself, I was thinking maybe Wez had gotten it wrong; maybe the governor was on board. That bird was Gi-NORM-ous, big enough to carry a half-dozen elephants.

They touched down in the center of the yard, blowing dust all over everywhere, and halfway undoing the showers we'd all just taken. They also landed with the tail end facing in the guards/staff/trustees' direction. For some reason, I found that even more insulting than the dust bath.

I shouldn't have; that was simply the direction in which the access ramp opened—something didn't happen for several minutes, not until the rotors stopped turning.

The first guys off were a quartet of wolverines, all of them dressed like extras from a spy-thriller flick; plain, dark suits, darker sunglasses, and a coil of wire pegged in one ear. No weapons were visible that I could see, but somehow, I knew that they were carrying. And that brought on a majorly awkward question; why did those dudes need any kind of firepower? Nobody here was gonna mess with THEM, Armed or not, they were one seriously tough-looking bunch.

Taking up a position on either side of the ramp, they waited for the others to disembark.

"Geez," I heard someone behind me growl, echoing my sentiments, "What, are they expecting a terrorist attack or something?"

The next animal down the ramp was a gnu that I didn't recognize. I wondered who the heck he was, and why was he one of the first animals off the helicopter? No kidding, the guy had 'stooge' written all over him. Then, I noticed he had something cupped in his paws. Peering closer, I saw that it was a ground-squirrel. At the same time, I heard Wez, whispering the answer to my unspoken question. "Ada Duggan, the Lieutenant Governor."

She was followed by a wolf in a blue-serge uniform, Lucas Growlen, head of the Zoo Jersey State PD. Behind him came a pig named Cecil Barnes, head of the ZJ Department of Corrections—which I later learned was a mostly ceremonial post. It was the animal who came off next that had the real clout; Stan Curlewski, a bighorn sheep, the head of AKER Correctional Management's Zoo Jersey Operations. Following him was a kudu I didn't know, but with whom I was soon to become very familiar; John Thorney, The Point's new Superintendent.

Uhhh, lemme put it this way, Erin… ♪"Meet the new boss; same as the old boss." ♫ You follow what I'm bringing out?

Right…exactly.

I really don't remember who was in the rest of the group—except for the last two animals down that ramp. They were the ones that really caught my attention. Mine…and everyone else's.

The first was another wolverine. He was dressed pretty much the same as those first four guys, except for no earpiece—but he scared the livin' snot out of me.

Even now, I have no idea why; he wasn't any bigger than those other wolverines. In fact, he was a little shorter than that third guy. He was maybe a mite better built than any of them, but I swear—I don't think Lurch and Blackbird together could have taken that dude. Maybe it was his face; for lack of emotion, he made Stoney look like your average drama queen. But the thing I remember most about him was his paw…his right paw; it was dirty-white in color, and looked totally unnatural.

But that was nothing compared to the last animal to exit the helicopter.

He was a rabbit—and clearly the dude in charge; you could tell by the way he carried himself, a mammal with a purpose. He was the only one wearing a double-breasted suit and the only guy with mirrored sunglasses. But the thing that just blew me away was…he was the biggest dang rabbit I've ever seen, a stinking giant, bigger than a full-grown coyote.

No, Mr. Rodenberg, I'm totally serious over here. Tell him, Erin…you saw the guy at the Carrot Days festival. Tell him I'm not exaggerating.

There…you see…? I…What? A hero? A HERO! Are you outta your cute little mind, Snowdrop? Yeah, I know he saved your kid niece, Cotton when your uncle Terry went savage. But that's not all I know, lemme tell you. If that big jerk's a hero, I'M the Queen of Corona.

Huh…what you mean, how come I'm not down at the schoolyard with Julio? Oh, nyuck, nyuck, nyuck…really funny, dumb bunny! And you're not helping by laughing, Ratso!

Wait, wait…please don't…

Okay, yeah…I'm sorry, that was out of line. Yes, yes, I take it back…yes, Erin, all of it.

But listen to me here, okay? I know what I'm talking about. I've seen memos, e-mails, company records, videos, all kinds of stuff that's supposed to be confidential. And I also saw what went down at Finagles, during that so-called police-raid. Forget what you think you know about Jack La Peigne bunny-girl, just forget it. He's not who he appears to be! And I won't take that back even if you BOTH walk out on me.

Oh, and don't forget something else…don't forget who it was that provoked Craig Guilford's dad into trying to dump that load of defoliant on the Big Dance—and who it was that tricked him into bringing his plane in over Nick's rocket barrage. Sorry, but I had to say it.

Yes, Mr. Rodenberg, it's true…I'll tell you about it some other time, but right now…where was I?

Ohhhh, yeah…the first and only time I ever met that king-size bunny, face to face.

It happened after the introductions with The Point staff, the ones who kept their jobs, I mean; he mostly ignored the newbies. After that was done, Acting Superintendent Corker was formally relieved of his duties by the new Warden, Mr. Thorney.

Next, came a little awards ceremony in which Jack La Peigne pinned a citation on Lurch and shook his paw. To hear him talk, you'd have thought that polar bear had won the Super Bowl, single-pawed or something; there was no mention at all of the riot. When Blackbird also got cited, sheesh…you never heard so many kids trying not to groan. Yeah, he'd managed to escape after being held hostage, but he'd never have been taken in the first place if not for his own stupidity. Or…that was what I'd been told anyway.

As for me, I was taking note of something—that puma was like a total sucker for flattery. All during the ceremony, he kept shuffling one foot, and the look on his face was like, "Who, me? Aw shucks." I wasn't dumb enough to think that praise from a detainee would have the same effect as getting stroked by a superior. But I made a mental note, all the same.

Meanwhile, La Peigne and the other bigwigs were chatting with some of the other guards. I paid little to zero attention; it was all strictly small talk.

But then that big bunny pulled a major surprise by strolling down the ranks of The Trustees. When he got to Wez McCrodon, he moved on without even looking at him. I swear, he seemed to be making a conscious effort to ignore that sea-mink…like he couldn't stand him or something. And the feeling was mutual, lemme tell you. The second that big bunny's back was turned, hoo-boy! If looks could kill, Crazy Wez would be doing life without parole right now.

But my biggest surprise of the morning was when that Le Peigne dude came to me…and stopped to talk. "Hello there son, what's your name?" He was trying to sound friendly, but I could feel my skin crawling. By then I had learned to tell the difference between when someone was showing real sympathy for my busted face—and when they were only faking it. This guy clearly fell into category number two.

And another thing…I was sure that he already knew the answer to his question. Ahh, I had never felt more tempted to blurt out my real name. If I could've remembered it right then, I'm pretty sure I would have.

"Alan Murphy, sir," I said, hoping like heck he wouldn't ask me what I was in for. No way could I have resisted giving an honest answer to THAT one.

He didn't, he got down on one knee and put paw on my shoulder. If it hadn't been for that white-pawed wolverine giving me the eye, I would have been sorely tempted to sink my fangs into it.

Even without that guy around, I couldn't have gone through with it, though. La Peigne had taken off his mirrored shades and now his eyes were level with mine—and they seemed to be boring right into my soul.

"How are you doing?" he asked me, "Are they treating you well here? Tell the truth." The way he said it, I knew the truth was the last thing he wanted to hear. Whoa, no wonder Wez hated this jerk.

"As well as can be expected sir, no complaints." I answered, blandly.

"Good, good, I'm glad to hear it." He said, standing up again. "If there's anything you need, if you have any problems, just mention my name. I'm Jack La Peigne, head of The AKER Group, the company that oversees this facility."

Yeah ri-i-i-ight, the next time I mentioned this guy's name I'd be throwing in a few colorful adjectives and spitting on the ground. Still…I couldn't help feeling a little apprehensive. Out of all kids in The Point, why had he taken an interest in me?

All right, yes, you got me there, bunny-girl. No, he hadn't done anything to antagonize me; my negative feelings towards him were kind of irrational. But, knowing what I know now, I'd say they were more like something clairvoyant.

Anyway, the next thing he said was addressed to the En…to the Trustees as a whole.

"I'm aware of what happened to you boys…and also what happened because of it. And, I promise you now, there will be no such further occurrences at this facility—not if I have anything to say about it."

Hol-lee, how canned and generic can you get? In the entire course of that little speech, he had never once spoken the words, riot, isolation, or even Granite Point.

Ahhhh, I'll skip to the end here. After the gathering on the yard broke up, the kids went off to do whatever, while the bigwigs went off on their inspection tour, with Blackbird as the guide. And that was my cue to button-hole Crazy Wez.

Well…I wasn't sure how he might feel about all the attention I'd gotten from big-bunny La Peigne—and I wanted to head-off any trouble that might be brewing because of it.

Worry-wart me, it wasn't necessary. Before I could manage even a single word, Wez was grinning and slapping me on the shoulder.

"Whoa, Z…for a second there, I thought you were gonna bite that jerk." Aggggh, ggrrr, was it THAT obvious?

"You have no idea," I answered, shaking my head in disgust. "If it hadn't been for that wolverine standing behind him…"

"Yeah, tell me about it," he nodded, trying not to grimace, "That's one animal you NEVER want to mess with, fox. His name's Whitepaugh, Seth Whitepaugh; La Peigne's number one enforcer, field-guy, and what have you."

Huh, how did he know that, I wondered? I wasn't going to ask, and I wouldn't have had time anyway.

"Okay listen up," he said, waving the other guys over. "We got work to do here. Stuke? You, Jawbone, Slice, and Dice go spread the word; nobody talks to that big bunny unless he speaks to them first…and also that goes for the other mammals in his group. Tell 'em, if anyone gets asked a question, like Z here—the answer had better be something like, 'I love this place.' Otherwise, somebody's gonna need a wheelchair and a respirator. Okay …Krat? I want you, Stoney, and Scorp with me in the library. We're gonna hang there and be ready to move, if anyone turns out to be stupid enough to get talkative with the big boys. Finally…Z? You think you can track that big rabbit without being spotted?"

Ohhhhh, foxtrot…I knew that tone of voice. I could either answer yes…or I could answer in the affirmative. That wasn't a request he'd just made; it was a direct order with a question-mark.

Noooo, Wez wasn't acting out of spite…not this time, at least. Like it or not, I was the best animal for that job, and both of us knew it. Not only was I The Enforcer's resident shadow, La Peigne had made it even easier for me back there. When he'd put his paw on my shoulder, I'd been able to get a real good imprint on his scent…and not only on him, on his wolverine, too. While that Whitepaugh dude hadn't gotten nearly as close to me as his boss, he'd been standing upwind the whole time we'd been talking—and they don't call that species skunk-bears coz the name sounds cool. Between the two of them, I'd have no trouble keeping up with the tour-group and I said as much to Crazy Wez.

"Good," he nodded, "Take Hitch with you and follow those guys as close as you can without them noticing you. Make sure none of the other kids try to talk to them, especially not to that big bunny.

Ohhhh, wonderful; now I was unhappy. If there was one guy in The Enforcers that I did NOT want to be paired with, it was that Furrida panther kid. Like I said before, he'd been none too happy with my elevation to second in command of The Enforcers. And since then, our relationship had been growing more and more strained, thanks in part to Crazy Wez. Remember that time he had me chew out the Mearns Brothers? Yeah, well that was only one of many such instances. Later, he explained it to me. "In any outfit, Z, it's always the number two guy that deals out the discipline."

Yeah, I know Mr. Rodenberg, except…I knew for a fact, he'd never once given that job to Cutty; the whole thing was a crock. In any case, Hitch took every dressing down I gave him fursonally. Even if he was right there, and heard Wez give me the order to read him the riot act, he always acted like I was getting on his case, just to be a jerk.

And since that panther kid wasn't the brightest bulb on the board, that happened a lot more often than either one of us would have liked.

Right then though, there was no point in arguing…and also no time. If we wanted to catch up with La Peigne and Company, we needed to get moving like five minutes ago.

Luckily for us, keeping track of them turned out to be easier than I expected. First of all, right away it became obvious that this inspection was following almost the exact same routine as the last one. Once I realized that, Hitch and I were able to make detours around those VIAs and catch up with them at their next stop.

Another thing in our favor was something that wasn't the same as last time. Back then, after the initial assembly, Warden Argyll had ordered the detainees confined to their cells for the duration. This time, they were free to roam around as they saw fit. Don't ask me the reason for that change in routine, but it gave us all kinds of other kids to use as cover.

Of course…it also increased the likelihood of somebody trying to blow the whistle, but that was the situation, and all we could do was deal with it.

I gotta admit, though…Hitch did great at not being made by the animals we were shadowing. Being a feline, he was naturally stealthy to begin with…and a heckuva lot of those car thefts he'd committed had involved tailing a guy without being noticed. No kidding, if anyone in that tour group even started to look in his direction, he was out of sight so fast, it was almost like a magic trick.

And, of course, we did our best to stay downwind of that group, no mean feat in a place like The Point.

One more thing in our favor was that La Peigne kept interrupting the inspection, either to take or make calls on his cell phone. Not only that; he seemed to be having all kinds of trouble with that bad boy. Whatever the case, every time it happened, it gave Hitch and me the perfect opportunity to make another end run.

The inspection tour started in the galley, same as the one before. I remember watching that Barnes guy put on a pair of white gloves and run a finger all over everything. "See, look…I'm important!" He seemed to be saying. Jack La Peigne looked like he wanted to feed that idiot to his pet wolverine—and the others were none too happy with him either. That was when I knew for certain something I'd been suspecting all along. This whole thing was whitewash—a 'three monkeys' inspection.

Yeah, yeah Erin…I know. Monkeys are a mythical creature. What I mean is, like… that little desktop statue-thingy, you've seen it. 'See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil,' you follow what I'm bringing out? Someone could have set off a bomb in the captain's office and The Point would have gotten a passing grade.

From the galley, they moved on to the shower rooms and the gym, the latter of which was seriously crowded, now that it contained some genuine workout equipment. Second-paw stuff to be sure, but still…the real deal, instead of home-made and improvised.

I remember that the tour-group walked in just as Capper Lee was getting up from the weight bench…and that La Peigne's ears went shooting up when he saw.

"Think I can get in a few reps?" he asked, speaking to no one in particular. And then, without waiting for an answer, he turned to the wolverine standing next to him. "Spot me, Whitepaugh?"

They both lost their jackets and loosened their ties.

Laying down on the bench, La Peigne waited while his aide lowered the bar to the correct height. "Okay-y-y…give me 350 pounds to start off with."

He was answered by gasps and an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Blackbird cleared his throat. "Ummm…w-we don't have that many weights here, sir. We might be able to manage 300 lbs, but…"

"All right, 300 then." The big bunny cut him off, breezily…and now everyone was looking at him like, 'You have GOT to be kidding!'

And with good reason; that much weight would have been impressive, even for an apex pred. For a rabbit, even one as big as this, it was unheard of. What was even more mind blowing was…

Even now, I can hardly believe it, but La Peigne managed ten full reps on those weights—and made it look so easy that I almost had to question if they were real, or nerf-rubber fakes? In any case, he left one serious impression—with all of us. Hitch looked like he wanted to bolt out the door and just keep on running. I wondered then, and I'm still wondering now if that hadn't been the reason for his little display. When he put on his jacket again, he made a point of trying to talk chummy with some of the detainees. Their responses were friendly enough, but a half blind idiot could have seen that their words were forced.

That wasn't such a bad thing, actually…not for me and Hitch anyway. It meant that none of the kids La Peigne was talking to were about to reveal any secrets. Even without the fear of retribution from The Enforcers, they weren't gonna talk out of turn to this animal. By now, the fact that this was a bogus inspection had become obvious to almost everyone—and I had the distinct impression, that was exactly how the big bunny wanted it.

I mean, no way could he have missed what was going on behind all the smiles he was getting; you don't go as far in life as he did by being clueless. The only reason it wasn't showing was because he had other problems right then—specifically with that cell-phone. No sooner did he get his tie fixed, than two more calls came in. The first one got dropped as soon as it connected, and for the second one, he had to clamp a paw over one of his ear canals in order to hear—and he was a bunny, don't forget, so he had to be getting some seriously bad recep….

Oh, for crying out loud, Snowdrop…that wasn't meant as an insult. Do rabbits, or do they not have super-good hearing? Fine, yeah…so lighten up already, willya?

But anyway…soon as that second call ended, La Peigne borrowed his wolverine-guy's cell to make another one, telling whoever was on the other end to, "Route all my incoming calls to this phone." By now the other animals in the tour group were starting to get annoyed at all the disruptions. None of them said anything, but I noticed several of them looking at their watches.

Their next stop was the library, now fully stocked; still no magazines, but plenty of books. This time, I waited next to the door instead of following the inspection group inside. No need to get that close when I knew Wez, Krat, Stoney, and Scorp were in there already. Just before the door closed, I managed to flash them a thumbs-up sign, letting them know, so far, so good. No one had tried to talk to these animals or slip them a note. I was about 99% certain by then that it wasn't going to happen, but I couldn't afford to take chances, just the same.

From there, the bigwigs were headed to a place where I really didn't care to follow them—the laundry room. Ohhhh, foxtrot! What if I had a flashback when I got there? If it had been anybody but Hitch with me, I would have shined it on, except…I could easily imagine that panther kid telling Wez that I'd turned chicken—and loving every second of it. Nope…there was no getting off of this roller coaster.

But when we got to the laundry-works and I peeked around the corner, I was surprised to discover that I needn't have fretted. Whoops, nobody here but us tourists, which meant nobody could blow the whistle, even if they wanted to. Not only that; as with everywhere else in The Point, the laundry had undergone some serious renovations since the riot. The place was almost completely unrecognizable. Nope…no memories here fox-kid…you're not getting triggered today.

The same, however, could not be said, for a certain, king-size rabbit. From around the corner, I heard his cell phone ring. And this is the conversation that followed.

"La Peigne speak… Hello? Hello! Can you hear…? Oh, for the love of…I thought I told them to route my calls to that other…! Will somebody please get rid of this piece of junk?"

"I've got it, sir." It sounded like that pig guy, Barnes, and it was followed by the sound of something clattering into the distance, on a downward course.

The next thing I heard was silence, the kind that says…uh-oh, somebody's in a world of trouble.

It was Barnes that finally broke it—in a voice like a bowl of Jell-o. "Wha…wh-what…i-is something wrong?"

And THAT was when Jack La Peigne dropped the Mr. Nice-Bunny act. "Yes, there's something wrong, I've got a brain-dead MORON playing up to me!"

"S-Sir, I don't…"

"YOU TOAD-HEADED IMBECILE! YOU SHOULD HAVE BROKEN THAT PHONE BEFORE YOU TOSSED IT!"

Whoa, maybe I should have stayed the heck away from here.

But then I heard Blackbird speak up, in a voice that was almost mewling. "No worries, Mr. La Peigne. That chute goes straight down to the trash compactor. One push of a button and that cell-phone's terminated."

Sheesh. and I thought that pig-dude was a groveler. Whatever…Big Boss Bunny was nowhere close to satisfied.

"Fine, then push it already!"

"Uh, sir, it's not in here, it's down in…"

"Then get down there and take CARE of it…before I take back your stripes!"

"Y-Yes sir."

Uh-oh…I heard footsteps coming towards us and moving fast. Too late to duck out of the way, all Hitch and I could do was flatten ourselves against the wall and hope for the best.

Heh…Blackbird never so much as glanced in our direction; it was like we weren't even there. From around the corner, I could hear La Peigne groaning, "I'm surrounded by idiots!"

The next thing I heard was more footsteps…moving slowly this time, and also receding. When I chanced another look, it was just in time to see the bigwigs exiting the laundry

That was when my eyes fell on the garbage chute.

Yes, Mr. Rodenberg, that's exactly what I was thinking…and don't start. If I had to do it all over again, I'd do the exact same thing—and I wouldn't hesitate, any more than I did the first time.

Rapping Hitch on the arm, I told him, "Stay with the tour-group, I'm going for that phone."

He shied back as if I'd just turned into a giant vacuum cleaner. "Y-You're WHAT? You crazy idjit, you can't…"

That was as far as he got before I dived through the door of the waste-disposal chute.

What was I thin…? I WASN'T thinking Erin…that was the whole point. I had no idea how long that shaft was or how sheer the drop. And since that thing was such an obvious escape route, The Mammal would for sure have taken some precautions, right? And that wasn't even mentioning the big one…that I might end up as a silver-fox mud-flap for the effort.

But there was one thing I did know; by going this way, I could beat Blackbird to the trash compactor by a good five minutes—even if he ran on all fours and at full tilt.

…if I didn't get stuck, that is—or if a zillion other things didn't happen that probably would.

Chapter 59: Conor's Story (Continued...Part 9)

Summary:

One thing leads to another

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Continued…Part 9)

♪ "Dream on, dream prisoner
Hang your head in shame
Don't know the rules?
Come on, let's play the game

You taste like poison
Dressed in pain
Wash me clean
Beneath the rain

Freedom is calling…" ♫

Toyah Willcox  –  Kill The Rage

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"Just one minute there, Charcoal-Boy!"

Erin's voice cut through the tension like a katana through a shoji screen—startling both of her companions into a bewildered silence.

It was the target of her ire that finally broke it. "Wh-What the heck, bunny-girl?" His ears were standing at full attention.

In response, the young white-furred rabbit put her paws to her hips and sniffed derisively. "I just now remembered something; back at the Carrot Days Festival you told me Jack La Peigne fooled you too, at first."

Conor blinked and his head tilted sideways. "Yeah…so…?"

"So…" She folded her arms and lifted her chin, "A minute ago you said you couldn't stand him from the moment you met him."

She was answered by a groan; not from the fugitive young silver fox, but from the rat on the tray-table facing him, "Now you want to bring that up?"

Conor's response was breezier—and also much more sarcastic. "Yeah, that's right. I knew the guy was a jerk, but I never imagined he was a stinkin' monster."

Erin rolled her eyes upwards, "Oh, har, har, ha…"

"I'm not joking, Snowdrop!"

That was Vern Rodenberg's cue to jump in…before it blew up into a screaming match.

"Don't start with this again, fox kid!" To drive home the point, he stabbed a finger at his client.

He was answered with a gesture every attorney knows by heart. The young silver fox promptly threw up his paws, as if to say, 'Who…me?' In that moment, he looked like every guilty felon the rat had ever represented.

"Hey Counselor…she brought him up, not…"

"I don't care WHO…!"

"That's not it, Mr. Rodenberg…he lied to me!"

Once again, the room fell silent. Only this time, Erin wasn't angry, she looked hurt.

Holding back a sniffle, she again turned her gaze in Conor's direction. "You lied to me…you liar!" Her voice was soft and cracking.

He responded with a sigh and the swipe of a paw down the side of his head.

"All right Erin…yeah, I did that." His voice was quiet, but also firm. "I thought you might believe me better if I didn't tell you that it was hate-at-first-sight… Hollld on, I'm not done yet." She was leaning towards him with her fists clenched. "If you remember that, then you oughta remember THIS: I never made any promises about telling you the truth back then." His gaze darted in Mr. Rodenberg's direction. "But I'm telling the truth NOW…because I did make that promise." He put a paw over his chest and raised the other one in a Ranger-Scout salute. "On my mother's grave, I swear—to both of you—I haven't said one, single, solitary word in this room that wasn't true…at least as I remember it."

"Okay," Erin answered, nodding softly. Vern Rodenberg's response wasn't quite so agreeable.

"Fine, okay…then tell me the truth about this," he was glaring at Conor with his incisors working. "I'm not gonna debate the wisdom of you throwing yourself down that garbage chute, since even YOU seem to know what a stupid move that was." He slapped a paw against his knee. "But what I don't understand…what I absolutely can NOT wrap my head around is why; WHY did you think that phone was worth dying for?"

Conor shook his head slowly and then scratched at an ear. "I…I honestly couldn't tell you, Mr. Rodenberg. I guess I must have thought…anything La Peigne wanted destroyed that badly was something I wanted to have that badly."

"Ohhhh, for the love of…" The grey rat looked away for a second, cracking his knuckles, "Do you have any idea how weak that sounds, kid?"

"Maybe," the young fox admitted…and then his face became as hard as his attorney's, "But lemme tell you this: That cell-phone WAS worth risking my tail for. If I hadn't gone after it, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now; coz I'd either be locked up, a basket-case…or dead."

He let the last word hang in the air for a second…and then went back to his story.

---

Okay, I'll admit this much. However it turned out, that was still a dumb thing I did—and it took me all of two seconds to realize it. After I was maybe a yard or two down that shaft, everything went pitch-stinkin'-black—so dark, that even with my night-vision, I couldn't see diddly. It was super-disorienting, too; I couldn't tell up from down. The only good part was, that trash chute was a brand-new installation and the walls were as smooth as glass, no rough spots, nothing sharp sticking out to cut me.

Because I couldn't see, I had no warning before I hit bottom—and no way to prepare myself. I was expecting to land on my feet, but instead I hit head-first…at like a 45-degree angle, not straight down from the ceiling, like I thought was gonna happen,

Lucky for me the compactor bin was half full and hadn't been run yet. I came down into a mix of cardboard and trash bags, one of which burst open when I landed on it. The unlucky thing was…that particular bag was full of table scraps and made a serious mess when I broke it.

Ah well, at least I'd made a soft landing…more or less. But, cushy touchdown or not, I had still hit pretty hard, and couldn't be sure if I hadn't injured myself. And so, I got quickly to my feet to check things out…or, uh, I tried to. Right away, I slipped and fell on my keister. Yeah, yeah…laugh your head off, Snowdrop. Anyway, I shook it off and tried again, and…okay-y-y, I wasn't hurt; that was something at least. But now, here came the downside of that bad boy being halfway full. Did I mention that it was as big as a dump-truck? Awww foxtrot; how was I supposed to find one, little cell-phone in all of this stinkin' clutter—especially when I could hardly see? The only light coming in was from this one yellow bulb, somewhere in the room outside…about as bright as your average birthday candle. I could make out a grille, about two feet above my head, and that was it.

But then I remembered; the phone I was looking for was the former property of Jack La Peigne—the giant-size bunny whose scent I'd been able to imprint. Yeah, there was the answer. If my eyes couldn't help me find that thing, my sniffer could do the job. I shoved my muzzle into the debris and started rooting around….

…For about three seconds, until my sense of smell reminded me that I was sniffing my way through a garbage pile. Yew-w-w-www, it was the closest I came that day to saying 'take this job and shove it.' And I would have, too—if it hadn't been for Crazy Wez. Even if I found that cell-phone, he was gonna be seriously torqued at me; he didn't like it when one of his guys bailed on an assignment.

So, just imagine how he'd react if all I had to show him was a pawful of air. With that in mind, I soldiered on; take-a-sniff-and-gag, take-a-sniff-and-try-not-to-puke, and take another sniff.

It was hopeless; I never got even a tiny whiff of that phone—not even when I stuck my snout right into it.

Ohhh-kay, if my nose didn't know what it was smelling, it sure as heck knew what it was touching. I grabbed for that bad boy like the last parachute in a crashing plane, pulled it close, and let out a small whoop. What the heck, I'd earned it. When I turned it on though, all I got was a passcode request. That might have bothered me, except…well, at least, I could see a little bit better.

And now I could make out, just above the grille, a long, horizontal slot. It looked pretty darn narrow, but I was sure I could manage to squeeze through it. "Thank God, I'm a fox," I remember thinking—and the next thing I thought was "Ohhhh, SNAP!"

Because at that instant, I heard a loud, electric, buzzing sound and saw yellow lights, scrolling across the wall outside the grille. And then, a piston as big as an elephant-size mattress began slowly pushing down on me down from above.

The grille, on the other paw, moved a whole lot faster, slamming upwards with a loud bang, closing off the exit-slot and trapping me inside the compactor bin.

Aggghhhh, grrrrrr, dumb, dumb, DUMB fox! How the heck could I have forgotten about Blackbird? And come to think of it he'd never said the control switch was in the same room as the trash compactor—only that it was…'somewhere else', before La Peigne cut him off.

Those were my thoughts at that moment. The next thing to pop into my head was, "One thing's for sure, I'm gonna be a lot thinner."

Yeah guys…I know, right? But I swear to God, that IS what I was thinking right then.

And that was my last thought before my head shut up and I started feeling all over the walls in a frantic search. Maybe this thing had an emergency switch, for just this kind of accident. Nope, no luck, there wasn't any. Okay…in that case, now was the time to panic. I began to fox-scream my head off, even though I knew what was gonna happen after that stinkin' puma got me out of here.

Besides, he'd probably never be able to hear me, anyway

"Help! I'm in here, shut it down, HALLLLLPPPP!"

It was no use; the piston just kept coming down, down, and down. Like an idiot, I put my paws against it, trying to push back. The metal was cold against my pads, and now, I could feel myself being compressed into a fetal position; threads of pain began to shoot through my shoulder back.

And then the piston stopped—and began to go the other way.

For a second, I just stared dumbly, watching it rise back up again. I remember thinking, maybe…maybe that was as far down as it was supposed to go? Oops…the grille had dropped and the slot was clear again. I needed to get the heck out of here…fast!

I jumped up, threw an elbow over the rim, and got ready to pull myself through the opening.

…when a big, feline paw grabbed me by the wrist and yanked me out of the compactor bin.

I landed on the floor in a hot mess, bracing myself. Out of the frying pan, into…another frying-pan; Blackbird had heard me after…

Wa-a-a-aitaminnit—that wasn't a puma leaning over me, it was a Furrida panther. And standing beside him was a young sea mink—a very ticked-off looking sea mink.

"Pick him up!" he snarled, "and watch out for that camera over there!"

"Right Boss," Hitch nodded, and dutifully hauled me upright—sinking in his claws as he grabbed me, although Wez had said nothing to that effect.

The instant I was on my feet, he was in my face.

"You stupid, little, head-case moron, you! If you wanna commit suicide, at least leave a note first—DUMB fox-kid! And who the heck do you think you are, running off on your own, like that? When I give out orders, I expect 'em to be obeyed!" He drew back his arm, and I was sure he was going to smack me. And maybe that was what he had in mind, but in the end, he only shoved a finger under my nose. "If you EVER pull a stunt like that again, I swear…Ooooo, gimme one good reason why I shouldn't kick your tail outta The Enforcers right now!"

That wasn't quite how he said it, but you wouldn't want to hear his exact words on the subject. Meanwhile, Hitch was standing off to one side with a big, dopey smile on his face. Ohhhh, I wanted to pay him back for those claws and soooo bad.

But then, I remembered—I DID have an excuse for him not to fire me. Only, where the heck was it? Ohhhhh, NO…my paws were empty! I hadn't held onto that cell-phone; I had dropped…

Wait, hold it…I reached down fast and patted my hip.

"Hey, stupid, I'm talking to you!" Wez was baring his fangs at me; I hardly noticed. "What the heck do you think you're doing?"

I answered by pulling out the cell phone and showing it to him. I didn't remember having put it in my pocket—but who cared, so long as I had the thing?

Not Wez McCrodon, apparently…

"Wha…?" Even through his fur I could tell that he was livid. "You jumped down the stinkin' trash-compactor chute for a crummy SMART-PHONE?"

He raised his paw, ready to bat it out of my grip…while my ears and eyebrows shot up into the ceiling. What the fox? Didn't he realize…? Whoa, wait…no, he didn't. Hitch hadn't told him the whole story.

I moved quickly to correct that oversight.

"Not just any phone." I answered in a rush, almost thrusting it in his face; "Jack La Peigne's fursonal cell-phone! And he doesn't know we have it!" He couldn't or else there'd be guards all over us right now.

"It's…what?" Wez stopped and took a wide-eyed step backwards.

And that was my opportunity to lay a little payback on a certain Furrida Panther.

"Yeah, that's right…ask Hitch. He was right there when the big guy tossed it."

"He was?" Wez's brow went up and then came down hard. And then he came down hard…on Mr. Claws. "You stupid, stinking, pea–brained hick! How come you never told me that part?"

"I…" Hitch mumbled, clasping his paws, "I-I didn't think…"

"Yeah, that's right, you DIDN'T think!" Wez cut him off at the pass. "That's the whole stinkin' trouble with you." And then he turned to me, holding out a pair of cupped paws. "Lemme see."

I gave him the phone. He took it, and just stared for a second, cradling it like a sacred icon. For some reason that told me now would be a very good time to cover my tail.

"It's probably encrypted from here to Zootopia," I cautioned, raising a finger.

He just kept gazing reverently at the magical thing in his paws.

"No problem, Z." His voice was soft and velvety, "I know a guy."

And then a noise came from somewhere upstairs, breaking the spell.

"All right, listen up…the whole two of you." Wez held up the cell-phone for both of us to see. "Nobody says nothin' about this, not to anyone; not to me, not to each other…not even to yourselves. You don't talk about it, you don't think about it, you don't stinkin' dream about it. Got that?"

We answered simultaneously.

"Yeah Boss."

"Right Wez."

"Okay," he said, shoving the phone in his pocket, "I'm gonna go head on back upstairs. Give it about a minute before you follow me."

As soon as he was gone, Hitch wheeled on me with his claws unsheathed.

"You little…"

"Thanks," I said, offering a paw.

Hitch pulled the claws back and his head tilted sideways. "Thanks…? For WHAT!"

"For saving my life," I said, pointing to the trash compactor behind me. "You're the guy who shut that thing off, right?" I didn't know if it was him or Wez that had actually pulled the switch, but it hardly mattered under the circumstances. "So…thanks." I held out my paw even further.

He slapped it aside…ears laid back and fangs exposed.

"Keep your thanks boy; I don't want it. And I swear…one of these days, I'm gonna fix your tail, real good."

"Then that's what's gonna happen," I shrugged, "Now come on…let's get the heck outta here."

This time, I followed my orders to the letter. I never once mentioned the incident with the trash compactor, and luckily, nobody asked me about it either. A couple of guys did want to know why Wez had been so torqued at me; he'd practically thrown a conniption when he learned that I'd bailed on my mission.

So had Hitch, by the way—when he'd run off to tattle on me instead of following those VIPs like I'd told him to. Not that I'm complaining you understand; I'm still alive, after all. And at least he'd whispered the news in Wez's ear, instead of broadcasting it all over the place.

Anyway, no sweat. Whenever someone asked me what I'd done make Wez blow up like that, all I had to do was say, "Sorry. he told me not to talk about it"—which he had—and that was that.

I never forgot about that cell-phone, but I didn't give it much thought either; maybe a minute or two before I went to sleep. So, when I finally heard back about that bad boy, it hit me like a freight train out of left field.

It started in the mess hall. I had just finished stacking my lunch tray, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and there was Blackbird, giving me a curious look.

"Your uncle's here, Murphy," he told me, deadpan.

I immediately froze. I knew today was visiting day, but…uncle, what uncle? I didn't have any uncles; I didn't have any living relatives, period.

Un-lessss it was somebody from my father's side… nooooo, that couldn't be it, either. I'd been put here under a fake name, so what the heck….?

That was all I was able to manage, before Blackbird's growl derailed my train of thought. "You want to see him, or don't you?"

I came within a whisker of telling him no. All too well did I know that this puma had it in for me. Maybe he was laying a trap over here.

Yeah, Erin …so? You'd be paranoid too, if you had a guy like that, always looking to nail your tail, over every little thing.

And now, if you don't mind... Okay, maybe it wasn't a trap. In any case, there was only one way to find out.

"Yeah, I'll see him."

Never having had a visitor before, I had to wait outside the visitation room while Blackbird laid down the rules. I would have thirty minutes, not one second more, and the only thing my uncle would be allowed to give me was paperwork.

…And nothing but paperwork; no staples, folders, paperclips, or anything else. And he couldn't give it to me directly; he'd have to pass it to a guard, who would send it through the partition to another guard, who would pass it on to me—after he gave it a thorough inspection first.

And, of course, our conversation would be duly monitored and recorded

"Okay," Blackbird purred when he finished, "you're in Booth Nine," and with that, he waved me through the door.

I was three spaces away from my spot, when I got another surprise. There was Wez, seated at another window. I only had time for a quick peek, but I was able to make out another sea-mink on the other side of the glass, a guy much bigger than him. Who could that be, I wondered. Was this the uncle he was always talking about? Noooo, I decided; too young. Must be his cousin…Kerry, or Kellen, or something like that. Whatever…I didn't have time to hang for a better look. I hurried on, found my slot and quickly took a seat.

The set-up in the visitation room was pretty much the same as what you see in the movies. Narrow booths, armored glass, and scuffed-up phones with steel-jacketed cables. As with the Isolation Cells, this was one of the few places in The Point that the riot hadn't touched—and so there'd been no makeover here. The glass was dingy, the seat was hard as a rock, and the paint was thick, peeling, and baby-puke green in color.

Parked in front of me, on the other side of the window was another fox—no surprise there, since he was supposed to be my uncle. What was surprising was that he wasn't a red fox, but a swift fox. Whoa, how the heck had this dude managed to convince The Mammal that HE was related to me?

Yep, you got it Mr. Rodenberg; by crossing a few paws with silver…and also with the help of a little leverage, although I didn't find that out until later.

As I took my seat, I saw him mouthing a pair of words. 'Uncle' and 'Danny'. I nodded that I understood; he nodded back and then he said, "Hey, Al. How you doin' kid?" He had a Zoo York Irish accent that wouldn't quit. Think Jimmy Catney in White Heat.

Who's Jimmy Ca…? Uhhh, later Erin, okay?

"I'm doin' pretty good, Uncle Danny," I said. Quickly deciding to play it straight, I lowered my voice and added. "All things considered; I mean…this IS the stinkin' Point after all."

"Yeah, really." He nodded, offering a toothy, tilted grin. He seemed to appreciate the line I was taking, and so I decided to cut to the chase.

"I have to admit, I wasn't expecting you, Unk." I said, addressing him in the diminutive. And then I leaned forward until my nose was almost touching the glass. "What brings you here today?"

Instead of leaning forward, as I had done, he leaned back in his seat and made a dismissive gesture with his paw. In response, a shadow moved away from beside him. That was my first clue as to how he'd managed to pass himself off as my uncle.

And then he leaned forward, same as me. "Just checking to make sure you're alright in here, kid, after the riot and everything. I would have come sooner, but they're only just now letting you guys have visitors." That was probably true, and a perfectly good reason for my 'uncle' to come and see me—except he wasn't my uncle and that wasn't why he was here.

Ahhh, I so wanted to ask him about it, but I didn't dare. Maybe HE could tell the guards to mind their own business, but I sure as heck couldn't.

He dropped his voice to a low murmur. "I also heard about a little…'accident' you had. You follow what I'm bringing out?"

Yep, you're right Erin. That's where I get that expression, from Danny Tipperin. But I think you prolly knew it already, Mr. Rodenberg—having met the guy and all.

Anyway, I did follow…he was talking about my swan-dive down the garbage chute.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I said, "Close call…but I'm okay."

He offered me a head-shake and a tired smile. "I'd be lying if I said that wasn't a stupid move you made, kid. But that being said, I gotta admit…it turned out fine in the end. You got the goods, and…" He finished up with a chef's-kiss gesture.

I was more than a little surprised…not that Wez had managed to smuggle the Holy Cell-Phone out of The Point, but that he hadn't tried to grab all the credit for himself. I later found out that he had, but it hadn't worked. When the phone finally reached its destination, my scent was still on it, along with several strands of my fur. How that had led his uncle's guys to the discovery that I was the real cell-phone-ranger, I still don't know. Somehow, though, they'd figured it out—and the proof was sitting less than three feet away from me.

All right, yeah…but that still didn't explain why this swift-fox had been sent here to talk to me.

And I wasn't going to find out…not right then, anyway. Even having paid off and/or put the squeeze on the guards, there was only so much Danny T. could tell me right then.

"You're the one that likes blackberries, right kid?"

"Yeah, that's right," I said. I would have been confused by the sudden change of subject; except he winked while he said it.

"Oh good, I wasn't sure," he answered, "Anyway you got a care package coming, later on this week, with lots of blackberry goodies inside." He seemed to remember something then, and snapped his fingers, "Oh, there'll be something else too, something just for you."

"Wha…?" I started to ask, but he had already raised a paw.

"Sorry kid, don't wanna spoil the surprise; you're just gonna have to wait and see."

That was when something happened that I'd never experienced before. Danny leaned in even closer and, barely moving his lips, he spoke again—in a voice so high in pitch that only a canine or a bat would have been able to hear it.

OR…another fox. "Push up on the stand and pull down." he said…and then sat back again.

Needless to say, I was floored. How the heck had he done that? Before I could say anything, he was already raising another paw. Okay, I wouldn't ask…but dangit, I wanted to know.

I was about to tell him, "Right, got it," when I remembered—I wasn't supposed to have heard him. So instead, I gave him a tiny nod…even though I had no idea what he'd meant by what he'd just told me. The way I figured, I'd find out when my care-package came…or else I wouldn't.

We spent the rest of our visit talking about nothing important…except I got the distinct impression that when it came to Crazy Wez, this swift fox wasn't a fan. Every time I mentioned his name, my 'Uncle Dan's' mouth would tighten up a little. It was very subtle, but unmistakable.

And then, after what seemed like only another minute, Blackbird appeared behind me.

"All right Murphy, times up."

"Okay," I said, getting up again, "Thanks for coming, Unk."

"No problem, kid." He said, also getting up. And then he added, "I won't be able to come visit you for a while…but I really hope to see you again."

And then he was out of there…and now I was more confused than ever. Oh great…another puzzle. The way he'd spoken those last few words, I was sure they contained a hidden message—but for the life of me, I couldn't decipher it.

As things turned out, I had my answer in less than an hour. When I got back to my cell, I found Wez waiting for me, leaning a shoulder against the bars.

"Come with me," he said, turning and beckoning with a pair of fingers. I knew where we were going when he passed me a bandanna; we'd done this dance several times before.

He led me out to the yard and to a row of low, concrete bleachers overlooking the ball field; one of The Point's new, post-riot constructions. There were several other kids present, but they took their leave as soon as they saw us, although much more slowly—and sullenly—than they would have before the uprising.

Selecting a pair of seats at front-row, center, we were invisible to every guard-tower, except for the one on top of the main building…and that one was like a zillion yards away. Still, there was such a thing as binoculars, and so we took no chances. Tying the bandannas around our necks, we let them drape over our muzzles and cover our mouths. Now, even with visual aids the guards wouldn't be able to read our lips…and if they ordered us to lose the scarves, we'd know they'd been watching and shelve the sit-down for later.

As was usually the case, Wez didn't get down to business right away, engaging first in a little small talk.

"So…did you have a nice conversation with The Danaconda?"

"With who…?" I asked. I knew who he meant of course, but where the heck had he gotten that name?

"Your 'Uncle' Danny Tipperin who came to see you," he explained. Even through the bandanna, I could tell that he was grinning. "That's his street-name. I'll tell you how he picked it up some other time, but right now, I got something important to discuss with you." He went silent for a moment, and it wasn't a dramatic pause; it was what he always did when he wanted to get serious.

Finally, he said, without looking at me. "I'm getting outta here, Z…I'm gonna say Sayonara to The Point."

Whoa, okay—NOW I was blown away! And not just by the reveal; why the fox had he felt the need to bring me all the way out here to tell me? And what the heck did it have to do with my visit from 'Uncle Danny?' I was sure those things were connected; Wez had buttonholed me less than fifteen minutes after I'd finished my talk with that swift fox. No way was it just a coincidence.

AND…what in the actual heck had his uncle done to convince The Mammal to let him take a walk? This wasn't some joe-shmoe kid who'd been busted for stealing a bottle of fruit juice, it was the stinkin' Bearfoot Bandit, for crying out loud; the kid whose antics had been front page news, from Mane, down to Furrida and beyond.

My bewilderment must have been visible even through my facial covering. Wez instantly fanned a paw. "No, Z…they're not letting me out; I'm gonna break out. My uncle, The Mister, is gonna help me."

Oh-kay-y-y, that explained what we were doing out here on the bleachers—but it didn't explain why he was letting me in on his plan. And breaking out of Granite Point? That wasn't just crazy, it was total insanity.

Remember all those security things I saw when I first arrived? Well, they were just the tip of the iceberg. The Point was maybe the most escape-proof correctional facility on the eastern seaboard—juvenile or adult—and the proof was there for anyone to see. Of the few who'd tried to break out of this place, not one had made it, even to the outer wall. The kids who'd attempted to smuggle themselves out had fared even worse…getting busted before they cleared the first checkpoint. And every single one of those attempts had been before my time. For as long as I'd been locked up in The Point, not a single kid had tried to escape from here, not even once.

And that wasn't even mentioning what the riot had wrought. Thanks to that little incident, the security system had been upgraded, along with everything else; scent detectors, motion detectors, hi-def security cameras, drones with infrared, the works—all of it brand new, hi-tech, and cutting edge.

"And that's just the stuff we know about," I reminded Wez cautiously.

"Not…quite, Z," He was waving a finger, and I was sure he was grinning again, "My uncle's guys know a lot more than you think...and it's all thanks to you."

I felt my paw slap into my chest.

"What…ME?" Whoa, just when I thought things couldn't get any more confusing. What in the actual heck had I done?

Wez said nothing to this, only stuck out his thumb and his little finger and held them up to his cheek.

Okay…now I got it. This was all about the cell-phone I'd rescued. His cousin—Kieran, that was it—his cousin must have figured out a way to crack the encryption code. I had no idea how that was supposed to help Wez break out of here, except—that phone had once been the fursonal property of Jack La Peigne, the Big Boss Bunny himself. Who knew what evil lurked in that heart of that bad boy?

And there was one more thing. Unless Wez had been lying to me just now, his uncle, the big-time crime-boss, had signed off on his escape plan. And that guy was nobody's amateur; take a look at the swift fox he'd sent to come and talk to me.

There was just one thing left that I couldn't figure out.

"All right Wez, I follow," I said, "but why are you even telling me this? Shouldn't you want to keep it to yourself?"

"Normally, yeah." He answered, giving me a slow nod, "But even with my uncle's help, there's no way I can pull this off alone. I'm gonna need a partner, you understand?"

Holy foxtrot! Yeah, I understood…and now I was totally blown away. I had no idea how to answer him, and so I settled on something lame.

"Geez, Wez…why me? Wouldn't Hitch be a better choice?" I immediately felt like an idiot, but he only waved a paw.

"Couldn't bring that guy along if I wanted to; he's too big. This'll only work with someone small-mammal size or less." He shrugged, "And let's face it, that panther's not exactly super endowed in the brains department. I need a guy with some savvy, and besides…" He reached out and put a paw on my shoulder. "You're the kid who snagged that cell-phone, Z; it's only right that I make you the offer first."

Whoa, you could have knocked me over with a toothpick; once again, I had no idea how to answer him.

And so, once again, I punted.

"I dunno Wez…this is something really huge, ya know. I-I'm gonna need some time to think it over."

"I understand," he nodded. "I can give you 'till lights out tomorrow to make up your mind—but that's it, I'm afraid. If the answer is yes, gimme a fist-bump when you see me. If it's no, make it a high-five."

"Right," I said, "But there's one thing I gotta know first. I'm not going to ask you for any details—but at least tell me you have a plan."

Wez looked away for a second, chewing on his lip. He wasn't angry, it was more like he was trying to make up his mind or something.

"Yeah-h-h," he finally said, and then raised a cautioning finger. "It's not complete, only a barebones thing. And even I don't know everything yet. There's a lot of stuff being worked out, 'off campus' if you know what I mean.

"Okay, good enough," I said…and we left the bleachers by separate routes.

I don't think either one of you will be surprised that I didn't get much sleep that night. I had like a Godzillion things to think about—and only 24 hours to get it done. In the end, I divided them up into three categories

The Ugly:

Whatever the chances of success, getting caught while trying to escape from The Point was the worst thing that could happen to a kid. Everybody knew that, and what made it even worse was that nobody knew exactly what that 'thing' was. All we knew for certain was that if you got busted trying to break out of this place, you were hauled off to The Clinic and you were never seen again.

I had come back from that place, of course…but Wayne Babin and Marc Shevaldo hadn't. And the thought of ending up like them was my worst nightmare—times stinkin' infinity!

And I would end up like them if I got caught trying to break out of The Point; of that I had absolutely zero doubt. Nobody ever came back from the Clinic after being sent there a SECOND time.

Or…why even bother? The Mammal could have one of the guards grab me from behind and then call what happened next an act of self-defense. In any case, if Wez and I got busted breaking out of here, they'd make examples of us for sure.

The Bad:

Like I already said, since the day it opened no one had ever escaped from the Granite Point Youth Correctional Facility. Only a few had even tried, and it wasn't only because of the consequences of getting caught—it was also because of the odds.

First of all, there was no such thing as trying to tunnel out of this place. As the name implies, Granite Point was built on solid rock; trying to break out of here by taking the low road was a total non-starter.

That left either the wall and trying to stow away on a delivery vehicle.

Let's take the second one first. Every car, truck and van that came into Granite Point had to stop at a scale on the way in, and again on the way out. And every delivery had to be weighed as soon as it was offloaded. When the driver hit the scales that second time, his vehicle weight had better not be on the high side. Otherwise, the guards would practically tear it apart, looking for any hitchhikers. And that was only one of their gimmicks.

Now, let's move on to the wall. Assuming you could get that far, you'd be a sitting duck all the way to the top…and did I mention that those new patrol drones fired tranq-darts? And even if you were able to make that climb, it wasn't going to happen quickly; by the time you reached the top, you'd have a reception committee, waiting for you on the other side.

What's that now? Nope Stuke couldn't have made it either, flying squirrel or no; he had to wear an ankle weight 24/7, his own, private ball-and-chain Wez called it. He could climb, but he couldn't glide—and that weight was not only heavy, it threw off his balance, too.

And, of course, there was all that high-tech stuff I mentioned earlier. But bar none, the most effective escape deterrent in Granite Point was also the simplest. Any guard who busted a detainee trying to make a break—or even plotting an escape—received an automatic bonus of ten thousand smackers. Now, how you gonna compete with that, huh?

But wait…there's more. They had a similar deal for the detainees. If you informed on another kid's escape attempt—assuming your info was legit—you'd get an instant parole, a get-out-of-jail-free card, no questions asked

Yeah, Mr. Rodenberg, I know…but The Mammal had thought of that too. If the worst offense you could commit in Granite Point was trying to escape, the second worst was trying to frame some kid on an escape—and that applied to the officers as much to the detainees. This one time a couple of guards actually tried it, they were not only fired, they were blacklisted, and then they got hauled into court on a civil suit.

Right, I know…I thought it was an urban legend too, the first time I heard it. But it really did happen; that's another thing I found out later on.

What's that, Erin? Oh, yeah…but how were The Enforcers supposed to punish a kid for snitching if we couldn't get to him? If a detainee went to The Mammal with news of an escape plan, they'd whisk him off to The Clinic so fast, he'd catch cold from the breeze. Of course, whether he went home or ended up staying there, depended on if he'd been telling the truth.

Needless to say, if that ever happened, Wez would use his outside connections to put the word on the street that the kid was a snitch…but even that wouldn't have been enough to discourage everybody. Tell me Mr. Rodenberg, did you know any guys in Lemmingworth who'd have been willing to run that risk for a ticket out of jail?

Yep, thought so.

Did I ever think about…? Yeah…for about half a nanosecond. If I snitched on Wez's escape plan, it would take all of half a day for the word to get back to that uncle of his—and then what, do you think he'd have done, just let it slide? Nuh-uh…I'd already had a taste of the kind of power that guy wielded-–when he'd been able to successfully pass Danny Tipperin off as my uncle. If I informed on his nephew's breakout scheme, before the week was up, I'd be toast for sure. And not only that, what do you think Wez would have done if I gave up his plan to the guards? Only tell The Mammal everything he knew about how I'd rescued Jack La Peigne's cell phone—in which case my chances of making that release wouldn't just be merely dead; they'd be really, most sincerely dead.

And even without all that—I may not have hated snitches the way Crazy Wez did, but for sure, I would have hated myself that much if I informed on his escape plan.

Okay, fine—but should I join him in his escape plan?

The Good:

Wez had one major advantage that none of the previous runners had enjoyed—help from the outside, and from an outfit with some serious resources. One more time, look at the way Danny Tipperin had been able to wave that guard away. The Company could easily beat that $10K reward AKER was offering for foiling an escape attempt—and this was a gang that thrived on leverage; I knew that much even then.

I also knew something else; thanks to the riot, nearly all of The Point's security systems were now AI controlled…and Wez's cousin Kieran was supposed to be some kind of hotshot computer hacker. AND he was now in possession of Jack La Peigne's fursonal cell-phone. If ever there was a breakout scheme that stood a decent chance of succeeding, it was this one.

And there was one other thing I knew; as head of the Enforcers, Wez McCrodon enjoyed a whole bunch of privileges granted to no other detainee in The Point—which made him the kid with the most to lose if he got busted trying to escape. And, for all his craziness, that sea-mink was no dummy. Even in his freakiest moments he'd never so much as dream of trying to break out of Granite Point unless he thought he could pull it off. Oh, and that also made him the last kid The Mammal would suspect of trying to plan an escape.

And getting back to his Uncle Mob-Boss…For sure, if I snitched out his nephew's escape, he'd be, 'Bring me the head of Alan Murphy!'

But…what if instead, I helped Wez with his escape plan—and it WORKED? Whoa, in that case, his uncle would owe me one.

Yeah, yeah Mr. Rodenberg …I see you rolling your eyes. And you're absolutely right—but what did I know from wiseguys back then? And I wasn't that naïve; I knew the reverse was also true. If I declined to go with Wez and he got caught, his uncle might blame me for it, even if I kept my fox-trap shut. "If you'd been there, my nephew would have MADE it!"

Aggghhhh, grrrrr…why couldn't that stinkin' sea mink have made it an offer I couldn't refuse? It would have been so much easier to make that choice if I didn't have a choice.

That was when I remembered something else…I remembered Cutty. He had gotten out legally, no need to make a break—something that would never happen for 'Crazy Wez' McCrodon, aka The Bearfoot Bandit.

But…could it happen for me?

I wasn't any notorious interstate felon, just a first offender who'd gotten into a brawl on his first day in Juvie. I'd been given a year in Granite Point because of that fight, but by now, I had to be getting close to my release date. Yeah, maybe it could happen for me…they might be letting me out next week for all I knew.

…unless somebody grabbed me from behind!

Awwww, snap! I'd forgotten all about that little problem; it was all the excuse that anyone would need to keep me locked up indefinitely. And that wasn't everything, either. For all I knew, my little 'incident' in the laundry room could have earned me some extra time already. Seriously, I wouldn't have been the first kid in Granite Point to have his sentence extended without being told about it.

Agggggh, grrrr. it was no use; I couldn't make up my mind. And so, I decided to sleep on it—yeah, right, as IF!

I rolled over, starting wide-eyed up at the ceiling…and was out like a light before I knew it.

Uhmmm…what do they call it again, when you're dreaming and you know you're dreaming? Oh right, a lucid dream. In the one I had that night I was part of a pirate crew. Naw, not like Jack Sparroar, think Donkey D. Fluffy. Anyway, I was running along the dock, trying to reach my ship…except it never seemed to be getting any closer. Every once in a while, I would turn and look over my shoulder, although I never understood why. No one was ever there behind me, and I knew that they wouldn't be. After the third time, I began to wonder why the heck I was even doing this; it was only a stinkin' dream. And then I decided, the heck with all of this stupid stuff and jumped off the dock and into the water.

And then I woke up…just in time to hear the reveille siren. It was only then that I knew…I'd been trying to reach that ship because my mother was on board.

When I got to the mess hall, about a half hour later, Wez was already there, sitting at the Enforcers' table with Scorp and Jawbone. For a second, I thought about heading straight over, except that would have been way outside my normal routine. So instead, I got in the chow-line, like usual. It seemed to take forever to get my morning rations.

Sliding into my usual space next to Crazy Wez, I gave him a nod, "Morning, mink," and offered him a fist-bump.

"Morning, fox," he said, and gave it right back, with a little nod of his own.

The deal was sealed.

In the midst of all of this, I nearly forgot about something else. And it wasn't until the next mail call that I remembered. "The following detainees…report to the Post Office, blah, blah, blah…" As always, I ignored it…that is, until I heard my name being called, "Murphy, Alan…."

Whoa, right…that care package!

The Granite Point 'post office' would have made a perfect stand-in for a police property room. My package was about par for the course, roughly the size of your average tool-chest. Nonetheless, I got a lot of curious looks when they gave it to me. I had never received even a letter before, much less a parcel.

And…seeing as how I was a member of The Enforcers, it hadn't been opened for inspection.

However, I couldn't open it either—not right away, at least. There were protocols to be observed. Luckily for me, The Enforcer crew had a meeting scheduled in the library, for that very afternoon.

Usually, when one of us got a care package, they had to wait until we adjourned before they could open it. However, since this was the first package that I had EVER received, Wez dispensed with the usual agenda and gave me the nod as soon as we sat down.

Inside was a blackberry strudel, some blackberry preserves, and two blackberry muffins. Whoever had sent me this bad boy knew what I liked.

They also knew—whoever 'they' were—that The Enforcer rules required that I share the contents of my package with the rest of the crew. And so, they had included a number of items aimed at the other guys rather than me. A tin of smoked oysters for Wez, a jar of honey for Scorp, some extra tough jerky for Jawbone, some unshelled hazelnuts for Stuke, some sheets of sandpaper for Krat to use on his horn, a couple of moon-pies for Hitch, a jar of Vegemite for Stoney…and for the Mearns Brothers, a pair of black-widow spider lollipops.

But it was the last item to come out of the box that hit me—and we're talking right between the eyes; a flat rectangle, maybe 8" X 10", covered in brown paper.

When I unwrapped it, I gasped and almost dropped it. And then I just sat there staring, holding it in a pair of quivering paws. How the fox…? How the heck did they KNOW?

"Who's that?" Scorp asked, pointing to the picture I was holding.

"M-My mom," I answered, in a shaky voice that seemed to come from somewhere else.

"Your Mama?" It was Hitch, "I thought y'all said you didn't have any…"

"She died," Wez interjected flatly, cutting him off. I had told him about her shortly after coming back from The Clinic.

Obviously, no one else was going to claim that item. The guards could have confiscated it; it had come encased in Plexiglas, which made it a potential weapon—but even Blackbird wasn't that heartless.

When I got back to my cell, after stashing the rest of my swag, the next order of business was to figure out where to put my new picture. I would have liked to hang it on the wall, but there was nothing to hang it on. Okay, I'd have to make room on my shelf, but first, I'd need to find something to prop…Oh, wait; the back unfolded to make a stand.

Make…a stand.

That was when I remembered…what Danny Tipperin had told me in that super high-pitched voice. Leaving my mom's picture on the bed, I went to the cell door, and checked outside, making sure that none of the guards were around.

And then I went back and grabbed it again.

Okay, what was it that swift-fox had said to me? Push up on the stand…and then pull down.

When I pushed up, I heard and felt a click; when I pulled down, the back of the picture slid away, revealing a glossy, gray display screen.

Whoa…I had never used a tablet before, but I knew how they worked. When I looked closer, I saw a sticky-note, pasted in the lower right corner, 'Push the button with your thumb and hold it for a second.'

I'd do that, but first things first; another check to make sure there weren't any guards close by—or any of the other kids, for that matter.

When the tablet finished booting up, I saw the usual assortment of icons, along with a pop-up message, telling me to double-click the chrysanthemum icon. It took me a few to find it—what the heck did I know about flowers? And when I did, I got a bluescreen message, 'Please Stand By'. Agggh, grrrrr, this was getting annoying. I was starting to think about bagging the whole business, at least for now, when a face appeared on the screen.

It was another sea-mink, older than Wez, late twenties, maybe early thirties. He was wearing a headset over a flat cap and had a broad, toothy smile on his face. Was this the same guy my crew-chief had been talking to in the visitors' room? I couldn't be sure; I had only gotten a quick glimpse of whoever that animal had been.

"Ah, there y'are Mr. Murphy," he said, "Been wantin' to meet ye's ever since I got me paws on that cell phone ye rescued." He had a smoky Irish lilt in his voice and a mischievous gleam in his eye. And, unlike that swift-fox, Danny, he didn't seem to have a problem with what I'd done to secure that phone. In fact, he seemed almost delighted with how I'd snagged it. "But…enough with the chatter, boyo…Name's Kieran, Kieran McCrodon."

Holy stinkin' foxtrot…THIS was Wez's cousin that he'd told me about, the master hacker? No! Way! This guy looked more like your typical MMA fighter, than your average computer geek.

Heh, little did I know back then that I had gotten it exactly right. Pound for pound, this sea-mink was one of the toughest street-fighters in the Five Burrows.

And…I had also gotten it 100% wrong. Later on, I found out that his fighting skillz were nothing compared to his abilities with a computer.

"Uh, hi…nice to meet you," I said. Lame…but all I could think of at the moment.

"Likewise, boyo," he answered back. And then he got serious.

"It's Danny Tip'rin that'll be yer contact from here on out, Alan…but before he takes over, I need to walk ye through the workin's of the tablet yer holding. Uhhh, first… please tell me ye didn't give away either o' them muffins."

"Nooo," I answered, cautiously, "I've still got 'em." I had managed to hang onto all of my blackberry yummies.

"Good," he smiled again. "You'll find a pair of air-buds inside one of 'em; they're gray to match your ear tufts, and they'll only work with this particular tablet, d'yer understand?"

"Got it," I answered, impressed. Talk about attention to detail…whoa!

And I was even more impressed by what he told me next.

"The front with yer mammy's picture is actually a photo-'lectric cell. Try and leave it in the light whenever yer can to keep 'er charged. S' even better if ye can get it outside when th' sun's shining. That'll get er' fully charged in only 'bout twenty minutes.

Whoa-ho-ho…maybe this sea-mink was a techie after all. But then I remembered something else.

"How did you know about my mother, and…where the heck did you get that picture of her?"

"From yer old account with the Danbeary Public Library," he answered, surprised not at all by the question, "No offense, I hope, but we needed to vet ye first, before we could make contact."

No, I wasn't offended, much less surprised, that The Company had felt the need to check me out, but I was surprised by something else.

"My library account…it's still there?"

An uncomfortable look crossed Kieran's face.

"Ahhh, not any more I'm afraid, boyo; I scrubbed it."

He'd…what?

"What? Why?"

Well yeah, I was bothered, Erin. That was one of the only links I had to my life before The Point. How would you feel if someone erased a whole bunch of your memories?

Even so, I had to admit; he'd had a good reason for deleting that account.

"Sorry lad, but it needed to be done. Y' wouldn't want your current masters getting' their paws on those files, would ye? Anyway, I copied and saved 'em before I shredded 'em. They're all nice an' safe, now."

"Ah, thanks," I said, trying not to sound irritated. Why the heck hadn't he told me that in the first place?

From there, he went on to instruct me in the proper use of my new toy. First and foremost, I was to say nothing about it to anyone else.

"Not even to me cousin, Wesley. Obviously, he's trustworthy, but y' never know who else might overhear ye's."

"Right," I understood that one immediately. And it made me realize something; Wez must have a tablet of his own, and with the same terms of use as I did.

I was also told to use it only during the day-time or with a light on, lest the glow from the screen give me away. "Ye'll be getting' somethin' later on that'll help out with that problem, but fer now, the light sensor won't allow ye to power up in the dark."

Ahhhh, I wasn't too thrilled about that—I'd be much more likely to be spotted using this bad boy in the daytime—but I was in no position to disagree. Kieran finished up by telling me that Danny would be contacting me the next day, at around 2 in the afternoon. "If yer not able to pick up, don't worry 'bout it. He understands how 'tis on the inside, and he'll leave ye a text message."

And then his face disappeared from the screen.

As a matter of fact, I did miss that rendezvous; the next day was the Sunday boxing matches, and I had an appointment with a newly minted Juke. He was this Pallas Cat kid—one of the newbies who'd come to The Point in the aftermath of the riot. I had challenged him to fight me after hearing him make one too many snarks about my face.

He was a tough little feline, and smart too; knew enough not to try and grab me from behind. Our fight ended in a draw with both of us too tired and/or sore to come out of our corners. The next day, though, he caught up with me in the mess hall and offered a paw. "Good fight," he told me—and though he never apologized to me, he never made another remark about my face. His name was Rank, Bobby Rank, and he was actually a pretty decent kid.

When I finally did make contact with Danny Tipperin, he was perfectly understanding about my having missed our first hook-up. He done some time himself, and so he understood the ins and outs of life in the slam. "Yeah, you couldn't let an insult like that just slide," he said.

I only learned the details of the escape plan in bits and pieces—Danny dispensed them strictly on a need-to-know basis and he never spoke about anything directly.

Well, for example, he never used the word 'escape.' It was always 'that thing.'

The gist of the plan was that on the appointed day, Wez and I were to make our way to the roof of the main building, where a couple of drones would come to take us off. Sounds simple right?

Yeah, you'd know it was anything but simple Mr. Rodenberg…and you're absolutely correct. For starters, Wez and I were both housed on the ground floor, which gave us the longest possible climb to get to the extraction point. And, like I said before, we were housed in two totally separate areas. What that meant was…until we made contact, our chances of being caught were effectively doubled. Not only that, it would defeat the whole purpose of my being brought into Wez's escape plan in the first place. I had good night vision, but he didn't—and it was a slam-dunk that we'd be making our move after dark.

On the plus side, we weren't the only ones aware of those obstacles. Our contacts on the outside knew about them too. Time and again Danny T assured me, "Don't worry kid, it's covered," although he never provided any details. Looking back on it now, I know that was the right thing to do, but at the time it made me seriously nervous. I was having to take a whole lot of things on faith—and from a guy I hardly knew.

Meanwhile, on the home front, Wez and I were spending a lot of time closeted together, going over the details of our escape plan. And for once, the circumstances were on our side; being as I was The Enforcers second in command, nobody saw anything unusual in all those private sit-downs.

The following week, I got another care package, this one containing a pair of sunglasses, the wraparound kind you see old folks wearing. I had no idea what the heck they were for—until the next time I spoke with Danny T.

"There's a new icon in the upper left corner of your screen, there. You see it, kid? Okay, good…give it a double tap and then put on the shades."

I did as he said…and at once the LED light blinked off and the screen went totally blank.

Whoa, that almost sent me into a full-blown panic, but then I heard Danny's voice again. "Put on the glasses, kid."

I did…and lo and behold, there he was on the screen again, perfectly visible. "Now we can talk after lights out," he winked.

Gotta say it; that conversation gave a major boost to my trust in both him and Kieran McCrodon. They had pledged to fix it so I'd be able to communicate with them other than during daylight hours—and they had delivered on that promise. Afterwards, I never again worried when that swift fox made a vague promise about this or that issue being 'covered.' When he told me that Wez and I would need to start turning in early each night, I agreed without question…even though he offered no explanation for the necessity. "Do it gradually," he cautioned, "A little earlier each night, until you're hitting the sack an hour before lights out." About five days after that, he gave me the route up to the roof we would need to take.

Like I said before, Granite Point had been a seminary before it was converted into a juvenile detention facility. And as you might have expected, there were any number of remnants of that past life still around. One of these was a staircase used by the janitors, maintenance-mammals, groundskeepers, etc. who lived on campus, It was supposed to lead from the boiler room to the upper floor, where they'd once had their living quarters.

Since The Point had been converted to run on electricity, the boiler-room was where the emergency generator was housed. As for the door to the stairs, it had long ago been sealed off with concrete and forgotten.

But that staircase was still intact, and there was another way to get to it; through a storeroom, on the other side, where the cleaning supplies were kept—heh, how's that for irony? Once Wez and I were inside, there'd be nothing between us and the stairwell, but a thin layer of very old brick.

That was the easy part; the hard part would be first getting into that storage area. It was secured by both an electronically controlled lock and a good, old-fashioned padlock.

"My cousin Kieran can take care of that first one," Wez informed me when next we met, "but the padlock's gonna be tricky. It's one of those fancy jobs that'll only open with a special, magnetic key…and if it's tampered with, it's got this really bright LED light that starts flashing.

I could only shake my head.

"Whoa Wez, how the heck are we gonna get through that thing?"

"Dunno," he shrugged, "Kieran had me shoot him a picture of it—from all six sides, so he's gotta have something in the works."

Like me. Crazy Wez had learned to obey his instructions without question. And now I knew for certain that he had a tablet, too.

The next message he got—and so did I—was a simple, two-word text. 'Stand By'

So, that was what we did.

You know what they say, about how waiting is the hardest part? Nooo Erin, I'm not talking about the Tom Catty tune, ha-ha. I mean…how, when you're stuck in limbo, your mind goes looking for distractions. You follow what I'm bringing out? Yeah, well the one my head landed on was a thought I'd been suppressing ever since I'd agreed to throw in with Wez on his escape plan.

If we made it…S'cuse me, when we made it, what the fox was going to happen to the rest of The Enforcers, to the guys we left behind?

Chapter 60: Conor's Story (Continued...Part 10)

Summary:

Jailbreak!

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Continued…Part 10)

♪ "Tonight, there's gonna be a jailbreak
Somewhere in this town
See me and the boys we don't like it
So we're getting up and going down

Hiding low, looking right to left
If you see us coming, I think it's best
To move away; do you hear what I say?
From under my breath

Tonight there's gonna be a jailbreak
Somewhere in the town
Tonight there's gonna be a jailbreak
So don't you be around." ♫

Thin Lizzy - Jailbreak

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dMko8DlY9IA

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He could have told his client; he knew.

"You can't get sentimental when you're planning a breakout, kid. It's one of the worst mistakes you can make, worrying about the guys you're leaving behind. You either stay focused on the plan and forget about everything else, or otherwise you're not going anywhere." He lifted his shoulders in a throwaway shrug, "Yeah, it's hard, but that's how it is."

Vern Rodenberg could have said that to Conor—except what would have been the point? The kid obviously HAD managed to put the schmaltz away. Otherwise, as the fugitive young silver fox had pointed out himself, they wouldn't be having this conversation.

But…that didn't mean the rat had nothing to offer him.

"I can give you some thoughts about that." He said, "I was witness to at least seven prison breaks while I was on the inside. Only two were successful…and none of them were completely successful. Every single one of those guys was eventually recaptured, but still…" he clasped his paws and tilted his head. "Before I get into that, I need to ask you something. By the way you talk about it, I'm getting the idea that you didn't think that breaking out of jail was gonna make you an instant hero to those other kids…eh, assuming you were able to pull it off. That so?"

Conor answered him with a vigorous nod. "Yeah, exactly. This was real life; not the Pawshank Redemption."

The grey rat chuckled, "I would have said Cool Hoof Luke myself. But you're right; the reaction to those breakouts I just mentioned was decidedly mixed. Some of the younger guys thought the runners were heroes, but the hard-cases hated their guts." Noting the curious look on Erin Hopps's face, he shifted his gaze in her direction. "I never saw, or heard, about a prison break that didn't end up with almost every mammal in the joint getting their privileges reduced, or even revoked." His eyes found Conor again. "Most of the prisoners took it in stride, except for the guys I just mentioned; but then …they'd go off over just about anything. The lifers started taunting the guards about it, every chance they got; they had nothing more to lose, so why not? As for the wiseguys they couldn't have cared less; it had nothing to do with them." He smiled and raised a finger. "But would you believe…the ghetto boyz started a betting pool?"

"Betting…pool?" Conor's ears were standing up, and so were Erin Hopps's

"Yep," Rodenberg nodded, "on how long it would take for the runners to be recaptured. The first time it was six weeks and five guys split the pot. The second time—this was while I was at Lemmingworth—three of the big-mammal gangs got into a brawl over who controlled the money, and that was it. The warden locked the prison down and kept it that way until the guys who'd made a run for it were caught again. That was three days later, though only one of 'em was brought back alive." He let out a sniff in derision. "When he got out of The Hole, he sent me a message, asking me to represent him. I told him to get lost."

"What…? How come?" Erin beat Conor to the question by only microseconds.

The grey rat responded with the familiar gesture of slapping his knee with his paw.

"Even I have my limits, kid. While him and that other schmendrick were on the run, they did some things I'm not gonna talk about here. I had to put the word out with some of my other clients, this punk was never to be allowed anywhere near me."

"Oh yeah…I can imagine," Conor nodded, grimly. He was obviously thinking about his run-in with that sable-kid, Wayne Dabin.

Erin seemed to be thinking about that too; and it must have been something she didn't want to think about—because she quickly changed the subject, about as smoothly as shifting gears in a tractor, never mind the clutch.

"Did you…try to, you know, do anything about it?" she said to Conor, "about the kids you left behind."

"Hmmm," the young silver fox frowned, glancing sideways at Mr. Rodenberg. He didn't appear to be bothered by the question, only unsure as to how he should answer it. "I…thought about it," he finally admitted, "I was gonna ask Kieran if there was anything he could do to help them after Wez and I were gone." He glanced at the rat attorney again. "Only…he never showed up on my tablet. It always Danny T…and no way was I gonna ask him for help. The guy was always about as upbeat as a toothache."

At this, Vern Rodenberg could only nod. It was as spot-on a description of the swift-fox as ever he'd heard.

But then Conor added. "I was also looking for an opening with Crazy Wez. I wanted to make a pitch to him for bringing the Mearns Brothers with us."

That was enough to run the grey rat's thought process straight into a brick wall. Oy…he didn't!

Conor must have seen the look on his lawyer's face, because he hastily amended, "Yeah, it would have been easy-peasy. Both of those mice could have easily fit in either one of our pockets."

"What happened?" It was Erin. "Did he go for it?"

"Nope," The young silver fox shook his head, and when he stopped, he was wearing a rueful smile. "Because I never got the chance to ask him; Fate showed up and threw a whole stinking tool-box full of wrenches into our plan."

The kid's name was Mickey 'Lucky' Alvarez…Cotton Rat. He had escaped from custody four months earlier, when the officers taking him to the Johnstone Campus got into a car wreck. He was the only one not injured in the crash and somehow, he managed to talk the EMTs into removing his cuffs. He made it all the way to Winsloth, Arizoona before The Mammal finally caught up with him; busted on a street corner while trying to hitch a ride southbound.

Heh, heh…No Erin, he wasn't such a fine sight to see, at least not when he got out of The Hole after being sent to Granite Point. No surprise there, after an escape like that, it was a no-brainer. Heck, he was lucky it was only The Point and not The Clinic.

Anyway, he would have looked even worse if Crazy Wez could have gotten his paws on him. No kidding, he was ready to tear that rat-kid into a million pieces.

Because…the minute Lucky Alvarez landed in The Point, the guards went into double shifts, and the escape-prevention machine went into stinkin' hyperdrive. The word had come down from on high; if this rat-kid even tried to break out again—or if he inspired anyone else to make a run for it—more heads were gonna roll. But what really drove Wez crazy was this: Anyone seen associating with that rat-kid was immediately put under extra-close surveillance.

And wouldn't you know it, he turned out to be a Bearfoot Bandit groupie. He came out of The Hole telling anyone who'd listen that Wez McCrodon's exploits had been the inspiration for his escape. You can imagine how that went over—with both that sea-mink and with me. And the worst part was, we didn't dare let it show. If we hadn't been planning our own breakout, we'd have been happy to make friends with that cotton rat. And then it turned out that he'd come to Zoo Jersey from the same part of Gnucson, Arizoona as the Mearns Brothers. Their families had lived only a couple of blocks away from each other. Next thing we knew, him and those grasshopper mice were spending every free minute together, swapping stories about the hood.

Yeah, that's important, and here's why: In the end, Lucky's nickname turned out to be ironic rather than heroic—and it had nothing to do with Crazy Wez. One morning, four days after he was let out of the hole, he woke up with a cough and a runny nose. When he went to the infirmary, he was given the usual response, "Take two Tygernol and get out of my face."

By that evening, his cough had become a deep, chesty hack, and by the following morning he was barely breathing. And now his cellmate, a pocket gopher whose name I forget, had also come down with a cough and a stuffy nose.

And then it hit the Mearns Brothers.

And then Stuke Stuckey.

And by that time, half the rodents in Granite Point were down with the same symptoms—and it was spreading like a stinkin' brushfire.

That was when The Mammal finally took action. The next morning, every rodent in The Point was loaded into a special, sealed bus and taken away to The Clinic. And I mean ALL of them, the healthy as well as the sick.

Whoa, that was a scary scene. The animals who took them were done up in Haz-Mat suits and respirators. And, after the rodent kids were gone, their cells were hosed down with bleach and sanitizer.

The rest of us ended up locked down in our cells for a week. The next morning, after reveille, the guards started bringing us into the infirmary, ten at a time. When we got there, they made us cough into this breathalyzer-type thing, and then we had blood and saliva samples taken. I had no idea what was going on, and I couldn't get any answers. When I tried to ping Danny Tipperin about it, all I got was that same text-message—Stand By. I did notice one thing, though. As far as I could tell, none of the other kids were coming down sick—and nobody else was getting sent off to the clinic either.

Three days after the tests were finished, the lockdown finally ended, and I went rushing to talk to Crazy Wez. When I arrived at his cell, I was met with something I never thought I'd see. Scorp, Krat, and Jawbone were all there with him—and every single one of them had tears in their eyes.

"Wha…What's wrong?" I asked, not really wanting to know, but unable to stop myself.

Wez tried to answer, but all he could manage was a choked sob. Then Scorp blurted, "Stuke's dead!"

Time froze for a second. No, no…that couldn't be right. Stuke Stuckey hadn't even been the first of our guys to get sick. It had to be some kind of mistake.

Even as that thought came to me, I knew it wasn't true. Stuke was gone, and it hit me hard. I had worked with that Red-Giant flying squirrel many a time since joining The Enforcers…and I'd always liked him.

"H-How?" I asked, in a voice so weak, even I hardly recognized it.

It was Wez who told me.

"Hantavirus," he said, finally managing to get it together, "It was…hantavirus."

Yes Erin, that's right…Hantavirus doesn't normally cause symptoms in rodents.

Well, okay, yeah… I am a little surprised you knew that…it's not what you'd call common knowledge. I mean…I'D never heard of hantavirus before then. I had to get the word from Danny T, the next time we talked.

Oh, right…yeah, a farm family would need to be aware of stuff like that, huh? But, getting back to what I just said; no, hantavirus doesn't usually cause symptoms in rodents…but then a jail isn't exactly a normal place. Everybody crowded together; no privacy, so-so sanitation at best, lousy ventilation, and I already told you about the medical care.

Oh totally, Mr. Rodenberg; that's a great way to put it; like a giant incubator.

Anyway, the next thing I said was, "Wh-What about Slice and Dice? Are they okay?" I had to struggle on every word.

"They're…hanging in there," Wez shrugged, meaning he didn't know anything more about those grasshopper mice than I did—except that they were still alive.

Ahhhh, I think I'll skip ahead again here. For once, things didn't end badly. The Mearns Brothers made a full recovery, both of them. And then, along with every other rodent kid from The Point who fallen sick and managed to pull through, they were granted an immediate release from custody. The Mammal wasn't taking any chances, that one of them might bring that hantavirus back inside The Point.

But the good news for Wez and me right then was…with Lucky Alvarez gone, the escape plan was ON. No kidding, once that cotton rat kid was out of Granite Point—and therefore, no longer the guards' problem—they didn't just back off on all those extra security precautions…they started slacking off; half-baked pat-downs, quickie cell searches, showing up late for work, or sometimes not at all. Most interesting of all, for our escape plan, was that they even started skipping bed-checks. Whoa, if Crazy Wez had been ready to tear Lucky Alvarez a new before, now he could've kissed the guy.

You see, when Danny and Kieran got wind of the officers' loafing on the job, they decided to move up the date of our escape. I remember that swift fox telling me. "It's not going to stay like this forever, kid. Sooner or later, someone higher up the food chain's gonna find out about all that goldbricking—and then watch them drop the hammer like an anvil. We need to get you out of there now, before that happens."

And that was where those missing bed-checks came in. Danny had finally clued me in as to why he had us turning in early every night.

On the appointed day, at the time Wez and I normally went to bed, we were supposed to plant dummy versions of ourselves in our bunks, and then meet up—where else—in the laundry room.

Yeah, I know. When I asked Danny where we were supposed to get those dummies, he told me, "It's covered," and I didn't say anything more.

Okay, the next part of our plan was—we were to wait in the laundry room until we heard the lights-out siren, and from there, make our way to the storeroom I mentioned earlier. Once inside, we were supposed to break through the wall to the staircase I told you about. And then from there, we were supposed to make our way to the abandoned upper floor, where the maintenance guys used to live. There'd be one more locked door between there and the rooftop, but again, Danny assured me, "It's covered."

To be honest, I wasn't all that reassured. What that swift fox hadn't done was offer any promises in regards to that hi-tech padlock on the storeroom door—and if we couldn't get past that bad boy, we might as well hang it up right now.

I shouldn't have fretted; the issue had been taken care of. I found that out the day after Wez received his next care package. I had just finished my twice-a-week run around the yard and when I returned to my cell, I found him waiting for me.

"Hey Z," he said, greeting me with a fist bump, a prearranged signal, meaning he'd received something important in that goodie-box. I didn't ask him what it was, only followed him down the walkway. He led me to the laundry, idle at the moment, and informed me we'd be heading from there down to the storeroom. I wasn't surprised; in fact, I was a little bit relieved. We should have scouted that route weeks ago—or that was what I thought, anyway.

When we got to the laundry room, Wez stuck his paw under one of the big washing machines and came back with a pipe wrapped in newspaper. I immediately felt my ears go up.

"Wha…? What the heck do you need a shalmin for?" What were we going to do, fight it out if the guards caught us?

"This ain't a pipe," he explained, hefting it a little. And then without another word, he turned and headed for the stairway leading down to the basement.

When we got downstairs, we took our cautious time, checking around every corner with a mirror and then pausing to memorize our location. There were CCTV cameras all over the place, but every single one of them had their lights out. "Kieran," was Wez's only explanation—and that was good enough for me.

Finally, after what seemed like a thousand-and-one twists and turns, there it was; the magic storeroom.

"Stay here," Wez told me, going to the door. When he got there, I couldn't see what he was doing; his body was in the way. He was obviously busy with something, though. Just then, a small light flared, and I tasted phosphorus and sulfur in my nostrils. "Okay, don't look," he said, and I turned away, just as the light flared into a blinding, pure-white, incandescence and a ragged hiss filled the room…along with an overpowering odor like burning metal.

And then, just as suddenly as it had bloomed, the searing light was gone.

"Okay, you can look again." Wez told me…and I turned around just in time to see him jiggle the padlock off the door with the end of his shalmin-pipe. When it hit the floor, I saw the shackle was broken—no, melted—and that both of the ends were still smoldering.

"Thermite," he explained, with a wink and a small grin…and then he reached into his pocket, surprising me even more when he pulled out an exact replica of the padlock and fastened it to the door.

Well…not quite an exact replica, as I soon discovered when he pulled out his tablet—the first time I'd ever seen it—and thumbed a quick message.

"Padlock Done"

The response was a loud click as the AI controlled door lock disengaged.

The next thing I heard was a loud slap…me giving myself a face paw. What good did it do to disable the electronic lock if the stupid padlock was…?

I quickly found out when Wez produced a—what the heck was that, a refrigerator magnet? Yes, it was. And when he placed it against the side of the replacement padlock, it popped open with only a very soft click.

Okay, now I got it. The old lock had required a special, one-of-a-kind, magnetic key to open it. This one would open with any magnet.

But the guards wouldn't know that—not until after we made our escape.

And now I understood why Wez had been ordered to take all those pictures of the original padlock. Whoa, was I glad I'd agreed to hook up with his escape plan.

Yeah, right…but we still had a whole lot to do, and a long way to go.

…and Crazy Wez still had a few surprises up his sleeve. When he peeled back the newspaper on the shalmin he'd brought, it turned out to contain, not a pipe, but a bundle of rebar. I didn't have to guess what they were for, but still…

"Where'd you get those?" I asked, making sure to keep my voice low.

"Construction site," he answered, using a finger claw to cut through the duck-tape holding them together, "From back where they were doing the big fix-up," his name for all the post-riot repair-work. It was an easy explanation, but it left me even more confused.

Was he serious? There'd been guards and security assigned to every single work-zone while the repairs had been going on—and I mean straight up the wazoo. And besides that, "I thought the construction guys were supposed to take their trash away with 'em when they knocked off for the day."

Wez gave me that toothy grin of his.

"Yeah, right; that's what they were supposed to do."

That didn't tell me much, but in the end, what did it matter? Carelessness, bribery, or leverage, that rebar was going to be just the ticket for busting through a certain brick wall.

What? Ah, no…I don't think Wez planned it in advance. He was always grabbing stuff he could use for a weapon and stashing it in strategic locations, 'just in case.' No way could he have been planning a breakout while the big fix-up was still going on…not without that cell-phone I'd filched.

Anyway, after ordering me to keep an eye and an ear out for the guards, He hefted one of the bars and then slipped through the door to the storeroom. We'd been told the wall between there and the stairwell was old and crumbling, but he insisted on checking to make sure.

He was gone for only about a minute and half before he reappeared—with an even bigger grin on his face.

"Like stinkin' shortbread!" he almost whooped, offering a high-five, which I eagerly returned.

I was ready head back to my cell right then, but Wez had one final task to perform, stashing the rebar bundle in the storeroom for when we made our move. It took him all of half a minute to find the perfect hiding place; behind a pair of snow-shovels, stacked against the wall. Heh…given the time of year, it was none too likely they'd be getting much use for a while.

When we exited the storeroom, Wez latched the padlock, checked it twice, and pulled out a thumb-sized spray-bottle. He didn't have to tell me what it was for; I had one of my own. It was Biological Deodorizer, the same stuff they use to keep the odors down in hospitals and wherever; prolly got some in here somewhere. Anyway, after giving the air a good spray down to get rid of the leftover thermite fumes—and also our scent—he gingerly snatched up the melted padlock and stuffed it into this little fireproof bag he had.

And then, finally, we got the heck out of there.

I didn't have to ask him where he'd picked up the thermite either; probably in that care-package he'd just received. The last one I'd been sent had contained a hidden compartment, and I assumed his had as well.

Well yeah, the guards never searched 'em, but we still had to share those packages with the rest of The Enforcer crew. And like it or not, we couldn't have any of them figuring out what we were up to either.

Nooo, I didn't have a problem with that; just the opposite. It would help our guys a lot if they could honestly say that they hadn't been in our escape—after we made our break, I mean.

But on the subject of the other guys, we had another problem to deal with; finding a replacement for Stuke. Even in the best of times, that wouldn't have been an easy job—and now it was practically impossible. Stuke had been recruited for his climbing skills, and thanks to that virus outbreak, every other potential candidate was either sick or stuck in quarantine. And just our luck, there weren't any martens or fishers in The Point at the time. Wez finally made the announcement that he was postponing the decision until the Mammal started bringing the rodent kids back to Granite Point. Of course, he did that, knowing full well he'd be out of there before it happened.

As for the Mearns Brothers, it was still touch and go with them right then. For Wez McCrodon, however, there was only one way to handle it. "As long as there's even a teensy chance those mice might get better, their place with The Enforcers is reserved." It was a decision with which the rest of us heartily agreed.

What now? Well yeah, but at the time, we had no idea that they might be sent home from The Clinic. Matter of fact, it didn't happen until a whole lot later.

Anyway, with those two issues on hold, Wez and I were at last free to concentrate on making our preparations.

Thanks to our contacts on the outside, we had no shortage of information to go on. Over the next few nights, we were given the location of every motion detector and sniffer between the laundry works and the storeroom…all of which we were expected to memorize. The same was true for a 3d digital composite of the rooftop where we were supposed to be picked up. The first time it was shown to me, it had all of the blind spots highlighted, along with the extraction point. The second time I saw it, nothing was highlighted and I had to pick out the blind spots with my finger. I got half of them right and Danny made me do it again. And then again, and again, and again—until I could find them in my sleep. And then he did the same thing with the extraction point. It was frustrating as heck, but I never complained. This was nothing compared to the stress that awaited me if our escape plan failed.

Then…I got another care package, this one with a false bottom. When I pulled back the covering, I found a laser-pointer, a compact headset, and…what the HECK? Underneath everything else was a…was that a blow-up doll? No…it was two blow-up dolls—and each one came with a CO2 cartridge for instant inflation. What the FOX? But then I found something folded inside them; a pair of short-hair wigs—one in brown, to match Wez's fur, and one in black, the same as mine. Okay, now I knew what these bad boys were for, they were the dummies we were supposed to leave in our beds the night we made our break. That could only mean we were getting close to the big day.

Closer than I thought; the next time I made contact with Danny, he had four words for me. "It's on, kid…Tuesday."

Why that day? Because the upcoming weekend was a three-day-holiday, which meant party-time for the guards, which meant a fair amount of absenteeism on the following day—plus guys showing up for work hung over. The weather could have been better, a quarter moon, and partly cloudy, but it would do.

It was only then that full impact of what I was about to do hit me. I was getting out of here! Yes, I was, no way was The Mammal going to stop me; I wouldn't let him. And if I did get caught, I'd never let them take me alive.

Yes Mr. Rodenberg, I meant it. And like I said before to Erin, it still holds. I'll die before I go back to The Point—coz it's gonna be only the first stop on my way back to The Clinic.

When I met up with Wez to give him his 'substitute', he said nothing to me about the escape, but he had also been notified it was a go. I could tell by his body language.

The following week—Duh!—was the longest of my life until then. During that whole period, Wez and I said nothing to each other about the break. There was nothing more to discuss, and it would have been just our luck to have the wrong guy overhear us.

I had several more after-hours conversations with Danny Tipperin though. I used to call them late-night cook-outs, coz he spent the whole time grilling me. What do we do if a guard comes downstairs? What do we do if we spot a camera that's still working? What do we do if we get to the roof and it's raining? What do we do if the power goes out?

Ahhh, not really…they used to get power outages in that part of Jersey all the time. Yeah, The Point had an emergency generator, but it took about five minutes to kick in. No…that was on purpose; most of those blackouts didn't last more than a minute or two, and that generator had to be shut off manually.

Meanwhile, Wez and I went about our usual business and tried to keep a low profile. The worst thing that could happen right then would be if either one of us got sent to The Hole—something that would happen automatically if we got into a fight, or antagonized a guard. Like I said before, Blackbird was looking for any excuse to come down on me.

At the same time, we couldn't look like we were trying to play it cool. That would have raised a red flag with nearly everyone in The Point, guards and detainees alike. They might not have known exactly what we were up to…but they would have known something was going on. It was a real tightrope act, for both of us, but somehow, we pulled it off. Even so, I came within an actual inch of making a premature exit from our escape.

The Sunday before the big day was Fight Day. When the word came down that I had been tagged to officiate, I wanted at first to beg off. I might have, too…except Wez promptly vetoed the idea. "You never turned that gig down before, Z. What's The Mammal gonna think if you shine on it now?" Ahhh, I had to admit, he had a point there. "And anyway, you're not fighting; what's gonna happen to YOU?"

Heh, famous last words, but by the next day, I would have killed to get that referee's job…and so would every other kid in The Point. A rumor had begun to circulate, a rumor that was quickly confirmed. Blackbird was going to step into the ring against Lurch.

They'd been building up to this ever since their respective promotions, with Puma-Boy constantly complaining. "YOU never had to do blah-blah-blah when you had this job." Eventually, he'd reached the end of his rope, and demanded that the two of them, 'have it out, once and for all.' To practically everyone's surprise. Lurch had accepted his challenge.

I know, right? A puma against a polar bear. Blackbird had to be either crazy or…well, the word around the yard was that his challenge had been a bluff and Lurch had called him on it. Everybody, kids and guards alike, was expecting the warden to step in and stop the fight but it never happened. I had no idea why, and I didn't care; I couldn't wait to see those two go at it.

When the day of the fight came, it was standing room only in the yard, needless to say. Not only was the main event between two of the most hated officers in Granite Point…like I said before, it was a holiday weekend. Whoa, what a stinkin' three-ring circus. There were camcorders, cameras, coolers; this one bighorn sheep guy even had a grill and a stack of corn set up. The only thing missing was a TV crew.

None of the undercard matches lasted longer than a couple of rounds…mainly coz everyone wanted to get them over with, even the kids who were fighting.

When the main event finally stepped into the ring, the contrast couldn't have been greater. Blackbird was dressed like an MMA wannabe; long, baggy, faux-silk training pants, with flames rising up from the cuffs. Lurch, meanwhile, was wearing a pair of beat-up, khaki cutoffs—and a bored expression on his face.

I'll give you one guess, which one I was rooting for. That polar bear might have been a first-class jerk, but at least he never held grudges. Puma-boy…well, I already told you about him.

But then, after they broke, and retired to their corners, I heard Blackbird whispering as he passed me, "You'll be sorry if I lose, punk."

Ohhhh, foxtrot…now I understood; he must have known I was going to be the referee when he'd made that challenge to Lurch—and figured he could tilt the odds in his favor with a little intimidation. Aggggh, grrrr, why hadn't I seen that earlier? And it was way too late to back out now.

When the bell rang—yeah, they finally had one—Blackbird came charging out of his corner and was all over Lurch like a tawny tornado. He hit him with a right to the jaw, a kick to the ribs, a left to the gut, another kick, and another, and another. Sheesh, the way things were going, he just might win without any help from me. All the while Lurch just stood there, not even trying to fight back. Blackbird kneed him in the thigh, hit him with four fast punches to the solar-plexus, a flying elbow to the throat, a left, a right, another kick…

And that was when Lurch finally moved—just one, single solitary eyebrow.

"That all you got?" he growled, deadpan.

And then he back-pawed Blackbird across the chops—the only blow he landed that day—whirling him around like a fidget spinner, and sending him crashing to the mat, right on top of where I was standing.

I got out of there with only centimeters to spare. Good thing, too; when Blackbird hit the canvas, he jolted me a good three feet into the air.

Despite his earlier threat, I didn't slow the count. Why bother? I could have counted to a thousand and it wouldn't have made any difference. That cat was out colder n' bucket of penguin spit.

When I got to 'Ten!', the entire crowd erupted in cheers, whoops, and roars—none louder than from where The Enforcers were sitting. Oooo, I wished the Mearns Brothers could have been here to see this; they'd be howling their little heads off. I would have cheered myself, but being as I was referee, I didn't dare. Every kid and guard who'd bet on Blackbird to win—yeah, there'd been a few—they'd blame me for his loss. Yeah…I know. but that's what would have happened. I had to save my celebrations for later.

What did Lurch do? Hee-hee…that's the best part, Erin. He came lumbering over, looked down at Blackbird, and growled, "I expect you back for work at the usual time, Sergeant." And then he left the ring without another word…or even a backwards glance.

It took more than half an hour to revive puma-boy, and then he didn't seem to know where he was. He needed two guys to help him out of the ring and get him inside the main building. Heh…Never mind what Lurch had said, that kitty wasn't coming back to work any time soon. For sure, he wouldn't be back at his post on Tuesday, which meant he wouldn't be around to mess with our escape plan—or to lay any payback on me for getting his tail kicked. It was the icing on the cake.

Well…that, and Lurch deciding to take a hike as soon as the fight was over—saving me the embarrassment of having to raise his paw and declare him the winner.

The following day was the Monday holiday, and so The Point was operating with nearly a skeleton crew. At first, I thought Wez and me should make our move tonight, but I soon changed my mind. The guards who were still on duty were seriously torqued at having been left behind—and guess who they decided to take it out on? We spent the entire day reading in our cells, and Wez gave orders for the rest of the guys to do the same. It wasn't until lights out that I was finally able to relax.

But not for long. An hour later, Danny Tipperin pinged me on my tablet, there to deliver my final briefing.

The following night I was to leave my tablet in my cell, "Don't worry, it's got a built-in self-destruct." he told me. The reason I couldn't bring it along was that the special glasses that allowed me to use it in the dark would cancel out my night vision. Wez would still have his tablet, though…and I'd be able to hear our instructions through my new headset. My job was to guide us to the storeroom using my night-vision, and then up the stairs, after we broke through the wall. Then would come the most difficult part of the escape, finding our way to the door that led to the roof. For obvious reasons, we'd been unable to explore that part of the route, although we'd both been supplied with maps.

"You sure you can find it, kid?" Danny asked me, for what must have been the zillionth time. Aggghhh, grrrr, didn't that swift fox ever let up?

"I can get us there," I assured him. I actually wasn't that certain, but I was determined; I'd find that stupid door or die trying. I did have one question, though. "How are we supposed to get through that bad boy?"

"Wez will have that covered," he told me. "And, you know what to do next?"

I could have simply answered yes; I knew that part by heart. But I also knew that wasn't the answer he was looking for. And so, I proceeded to give him a detailed description of the final phase of our escape plan. Once we made it onto the roof, we were to follow a very specific route to the extraction point, a route that would keep us from being spotted by the officers on duty in the central guard tower.

"We need to go single file, not side-by-side, in order to make certain that we stay out of sight. I go first, since I have night vision. Then, when we reach the extraction point, we get picked up one at a time."

"Right and why is that?" Danny asked me, in that assistant-principal voice he'd been using all week. Agggh, grrr, not AGAIN. It was a good thing we were gonna be out of there the following night. Any more of this, and I'd prolly start reciting the escape plan in my sleep.

I didn't say anything like that to him of course. "Because those drones can't carry us both at once…and you can't send them in more than one at a time." No one had ever told me why, and I'd never asked. Why should I? Danny had never yet led me wrong. "And Wez goes first," I added quickly, anticipating his next, and…I hoped, his last question.

When I finished, I saw Danny nod his approval, and I was sure that this was the end of it.

"So…I guess that's all until tomorrow."

"Not quite, Al," he said, addressing me by my name for the first time in like forever…and in a much quieter voice. "There's a couple more things I need to discuss with you."

Uh sorry, guys—I can't say. After he finished, Danny swore me to secrecy—and a fox never betrays the word of another fox. No Erin, it's not archaic. Even today, it's harder than heck for a member of my species to get someone from another species to trust them. Look at all I had to do to get you to back off on trashing your bass. That's why we have that rule; if nobody else will believe in us, at least we know that we can always believe in each other.

Yeah, Mr. Rodenberg, foxes have been known to abuse that commandment from time to time—but not Danny Tipperin, never him. He's a stand-up guy, all the stinkin' way.

Uh-huh, I'm using the present tense. Danny's still alive. Yeah, he's locked up in Cattica, and okay, he's almost a basket-case—but he's alive. And as long as that's the case, that's how I'm gonna think about him…and Kieran, too!

S-Sorry, got a little carried away there. Yeah right…let's just move on.

No doubt you're expecting me to tell you that the night of the escape was fraught with danger, and that everything that could go wrong, DID go wrong. We got lost, the substitute padlock didn't work, a guard showed up unexpectedly, we lost contact with Kieran and Danny…and yet somehow, I made it out of there, escaping by the skin of my teeth.

Nope…for like ninety percent of our escape, everything went like clockwork—like stinkin' atomic clockwork. Nobody saw me put the dummy in my bed and inflate it, and none of the guards noticed anything unusual in my cell—or Wez's. I found that out later on. And all the way to the rendezvous-point in the laundry, not one other kid crossed my path, much less a guard. When Wez showed up, only a few seconds after I did, he said the same thing had gone down with him.

There were CCTV cameras covering every inch of the laundry-works, but all of their lights were out. Kieran had taken care of them…and he'd also made sure that all of the monitors for that part of The Point were showing nothing but looped footage.

But now, there was nothing for us to do but wait 'til after lights out. Only then could we make our next move. While we waited, we stayed totally silent. What could we say to each other that hadn't been said like twenty times already? There was nothing to do but hunker down and hope that nobody would walk in on us.

Heh, if I'd known then what I found out later on, I wouldn't have been so tense. Just as Danny T. had predicted, nearly a quarter of the guards hadn't reported for work that evening. And those that had shown up were in no mood to do even their regular jobs, much less go above and beyond. Just like we'd hoped, they skipped that first bed check. Even better, the central guard tower, which was supposed to be crewed at all times by at least two officers, had only a single guard on duty.

Neither Wez nor I were aware of this, of course…and our handlers weren't about to tell us; they wanted us both to stay sharp and alert.

When the Lights Out siren finally wailed, that was our cue to spray each other down with deodorizer. Even though Kieran was supposed to have disabled the sniffers, we weren't gonna take any chances. For the CCTV cameras, all we could do was keep an eye out to make sure the LED lights were off. For the motion detectors, all we could do was try to remember where they were and move quietly while keeping our distance…and keep our fingers crossed.

Lucky for Wez and me, none of our hopes turned out to be misplaced; Kieran was as good as his reputation. Not a single one of the surveillance cameras we encountered was working and the same held true for the motion and scent detectors. Yeah, most of them were hidden, but believe me…if THEY'D been functional, we'd have found out real sweet quick. As for making our way to the storeroom, I could have gotten us there even without my night-vision. The route was that familiar to me by then.

The only dicey moment was when I thought my headset had cut out; Danny Tipperin was supposed to be riding shotgun on our escape—my headset was equipped with a web-cam—but I hadn't heard a word from him since lights out.

"Danny?" I whispered, "Danny, you there?"

He came back at once, so loud and clear he might have been right in front of me.

"Yeah, kid. No worries, you're doing great. Just keep it up and keep quiet, unless you need me."

I did as he said and we made it to the storeroom in record time. When Wez put his fridge magnet to the padlock it popped open with barely a sound. As for the other one, the electronic lock, it had already been taken care of by Kieran.

But now, here came the part where we were most vulnerable, getting through the wall between the back of the storeroom and the stairs. No way could we pull that off without making a ruckus, and there was no way we wouldn't get busted if the guards heard any of the noise we'd be making. For that reason, Wez would have to work solo, while I stood watch outside. If I heard anyone coming, I was supposed to shut and lock the storeroom door and then duck out of sight.

Penetrating that wall turned out to be an even louder job than I thought—so loud that I wanted to clap my paws over my ears. But then, after only five minutes, Wez was back again—sending my ears straight up into the ceiling.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he answered, grinning through the mortar-dust covering his face, "We're through; come on, let's go."

"Already?" I said, following him into the storeroom and closing the door behind me.

Yeah…just like he said, there it was—a hole in the far wall, just big enough for each of us to slip through, one at a time. And now I understood why Wez's plan had been limited to small mammals only. Even with that wall in such crummy shape, it would have taken way longer to make a hole big enough to accommodate a larger mammal—someone like, say, Hitch.

But then, I remembered, and lifted an eyebrow. "The stairs?"

His grin widened. "You'll see for yourself in a few secs, Z; lookin' good!"

Foxes are great at negotiating narrow spaces, but even so, we've got nothing on mustelids. Wez made it through that hole without even touching the sides. When my turn came, I found out that he hadn't been kidding about that stairway. It was built out of iron rather than wood. And while there was no shortage of rust, this bad boy had clearly been meant to handle much larger—and heavier—species than a fox and a sea-mink. Okay, maybe the steps were a bit high for either one of us, but that beat the possibility of taking a fall, any day of the week.

At the top of the stairs, we came to a wooden door. It was nailed shut, but the wood was so rotten, we were able to chisel our way through with the rebar in no time flat. When we got to the other side, though…okay, now things were getting a little hairy—and I mean literally; it was cobweb city in there. Not that I was worried about spiders or anything. The problem was…with all that gunk everywhere, it was gonna be harder than heck to find that door to the rooftop. All I knew was that I had to turn right after leaving the stairs. After that, no dice; even with my night vision, I couldn't see more than two feet ahead of me.

From behind me, I heard an anxious whisper. "Come on already, Z. Let's go"

"Just hold on for a sec." I whispered back. I knew better than to tell him I was stuck in a holding pattern. But then…wait a minute, I had a lifeline over here. I reached up and pressed the 'talk' button on my headset. "Danny…Danny, you there?"

He was with me before I even finished. "Yeah, I'm here; what's up, kid?"

"We made it to the upper floor," I told him, "But there's so many cobwebs all over the place, I can't tell which way to go."

"You WHAT…?" Wez demanded from behind me, but then spoke into his headset in a low whisper. "Okay…okay-y-y…" Must have been Kieran on the other end, telling him to cool it. He could access our headsets, either individually or together.

"No problem, I'll guide you," Danny assured me, "Take a right and go about twenty paces. There'll be a hallway on your left. If you can't see it, feel for it.

Even with his help, it took me a while to find that rooftop door. I made at least one wrong turn and had to backtrack, much to the annoyance of Crazy Wez. Even more irritating was that we had to keep stopping to brush all that yucky cobweb-stuff off of each other. Lucky for us, we were running ahead of schedule; enough so that we could afford the delay.

The door to the roof was up a short flight of steps. It was a double-door, set at a 45-degree angle. It was old, but still plenty solid, and so was the padlock securing it. Nothing hi-tech about this bad boy; it was an 'old school' key-type padlock—as big as a tiger's fist, and so rusty that even if we'd had the key, we wouldn't have been able to open it.

No worries; we had a ready alternative. And on that note, I stepped aside to let Wez take the lead. Moving up to the door, he pulled out a tiny roll of what looked like metallic duck-tape, wrapped it around the shackle, and then inserted a fuse.

Then he turned and looked at me over his shoulder.

"Get back down the stairs, and get out of the way…and when you see the flare, don't look."

I did as he said, just in time to hear him whisper "Fire in the hole!" A split second later he came rushing past me, just as the stairwell was filled with a brilliant, arcing, white-washed light.

Right away, I knew something wasn't right. The burn should have lasted for only a second or two, the same as with the padlock on the storeroom door. Instead, the sparks and hissing went on for nearly half a minute. When I happened to glance in Wez's direction, the look on his face confirmed my fears ten times over.

Just then, the light finally sputtered out, and I felt an acrid sting, washing through my nostrils, scrubbing my throat with steel wool. When I looked around the corner, I saw the stairwell filled with a spongy, dirty-gray cloud.

But there, on the floor beneath it, was the glowing remains of the padlock. Okay-y-y…who cared, as long as the door to the roof was unlocked? We peeled around the corner and went rushing up the stairs.

…straight into the mother of all coughing fits! Aggggh, girrrr…that SMOKE; it was like inhaling a stinkin' hornets' nest! Wez and I went stumbling back down the stairs again, coughing our lungs out.

"What the heck?' I heard him gasp between hacks, "What the heck…happened?"

Ah, yeah…I knew you were gonna ask. And I didn't find out until later, but…

Thermite is basically a mixture of aluminum and iron oxide…and that lock had been rusted five sides from Sunday; you follow what I'm bringing out? Riiiight—when the thermite went off, it didn't just burn through the shackle, it set the whole stinkin' lock on fire. Our plan had worked too darn well. We had gotten the door unlocked—but to reach it, we'd have to run through a stinkin' gas chamber!

Looking at Wez I could almost hear his thoughts. "BAG this blankety-blank smoke, nothing's gonna stop me when I'm THIS close to getting out of here."

I also knew that if he tried it, he'd be dead, or at least unconscious, before he reached the last step.

Okay, I'm exaggerating but still—no way would he have made it.

But then…thank God for our lifeline.

"What's the problem, then?" Kieran's voice queried in my headset.

It was Wez who answered him, in an almost apoplectic voice "What's the problem? What's the problem!"

From there, he went on to describe our dilemma in language that I won't repeat here. I remember that Kieran kept having to tell him to keep his voice down. And then finally, he said, "Right, let me think 'bout this fer second—and cool yer jets, will ye, boy!"

Wez did as his cousin told him, but I could tell that he was steamed. Whoa, good thing Kieran was back after only a couple of seconds.

"Still got some o' that Bi-logical deodorizer on ye's? Right, see if that helps."

I didn't think that it would and neither did Wez, but we tried it anyway. And, what do you know, it did help…not by much, but enough so we could make it to the door if we held our breath. We had to force ourselves not to throw that bad-boy open though; it would have been a great way to get the attention of the guard in the tower overhead. Instead, Wez held it open while I slipped through, and then I held it open for him.

We spent the next couple of minutes bent over on our knees, taking in big gulps of air. We were so out of wind right then, we didn't care if anyone spotted us.

I remember that I recovered first. When Wez caught up with me, he grabbed me by the shoulder, "Come on, let's get to the extract…"

And that was when the lights went out.

Not just lights in Granite Point…I mean all of the lights, as far as the eye could see. I knew right away it wasn't Kieran's doing; just another one of those 'regularly unscheduled' North Jersey blackouts. But hey, right when we made it onto the roof—was this some perfect timing or what? Lady Luck might have bailed on us down in that stairwell, but now she was back in our corner.

I could not have been more mistaken. A split second later, I heard Kieran in my headset again, so loud and frantic, I almost had to pull it off to save my hearing.

"Don't move, stay where y'are!"

"Wha?" Wez was clutching at his headset too. "Turn it down, dangit."

Kieran's voice softened at once; his tone did not.

"Lissen t' me. I didn't cause this blackout, it happened on its own."

So? I already knew that…big whoop.

…but Wez didn't.

"All right, okay…but doesn't that help us?"

"No…*fzzt*…doesn't, boy!" In the background, I heard Danny, telling him to get a grip. A rush of more static followed, as Kieran took a deep breath. And then his voice finally evened out.

"When power went out, the p'trol drones all switched from AI t' manual control."

"Ohhhhh, SNAP!" I gasped, fighting to keep down what little dinner I'd been able to eat. This was bad…very bad.

And it was about to get worse. "All right, so…what?" Once again, I understood, and Wez didn't. I let Kieran fill him in…which he did in a totally frustrated voice.

"So…the guards've got control of 'em again is what, boyo! NOW, d'ye understand y' little idiot?"

Yes, he did…but what he said next made me want to slap him around the roof.

"Hey jerk, you don't talk to me that way!"

Ohhh, foxin'-A! Of all the times for Wez to decide to play the big-shot!

Fortunately, Kieran had an instant remedy for his problem.

"Never mind…lissen; one 'o them drones is hoverin' right over the extraction point!

Bingo, that made Wez shut his mink-trap. I wasn't entirely pleased, though—since it also meant our only avenue of escape was cut off.

Not quite. "No worries, we've got an alternate extraction point ready. Get over t' underneath the guard tower and work yer way round till yer facin' dead east. And then go t' the edge of the roof. Don't worry, they won't be able to see yer. Right…now get goin' an' make it fast. I'll tell ye when ye're in position."

We did as he said…although we didn't hurry. If those drones were really under manual control, what was to stop one of them from making an unexpected move and accidentally spotting us?

Our slow progress was not at all pleasing to our handlers. Again and again, I heard Kieran exhorting us to, "put a fire under it!" I tried my best, but the problem was Wez; he was shaking like a leaf and moving like a sloth. All the while, he kept muttering something under his breath. I was only able to catch a single word. "Edge…edge…"

After another minute of this, I heard Danny in the background again.

"Tell 'em, Kieran."

"I can't…"

"The I'LL tell them." His voice went up in volume. "Listen, both of you. When the power comes back on, EVERYTHING switches to manual while the mainframe boots up again…including the cameras and motion detectors, you follow what I'm bringing out?"

Oh God…yes, I did. There was nowhere in The Point with more of those bad boys than the rooftop where we were right then. If we didn't make it off of in the next five minutes, we'd be toast.

Or…maybe we didn't even have that long; how much time had we used up already? And there was one thing Danny hadn't brought out; that the power might come back on by itself, at any second.

"Now move!" he barked…and this time Wez complied. At first, everything seemed to go smoothly. I kept an ear out for the sound of a whistle or an air-horn but none came. The moon had decided to help us out by ducking behind a cloud, and a light drizzle had begun to sweep over The Point. So much for the weather report, but I wasn't griping.

When we got to the edge of the roof, Wez began to hang back again. At first, I didn't really notice, because…

"Where's our drones? There's nothing here."

Danny came back at once. "About eight feet below your six, you'll have to jump."

"J-Jump?" Wez and I asked in unison, swallowing hard, and looking at each other. What, was that swift fox kidding? Nobody had said a stinkin' thing about us maybe having to jump off that roof…not before tonight.

"Don't worry, ye'll be all right." Kieran's voice returned again, trying to sound soothing, "This has always been the back-up plan."

Dropping to all fours, I crept to the edge of the roof and peered down.

Something was there; I could see three…or was that four sets of whirling rotors down below, spread out in a rough rectangle. But, try as I might, I couldn't make out anything between them. This was going to be one majorly leap of faith—and it wasn't mine to make. I got up gingerly, stepped back from the rim, and turned to look at Wez. He was maybe six feet behind me in a crouching position, eyes like empty black marbles.

But then I remembered and spoke into my headset, "Should I use the laser pointer?"

What? Oh…it had been given to me to use as a homing beacon. Anyway, I heard Danny telling me, "Not yet…but get a move on!"

Yeah, right. I dropped to all fours and went hurrying to Wez.

"C'mon dude, your ride's here."

He just stared at me. In my headset I heard Kierana again, "What y' waiting for, then? Get going! Ye've got less than a minute 'til the power comes back!"

No time to think, I grabbed Wez by the wrist and hauled him to the edge of the roof; it was like dragging a sack of oats.

When we got there, I moved my paw to the back of his head, "It's there. mink… look!"

I pushed him forward and made him look down. I didn't know if he could see, but maybe with the laser pointer, I'd be able to…

I never got the chance; he let out a breathless scream and leaped backwards, landing on all his elbows and crab-walking away from the edge of the roof.

Oh, my God, what the fox? "Wez, what's the matter with you?"

He just shook his head, gazing slack-jawed, his breathing shallow and ragged.

"What the Devil's going on up there?" It was Danny again, almost totally exasperated.

"I don't know!" I answered in a choked voice. Good thing, or I'd have prolly been fox-screaming. "Wez froze up on me; I don't know."

A second of silence, and then Kieran was back. "Right then, boyo. You go first."

Now I almost froze. Was he really telling me to…?

"You heard me…GO!"

No time to think; no time to say 'Sorry' to Wez. I bolted to the edge of the roof and jumped. I was sure that my fall was gonna end in a hard impact and darkness. But three seconds down, I hit something that felt like a burlap bag, wrapping itself around me. I was still falling, but a lot more slowly, and the further I fell, the slower I went, until finally, I stopped and began to rise back up again. All around me, I heard a whirring buzz, like an electric weed-whacker. And then the bag holding me began to spread open, and I realized where I was. I was in a net suspended between four drones, rising fast and moving quickly towards the tree-line beyond the open space at the base of the cliff.

I also became aware of something else…there was no way this thing could have carried both me and Crazy Wez. And I didn't see another one, anywhere in sight. A sickening feeling began to come over me. But before it had time to gel into a thought, my attention was diverted by the wail of a siren behind me.

When I turned to look, I saw Granite Point, lit up from one end to the other. And there was Wez, pinned in the beams of three spotlights, with his paws raised. I couldn't see anything more of him than a fuzzy silhouette, but who else could it have been? And then he stiffened, and began to fall.

And it was the last I ever saw of him. Just then, I reached the tree-line and the drones pulled up and over, making a fast descent down the hillside to the road below.

I was two feet above the roadway when the descent abruptly stopped, jouncing me a couple of feet into the air. And then the motors cut out, and I was unceremoniously dropped to the asphalt.

Only then did I realize…I had made it; I was out of Granite Point.

But I still wasn't free. And that became abundantly clear when four red lights lit up to my right, and a squeal of tires came rushing towards me.

The tail-lights finally stopped, less than two feet from where I had landed. I heard doors thrown open and then a paw grabbed me roughly by the wrist. "C'mon kid, let's go."

It was Danny Tipperin. He literally heaved me into the back of the Sprinter Van, and a moment later I was joined by the drones and the net; only one net, and only one set of drones, I couldn't help noticing. And as my rescuers pitched themselves into the seats up front, I heard Kieran say to Danny. "Oi, The Mister's not goin' t like this, boyo."

"I know," Danny answered grimly, putting the van into 'drive.' "But it is what it is. Now, let's move before the cops start rolling."

That was when I finally knew for sure; it was ME that was supposed to have been left as a diversion while Wez was the one who…

Huh…? Mr. Rodenberg…what do you mean, that's it, you've heard enough?

Chapter 61: Conor's Story (Continued...Part 11)

Summary:

Treachery cuts both ways

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Continued…Part 11)

"I don't like your little games
Don't like your tilted stage
The role you made me play of the fool
No, I don't like you

I don't like your perfect crime
How you laugh when you lie
You said the gun was mine
Isn't cool, no, I don't like you (oh!)

But I got smarter, I got harder in the nick of time
Honey, I rose up from the dead, I do it all the time
I got a list of names, and yours is in red, underlined
I check it once, then I check it twice, oh!"

Taylor Swift Fox - Look What You Made Me Do

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"What I mean is this, kid." Vern Rodenberg was on his feet and staring up at Conor with steely eyes and flashing incisors. "You've got exactly ONE MINUTE to start telling me what really happened with that escape…or else you can go find yourself another lawyer."

For a hint of a second, time stopped in its tracks. Erin was stunned, barely able to comprehend what she had just heard. Had he really just hit Conor with an ultimatum?

Yes, he had.

"Mr. Rodenberg, I…" Forgetting himself for a moment, the agitated young silver fox tried to swing himself off of the makeshift bed. Again, the sheets fell away, and again Erin yelped and hid her eyes. This time, however, it wasn't necessary; he caught the bedclothes in the nick of time. "Mr. Rodenberg, I swear…"

The grey rat only looked at his watch. "Now, you've got 50 seconds."

"There's nothing more to tell you." Conor spread his paws insistently.

"45 seconds…"

"I…CAN'T," Now he was practically on his knees, "I'll be breaking my word to Danny if I…"

"35 seconds…"

"Didn't you hear me? A fox never breaks his word…"

"30 seconds…better hurry."

"Listen, it doesn't make any difference. If it did, I'd have told you already."

"20 seconds….19…18…17…"

Another fox might have folded right then—but Erin Hopps knew Conor better than that,

And sure enough, instead of throwing in his cards, he doubled down.

"Okay, then…whatever." His ears had turned backwards and his lip was quivering upwards, exposing a fang. "If that's what's gonna happen, then go ahead and walk; I don't…"

"WAIT!" Erin's outburst was so sudden, so unexpected, it surprised even her—and shocked both of her companions into stunned silence. Taking swift advantage, the young doe-bunny hopped off her chair and went quickly to Conor, taking him by the paw, and mentally crossing her fingers.

"Can I ask you this, at least?" she said, giving it a little squeeze, "Can you…can you tell me why Danny swore you to secrecy like that?"

He responded by turning away; chewing so hard on his lower lip, it was a wonder that he didn't draw blood.

And then finally he looked at her again, "Because…if The Mister had ever found out what Danny said to me, him and Kieran would have been dead meat—and so would I, and so would prolly a whole bunch of other guys."

Erin tried to respond to this, but was cut off by a high-pitched groan and a smacking sound from behind her.

"Oy! In case it escaped your attention, kid…"

Nuh-uh, not this time. "Mr. Rodenberg, please…let me," she insisted, looking hurriedly over her shoulder. And then she turned back to Conor again.

Even so, she came that close to following the grey rat's lead; pointing out the obvious to the stubborn young silver fox. Ding-dong, The Mister's gone…so there's no longer any reason for you to keep your silence. That was what Erin almost said, except—somehow, she sensed that Conor's reticence came from a deeper source than any promises made to one of his own..

And so, she tried a different tack.

"Then you need to ask yourself a question, 'kay? If Danny was here, in this room right now, would he want you to say what really happened?"

The young silver fox said nothing to this, but the way his body sagged told the Erin that her point had hit the mark. After many long seconds, his gaze met hers again.

"Okay," he conceded, glancing over her shoulder at the rat on the tray-table behind her. "But you're not going to like this—or me."

He pulled himself back up onto the exam-table-bed, while Erin and Mr. Rodenberg returned to their seats. He spent several more seconds chewing on his lip again and then at last began to speak.

"Everything I told you happened just the way I said—that is, until the part where I took Wez to the edge of the roof. I didn't make him look down because I wanted him to see the drones…I did it to scare the snot out of him; I stuck a thumb under his jaw and forced him to look. And then, while he beat that retreat, Danny came on in my headset and said, 'Laser-pointer…NOW!'"

"I pulled it out, flicked the cap off the end, and with my other paw, reached out and grabbed Wez under the arm. And then I yanked him to his feet, stuck it against his side and pressed the button. I felt a jolt and heard a chuffing noise—and when I pulled the pointer away, he had a tranq dart stuck in him."

"You…You…? WHY?" Erin's eyes were wide and her ears were limp; she could feel her nose twitching anxiously. Conor wouldn't do a thing like that, he…couldn't have.

But his voice—and his eyes—said differently. Though she couldn't possibly be aware of it, he looked almost like a smaller version of Nick, when he'd upbraided her sister in the wake of that press-conference debacle.

"You wanna know why I did that, Snowdrop? Okay, here's one good reason. Next, I was supposed to go to the edge of the roof and jump." His ears were flat and now both fangs were exposed. The fire in his eyes was so intense that Erin could almost feel the heat. "Only that's not what I did; that punk had fooled around, and now he was gonna find out. I grabbed him by the cheeks, pulled him in close, until our muzzles almost touching, and let him have it.

"'I know it was you, Wez. You broke my face; you broke my face!' And then I pushed him away, went to the edge of the roof and stepped off."

He stopped, glaring from the bunny to the rat and back again. He seemed to be carrying an invisible chip on his shoulder, as if daring either one of them to raise an objection. It was enough to make Erin want to bolt out the door again.

Vern Rodenberg's expression, on the other paw, was entirely grim.

"May I assume that's something Tipperin told you in your final briefing?" He was folding his arms with an air of mild disdain, "the briefing you didn't want to talk about?"

"That's part of it," the young silver fox admitted, regarding the rat with an air of mild contempt. "I didn't believe him at first, but then he showed me the security footage of the…incident. And even then, it wasn't until I finished puking my guts out in the toilet that I knew the truth. Ever since I'd landed at The Point, I'd been obsessed over who was the jerk that wrecked my face—and guess what? All along, it had been Wez McCrodon, a guy I'd thought was my friend, a kid I'd practically worshiped for a while."

Erin felt her own ears laying backwards. Maybe Mr. Rodenberg was ready to believe this, but she remained unconvinced. Like a shipwreck survivor, clinging to a spar of wood, she refused to let go of her skepticism.

"Hold on…where did Kieran ever get…?"

"That video?" Conor finished for her. "No problem. The data he hacked out of Jack La Peigne's cellphone was enough to give him access to a lot more than just the Point's security system; he had nearly the entire AKER database in his pocket. According to something else Danny told me, getting hold of that footage of…what happened to me was a cakewalk for him. And before you ask…that video wasn't a deep-fake, either. I didn't know it then—heck, I didn't even know what a deep-fake was—but I know it now; that bad boy was the real thing." He waved a paw to his right. "Bring me my backpack and I'll show you."

Erin didn't want to; she didn't want to go anywhere near that thing. Even so, she slipped off her chair and went to fetch it. In her current state of mind, she would have doused herself with lighter fluid and struck a match, if the fugitive young silver fox had given the order.

She knew what he wanted that backpack for. And sure enough, the instant he had it in his paws, he pulled back the zipper and extracted his laptop—a contrivance the young white-furred bunny was beginning to think of as a tool of The Devil.

Several minutes of typing and scrolling followed…and then Conor turned the laptop around so the screen was facing her and Mr. Rodenberg.

"Now watch," he said.

Again, Erin didn't want to look—but again, she couldn't help herself.

What she saw was the screen split into four separate windows, each one showing a slightly fuzzy, black-and-white image, all from different angles.

In all four of them, a pair of young mammals were visible; a coati and a canine of some kind. At the moment, they were engaged in a fight with an animal barely discernible as a silver fox—smaller than either of his opponents.

Was that…Conor? It didn't look like him…or did it? Sweet Cheez n' crackers…so young, almost still a kit. But yes…yes, that was him. If Erin's eyes weren't so certain, her instincts harbored no doubt whatsoever.

Now, as she watched, one of the fox-kid's adversaries leaped to the attack…and missed, landing on his partner by mistake. At once, they forgot all about their opponent, instead engaging in a shoving match with each other. It wasn't exactly the way Conor had described it earlier, but there was nothing here that a minor lapse of memory couldn't explain.

But then, she saw it, a long, lanky figure, coming out of the cell behind him, moving fast, on all fours. And as the newcomer rose up on his hind legs, she could see something long and gray, in his paw. Now, he raised it sideways, preparing to strike. Erin wanted to shout a warning, but then, as the interloper's face became visible in each of the four windows, the playback went into freeze-frame, revealing an expression of unbridled fury.

It was a mustelid of some kind; no, definitely a mink. Had it not been for his size, Erin would have instantly recognized his species; he was at least twice as big as any mink she'd ever seen. Other than that, she had no idea who he was.

But, Mr. Rodenberg did.

"That's him," he intoned, pointing gravely at the screen, "That's Wez McCrodon."

"Right," Conor nodded and pressed a key, shrinking the image to a pinpoint and then darkness. "I'll spare you the trauma of having to see what he did next."

Erin strongly suspected that he was actually sparing himself the experience, but quickly decided to leave that thought unspoken.

"So—does that look like a deepfake to you?" the young fox concluded, folding his arms like a dare.

It was Mr. Rodenberg who answered him.

"I'm a lawyer kid, not a cyberpunk," he answered, lifting a wry brow. "But, may I assume that if I were to show that footage to an expert, the verdict would come back, 'genuine'?"

Conor took that as a challenge

"I can burn you a copy if you like," he said, rummaging in his backpack a second time.

The grey rat instantly raised a paw. "That won't be necessary kid, I believe you." To Erin it was clear that his threat to drop the young silver fox as a client was at last dead and buried…this time with a stake through the heart.

But then something else occurred to her; no, it hit her like a runaway freight-train. She shrank away from Conor, unable to stop herself.

"Y-You mean," she sniffed, in a stammering, cracking voice. "You did that…ou-out of…revenge?" She could feel something hot and salty, trickling from her eyes.

"No," Conor was completely unmoved by her tears. "The revenge was only bonus points. It was mostly a pre-emptive strike. That backstabbing punk only brought me along as a decoy—to keep the officers busy while HE got away." His eyes shifted in Mr. Rodenberg's direction. "That's another thing Danny told me in my last briefing—and something else I refused to believe, until he showed me that video you just saw." The chip on his shoulder seemed to have grown to the size of a railroad-tie. "And not only that, sticking it to me had been Wez's idea…HIS idea! I know, coz later on Kieran played me a recording of one of their conversations. 'Once we get yer off that roof we're gonna need a distraction.' And then Wez told him, 'I know JUST the guy.'"

He closed his eyes and fists, and took four deep breaths, attempting to calm himself.

And then, he said simply, "Only one of us was making it out of The Point that night…and it wasn't gonna be me; that was the plan." His lip curled upwards in a feral sneer, "Or…that's what Crazy Wez thought was the plan."

"So…Danny and Kieran were the ones behind leaving him to get caught?" Erin was also trying to maintain control.

"That's about it." the young silver fox answered flatly, "They'd had that double-cross in the works even before their boss gave the order to break him out of the Point. Kieran later told me, 'I knew that was comin' from the minute I breached AKER's database.'" There was more but just then, his story went into another holding pattern. He had gotten himself worked up again and needed some another cool-down period before he could continue. Erin didn't know whether to feel scared or sympathetic. How long had Conor been keeping that memory bottled up inside himself?

Opening his eyes again he resumed his recollection, this time speaking more calmly,

"You oughta know, though…him and Danny T. weren't the only ones in on that plan to sabotage Wez's escape. The Mister's brothers both knew…and they were 100% in favor. Like I told you before, nobody except for that guy wanted his punk nephew in The Company. The last part of our escape was one big hustle—with him as the mark. Danny and Kieran had it all planned out, all the way down to the last little detail."

"How do you mean?" Vern Rodenberg was leaning back in his chair with his paws folded across his midsection. He seemed to have figured out the gist of the plot, but wanted to hear the specifics.

And he soon got them. At last relieved of the burden of his promise, Conor was more than willing to explain.

"For starters, that tranq dart I stuck into Wez was the same kind the Granite Point patrol drones carried—except it was loaded with a slow-acting compound instead of the usual quick-burn stuff. That way, he'd still be standing when the lights came on."

"Ohhh-kay, but why?" The grey rat's whiskers were twitching again.

"Kieran expected Wez to get hit with another tranq-dart when the alarm sounded," the young silver fox informed him, "but just in case that didn't happen, he wanted to make sure his cousin would be out of it when the guards grabbed him." He clenched his fists again. "No one had even the slightest doubt—that two-faced jerk was gonna spill everything he knew, once he realized he'd been had." He let out a small derisive growl. "And he did, too—but not 'til something like 48 hours later. Turned out he got hit by three more tranq darts, and nearly died from it."

Erin swallowed hard as she listened. Conor was grinning from ear to ear, and the way he spoke, he seemed to be almost savoring the memory of Wez McCrodon's last stand.

"And what about the power outage?" Vern Rodenberg aske, not even a little bit bothered by what he'd just heard. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but that wasn't really just a coincidence, am I right?"

This time, there was no hesitation on his client's part

"Yep," his young client admitted, scratching at an ear, "Kieran DID cause that blackout. And, as soon as we were rolling, he turned the power back on again." Seeming to anticipate another inquiry, he added quickly, with a coy expression. "And by the way, there was never any worry about the security systems reverting to manual; same thing with the patrol drones…although they weren't exactly behaving like normal, not with their control program hacked." He let out a dark snigger, "Oh yeah, one of 'em was one hovering over that first extraction point—except it wasn't any guard that put it there."

"So…Danny and Kieran lied about the drones, too?" Erin just had to ask it.

Conor's ears, and his mouth, went in two different directions

"Not…exactly. I mean…those bad boys WOULD have reverted to manual control if The Point really had lost power. Only they never did over coz the power was never interrupted. Kieran had the emergency generator running way before the blackout went down. Oh, he turned out the rooftop lights, and the CCTV cameras, and stuff…but everything downstairs was working just fine."

Vern Rodenberg's finger shot upwards again

"Ahhhh, but because the surrounding countryside was dark, the guard in the tower would have assumed it was just because of the blackout—and so, no need to worry—or sound the alarm." There was an unmistakable note of admiration in his voice. It made Erin feel more unsettled than ever…and why, for carrot's sakes, did she feel this way?

"Exactly," his young-fox client answered, cocking a finger, "And that 'alternate' extraction point?' From day one, that was always the real pick-up spot."

Erin felt she should know the reason for that deception, but with her mind in such a whirl, it was impossible for her to grasp. "But…why?' she finally blurted.

Conor answered her with a raised ear and eyebrow. "Haven't you figured it out already?" She didn't answer and he waved a paw. "Everybody has an Achilles heel, bunny-girl. Mine is being grabbed from behind—thanks Wez, you backstabbing jerk!" Erin winced at this, but he didn't seem to notice, although his anger was already beginning to ebb. "And his was that he couldn't handle heights. It was his deepest, darkest secret; something he never shared with anybody."

"Not surprising, that," Vern Rodenberg interjected. "A kid in his position would absolutely not want anyone to know he had a weak spot."

"Right again," the young fox nodded, aiming another finger, "And even Wez didn't know he had that problem—not until when the cops finally caught up with him." His head tilted sideways for a second. "Ahhh, you familiar with that story, Counselor?"

"I am." The rat replied, looking somber. "It happened off of Cape Mane, Zoo Jersey. Wez was trapped, with the law closing in, and decided to throw a Hail Mary; stole an ultralight airplane and tried to fly it across Delahare Bay. He didn't make it even halfway to Cape Harelopen before he went down in drink and had to be rescued by the Coast Guard."

Conor cocked another finger, this time with a wicked smirk.

"Ahhh, but he might have made it if he hadn't looked down. THAT'S what caused him to lose control—and it's the part of the story almost nobody knows." He sat back looking almost smug. "And that's also why Kieran set up the extraction the way he did, so that Wez would have to look down if he wanted to get off that roof."

"No!" Erin hissed with her ears laid back, the kernel of her disquiet at last becoming clear to her. "He didn't have to look down, you grabbed his head and MADE him look down!"

And there it was, at last she had her finger on it. She had known since last night that Conor could be vengeful, but never in a thousand years could she have imagined that he was capable of out-and-out cruelty. It was like something out of one of those dreadful SAW movies.

And as if that wasn't bad enough, her outcry left the young silver fox entirely unfazed. In fact, it seemed only to trigger him.

"Darn right I did, Snowdrop!" he snarled, glaring at her with eyes like coals in a forge. "I wanted that punk to feel what I felt—every time I saw a stinkin' mirror!" One fang appeared, and then the other. "And I'd do it again, in a Zoo York second!"

Before either young mammal could say anything more, Vern Rodenberg quickly intervened. "There's one thing I don't understand kid," he said, speaking to Conor, "Why did Wez McCrodon do that number on your face?" It was a trick he often employed when dealing with mob clients, deflecting their anger by changing the subject.

And besides…why HAD the McCrodon kid done that to his client?

As it turned out, his gambit was successful. The young silver fox's anger began to dampen almost at once. In fact, his mood seemed to be turning almost wistful.

"Just plain bad luck," he finally said, speaking in a near murmur—and then immediately waved a paw. "No, make that a perfect, stinkin', storm of bad luck…and bad choices." He fell silent for a moment, looking upward, with clasped paws and a furrowed brow. It reminded Erin of the way she had looked in a picture that her mother had taken…of her, trying to figure out a math problem.

And then, finally, the young silver fox spoke again. "It began with those kids who jumped me in the holding cell. I found out later that they'd been acting under orders; The Enforcers weren't The Mammal's only minions. The idea was that they were supposed to pick a fight with me, and get me sent to Granite Point…which would have happened anyway, even without Crazy Wez's 'help.'" He sighed and stroked the bridge of his muzzle. "And Wez had no idea what those punks were up to; he wasn't even supposed to be there at the time. He'd have been on his way back to The Point right then…except the car coming to get him broke down on the highway."

"I see," Vern Rodenberg seemed to be taking mental notes. "And he'd been there at the Johnstone Campus in the first place because…?" He concluded the query with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm glad you asked, Counselor." Conor answered at once, no longer at a loss for words. "He was just back from court. His mom had died and he'd gone there to file a petition for compassionate leave, so he could attend her funeral." He winced for a second and growled, "which the stupid state turned down, on the grounds that he was a flight risk."

"Which he was," the grey rat reminded him sardonically. His client only shrugged.

"Maybe so, but Wez still took it hard when his plea was rejected. For all the troubles he'd had with his mother…she was still his mom. He had wanted to say good-bye to her real bad."

"You sound…almost sympathetic," Erin observed, immediately wondering if she shouldn't have just kept quiet.

But the fugitive young silver-fox only offered another shrug.

"How could I not be? I know what it's like to lose my mother. I found out about her from Danny, but if Wez had ever told me the story himself, I prolly would have hugged him." A sardonic smile sliced up along his muzzle, "And then I prolly would have gotten my tail kicked. But the thing is," He was serious again. "When Wez got back to the Johnstone campus, after having his petition vetoed, he was in a seriously bad mood. You follow what I'm bringing out?"

"Oh yeah, I get it," Mr. Rodenberg answered, obviously speaking from experience. Erin understood him as well, although she did not like where this conversation seemed to be going.

"But getting back to those jerks who tried to ambush me." Conor's face was a mask of flint, "Turned out that coatimundi-kid knew Wez from the street. When he went over to say hello, he got blown off…no big shock. 'Hey, get lost, huh? I'm not in the mood; my ma just died, okay?'

He clapped himself between the ears and groaned.

"Whoa boy…just my luck; only an hour earlier, him and his partner had been briefed by The Mammal about me having lost my mother."

This time both of his companions were perplexed.

"Wha…why?"

"What for…?"

Conor coughed into a fist before answering.

"So, uhm…so they could use it to try and goad me into throwing the first punch… Don't say it; I know, I KNOW!" he was raising his paws as if trying to hold back the tide. And then he lowered them again, "Only now they couldn't use it, coz if they did, it might bring Wez into the fight—on MY side." He growled and his neck hair stood up for a second. "Coati-boy could have just left it at that, and walked away… but nooooo, he just had to make sure. And so, he said, 'Aw dude, sorry to hear that…but listen; there's this fox-kid coming that we gotta take down, a snitch. He's gonna be here any minute.'"

"Wez just stared at him with his fangs showing. When he did that, you couldn't tell what the heck he was thinking, and so the coati kid went on to say, 'He's OUR problem, so stay out of it, okay?' The only answer he got was a grunt and a nod, which he took for a yes…and on any regular day, he would have been right." Conor growled again; a growl that turned into a snarl. "But that was not an average day for Crazy Wez, and, well…you know what happened next."

"Is that why he 'took care' of those other two kids?" Mr. Rodenberg asked him, "For falsely accusing you of being a snitch?"

Again, the young fox's answer was yes and no.

"For that, yeah…but mostly for trying to blame the whole thing on him. The Mammal was plenty sore at those jerks. 'You were supposed to provoke that fox kid, not KILL him!' and then they were all, 'Hey, it wasn't us…' Wez nearly got sent to The Clinic for what he did to me and so, when he ran into those kids that second time, he pretended at first like he'd forgot all about what happened—and then as soon as their guard was down, WHAMMO!" for emphasis, he punched a fist into a paw.

"Is…?" Erin cleared her throat. "Did that have anything to do with why he brought you into The Enforcers?"

Conor answered her with a tilted smile.

"No, bunny-girl…it had everything to do with it. There was just one thing guaranteed to ring that sea-mink's guilt bell…finding out that a 'snitch' he'd laid hurt on was totally innocent. So yeah, that was why he invited…excuse me, Shanghaied me into his crew."

"And yet," Erin's nose was twitching. "Wez almost jumped at using you for his fall-guy."

"Yeah, that's right." the smile had vanished from the silver fox's face, replaced by a gaze like magma. "And knowing what I know now, I'm not even a little bit surprised. Would you believe I wasn't the first guy that jerk tried to use for a patsy? Yeah, that's right; he pulled the same stunt at least twice, during his Bearfoot Bandit phase, setting up his partner take a pinch so that he could get away."

He paused, looking from her to the rat, and back again.

"And like I said before, you never knew where you stood with that sea-mink. He could be your best bud one moment and ready to whack you the next…and like I also told you, his actions didn't always make sense."

"Did he really have an opening in The Enforcers?" It was Mr. Rodenberg. "Or did he make that up, too?"

"No," the young fox answered, a little surprised by the memory, "They actually did have a slot open…and the kid I replaced really was another fox and really had gotten sent to The Clinic."

"Go fig," the rat replied, lifting his paws in a throwaway shrug.

"I know, right?" Conor was wearing that bitter smile again, "But no way did that make it up to me for getting my muzzle bent sideways." Erin tried to respond but the fox got there first, "Especially after Wez decided to use me for a sacrifice fly. As far as I'm concerned, that punk got exactly what was coming to him. And I wasn't the only one who thought so. After he got sent off to The Clinic, the general attitude among the other kids was, 'Good-bye, and good RIDDANCE.'"

"Oh yeah, that's something I've seen a few times." Vern Rodenberg offered a brief, sage nod. "With Crazy Wez out of the picture, they were free to say what they really thought of him."

"But what about you, Conor?" Erin asked him with her nose twitching, "what did they think of you…after you escaped?"

He reached up to scratch at another ear.

"Ahhh, pretty much like Mr. Rodenberg said, a mixed-bag thing. At first, they were mostly mad at me. The day after the breakout, AKER tightened the screws, and I mean really tight. The Point was locked down for two whole weeks, all commissary, mail, shower, and visitor privileges were suspended, and everyone had their cells tossed. And I'm not talking any casual search, either; the guards left every single one of 'em looking like a tornado had blown through. And woe to the fool who got busted harboring any kind of contraband. 'I hope you like The Hole, kid, coz you're gonna be staying there a long, long, time.' The library and the gym were placed off limits, and the lights were kept on 24/7—it was almost as bad as after the riot." Another wicked grin flashed across his muzzle. "And not just for the detainees. The guards who'd failed to show up for work that day all got canned, and Lurch and Blackbird both got letters of reprimand, even though they hadn't been on duty at the time. Puma-boy was so ticked-off he quit without notice. I got no idea where he is now."

"And…after things went back to normal, then what?" The young doe bunny just had to know.

To her considerable surprise, Conor fidgeted for a second, looking elsewhere.

"Ahhh…well…that's when I finally became a hero to some of the kids…though, uh, not all of them," His eyes finally found hers again. "But lemme tell you, I sure as heck didn't feel like any kind of hero. I didn't break out of The Point to give any of the other guys hope or whatever, I did it for me, myself, and nobody else…and it was Danny and Kieran that did all the heavy lifting. Honestly, I was mostly just along for the ride."

Erin doubted that, but before she could say so, Mr. Rodenberg broke in again.

"Listen kid…nobody escapes from the joint without some serious help on the outside—nobody. That's one of the cardinal rules of a prison break." His eyebrow went up again, "And rest of The Enforcers…what happened to them?"

"Oh," Conor looked as if he'd just walked in on a surprise birthday party. "If I'd only known… Once The Mammal figured out that they hadn't been in on the escape plan—or even known it was happening—they got let off pretty easy. They were all sent to the Hole of course, and then The Mammal broke up the crew as soon as they came out—not that much of a deal, really; there weren't enough of them left. But, except for Crazy Wez, nobody got shipped off to The Clinic…thank God." He threw up a paw, half in amusement, half in disgust. "The only guy who came out badly was Hitch…and it was his own, dumb fault. He was so mad about not being included in the breakout he went and told The Mammal everything he knew about it."

His eyes rolled sideways, along with a corner of his mouth.

"Stupid panther kid; he didn't know much of anything of course, but it was still enough to get him branded as a snitch…and even without Wez around that was not a label you wanted in Granite Point. As for me, none of the other guys ever learned what really happened on that rooftop—although they found out pretty quick that Wez had only brought me along as a distraction. Someone overheard Lurch and the Warden talking about it, and by the end of the day, everybody knew. Most guys figured it was just plain, dumb luck that I made it out instead of him…or else they didn't care. Either way, trying to shaft me like he did cost that sea-punk a whole, stinkin' truckload of respect. Nobody likes a backstabber."

"Yeah-h-h, but," Erin's nose was twitching fiercely, "if Crazy Wez was so scared of heights, why'd he ever agree to a rooftop pick-up in the first place? And if it was such a deep, dark secret, how did Danny and Kieran ever find out?"

"Oh, that first part's easy," the young fox told her, settling back against his pillow, "Like I said before, Wez was cool with heights as long as he didn't look down—and in the original plan he wouldn't have had to; we were supposed to be taken off near the center of the roof." He sat up again with a frown on his face. "As for your second question…I don't know. Danny and Kieran never told me how they found out he couldn't deal with heights; didn't even want me asking about it."

"Oh, I can tell you about that, kid. They got it from me."

"Huh?"

"WHAT!"

Both Conor and Erin were staring at Mr. Rodenberg.

"Yeah, that's right," he said, standing up and stretching his back before turning to speak to his client. "Your, uh, 'Not-Girlfriend' knows about this, Conor…"

"Har, har, har!"

"…but I don't think I ever told you. When I went in to interview Wez, I told him his best bet was an NGI plea...Not Guilty by reason of Insanity."

"Oh my God," Conor slapped his head as if a horsefly had landed on it, "How the heck are you still alive, big guy?"

"Tell me about it, I almost wasn't," the grey rat admitted without batting an eye. "But, before I could even think about making that pitch, I had to be sure it was workable…and that's why I had a psych evaluation done on the kid."

"Behind…The Mister's back?" Now the young fox looked as if his fur was about to turn parchment white.

Rodenberg's paws went straight to his hips and his incisors began working again.

"Of course not, do I look that stupid to you? No, McCrodon agreed to it—very reluctantly, but he agreed to it."

"How were you able to manage it?" It was Erin again, "With Wez, I mean. Would he at least have needed to be interviewed by a psychologist?" It was a fair question, she thought. If that sea-mink kid had been ready to end Mr. Rodenberg, for suggesting an insanity plea, it was a slam-dunk he wouldn't agree to be questioned by a shrink.

"He was," the grey rat answered simply, "Only he never knew that the animal sent in to talk to him was a psychiatrist; she identified herself only as a social worker. And she was a lioness; even Crazy Wez McCrodon was going to think twice before tangling with an apex predator."

"I-I-I wouldn't be too sure about that, Counselor," Conor cut in, capping his words with a toothy grin. The rat ignored him.

"We also had a ton of other material to go on; police reports, tapes and transcripts from his police interrogations, eyewitness accounts—to say nothing of what Kieran was able to lift off the net. We even talked to the Coast Guard crew that pulled Wez out of the water. Among other things, the final report said, 'Strong indication of hypsophobia'—that's the extreme form of acrophobia—'triggered by exposure to a downward perspective. The subject's condition is believed to have first manifested during his attempted escape from Cape May Zoo Jersey, and is believed to have led to his ultimate apprehension. See paragraph…' Ahhh, whatever paragraph that was; I forget."

"Hold it, Time OUT!" Erin Hopps was making a 'T' with her paws. Another thunderbolt had just hit her.

"All right Snowdrop, what is it now?" Conor was lifting his eyes up towards the ceiling again.

But she'd been talking to Mr. Rodenberg, not him.

"If that's true, then you knew Wez was scared of heights before Conor told you just now. Isn't that right?

The rat only gave her a shrug and a quizzical look. "Of course I did, kiddo." And then he shifted his gaze to the other young mammal in the room, "How do you think I knew you were lying to me, huh? There's only ONE reason you would have made that mink-kid look down the way you did." He lifted his nose and sniffed. "The minute I heard you say that, I had a pretty darn good idea of what really happened, up on that rooftop." He said this and pointed with a quivering finger. "And don't you ever try to put one over on me again, kid—I mean it." Clearly, he had been saving this tidbit for just the right moment.

"I won't Mr. Rodenberg, I promise," Conor answered him, raising a paw and looking suitably chastised. And this time Erin could tell that he meant it.

"Better not," the grey rat fired off a parting shot, and then sat down again, folding his paws. "The Mister never saw that report—he didn't want to see it—and after my one-and-only 'conversation' with Crazy Wez, he ordered Kieran to destroy it. I'm guessing he either disobeyed or made a copy first."

"Ahhh, maybe not, Counselor," Conor rubbed at the back of his neck, speaking cautiously, "That sea-mink has like a super total-recall. He can glance at a page of code for maybe half a second—and have it memorized to the last character before he sets it down again; I've seen him do it."

"Sheesh," Rodenberg sat up impressed, "So, The Mister wasn't exaggerating when he talked about that guy."

"Yeah, I know; he did that a lot," Conor nodded in agreement, and then grimaced. "Didn't stop him from treating Kieran like dirt all the time, though."

"Even though the kid was also his nephew," the grey rat mused, polishing his muzzle with his paws, "Makes me wonder how Wez would have been treated if he had been brought into The Company."

"Prolly the same as me," the young silver fox conjectured, lowering his voice to gutter level, 'Shut up and do as yer told…or else it's straight back to The Point with ya.' Of course," he added, looking suitably sly. "Wez would have tried to burn his uncle's house down, the first time anyone made that threat to HIM."

"Probably," Rodenberg agreed with a nod, "according to that psych report I commissioned, there were three things guaranteed to light his fuse—being snitched on, someone leaning on him, or being shown up by another kid."

His last five words were pregnant with meaning, and Conor picked up on it immediately.

"Yeah-h-h…I see what you did there. And nope, Wez never did get over the way I handled that tiger kid while he was in The Hole. Ahhh, he might have…if it hadn't been for me rescuing La Peigne's cell phone. Remember when I said how he tried to claim credit for it—and The Company didn't buy it? Well, what I didn't know at the time was that it stinkin' backfired on him. Kieran reamed him out good for that little song-and-dance; said if he ever pulled something like that again, he could kiss his care packages buh-BYE. Even worse—for him I mean—was that was the thing that put me on Kieran's radar. And once he learned my story, he had nothing but good things to say about me. So now, I'd not only shown up his kid cousin, I'd embarrassed him. No way was he gonna stand for THAT."

"But," Erin's paws were raised in protest, "you didn't grab that phone to make him look bad. You were only trying to help out your crew."

"Riiiight," a bitter, sardonic grimace crossed the young fox's face as he cocked another finger, "Now you're beginning to understand the way his head worked. And that wasn't the only reason I was on his list. There was also that blackmail thing he tried to run on Lurch…the one that didn't work out in the long run. Remember that rumor I told you about, that The Mammal was thinking about removing him as head of The Enforcers? Well guess what, it was more than just a rumor. Wez would have been gone already if it hadn't been for who his uncle was—and if there'd been anyone suitable to replace him."

"Huh?" Erin's nose was twitching again. "What about you, Conor?" it seemed so obvious after all he'd said.

Not quite.

"Nope," the fox shrugged, lifting up his paws. "I was the youngest guy in that crew, don't forget. The Mammal was never gonna let a kid my age be put in charge of The Enforcers." He let out a short, rumbling noise, "But just try telling that to Crazy Wez. The day after his confrontation with Blackbird—the one where he took up for the Mearns brothers—the Warden called him into his office and read him the riot act. 'One more…Just ONE more stunt like that McCrodon and you're done…and don't think you're indispensable to keeping the peace in this facility, because you're not.'"

"Oy-VEY!" Vern Rodenberg was giving himself another face-palm. "Knowing that little shmendrik, it would have been enough to convince him that you were scheming with the guards to replace him as Enforcer boss." He fell back in his chair, shaking his head. "No wonder he tried to set you up as his patsy."

"Whoa, you really did know the guy," Conor nodded, impressed. "Yeah, another thing I heard later was that he'd been griping nonstop to Kieran about me, practically from the minute I got let back into The Enforcers …and it only got worse after he hit Lurch with that strike threat. I hadn't been as good I thought, at keeping my feelings hidden about that thing."

Erin's ears went up towards the ceiling. "Hold on…that means he had a tablet even before you snagged that cell phone."

"He did," the young fox admitted with a shrug, "He had it smuggled in while I was locked up in The Clinic. I don't know if any of the other guys knew he had it—if they did, they'd have for sure been told to keep quiet about it. He used it mostly for setting up shipments on contraband electronics, and keeping in touch with Kieran about the guards. I was right about that, too; The Company had been blackmailing some of them." He rubbed at the bridge of his muzzle. "But let me tell you, Kieran was as mad as a scalded hornet when he found out his kid cousin had tried to pull an extortion on Lurch without consulting him. Even months later, he was grousing about it, 'Oi, an' just who'd that little idiot think he was?'"

"Don't tell me, let me guess," Vern Rodenberg had his paws up again, "When Kieran found out about that visit to the Warden's office, he ripped Wez another new one…and then HE took it out on you."

Conor laughed and clapped his paws together

"Give the rat a wheel of cheddar; that's exactly what happened." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Not out in the open, though; he was always too smart for that. But that was when he really started laying all those dirty jobs on me." The corners of his mouth turned downward. "He didn't try to hide his feelings from his cousin though; I think he knew he couldn't. When Kieran threw out the idea of an escape decoy, he was so eager to nominate me, he never once stopped to think—was a diversion even necessary?"

"Yeahhhhh," Rodenberg's look was even more devious than his client's, "I was wondering about that, kinda. Seems to me The Company could have easily gotten the both of you out of there if they'd wanted."

"Probably," the young silver fox admitted, "But you already know why they didn't."

"How did Kieran know that Wez was going to offer you up as a diversion?" It was Erin again.

"He didn't," Conor acknowledged, "But he knew his kid cousin would go for it. He later told me that setting me up to take the fall would have been his suggestion if Wez hadn't saved him the trouble. That dude is one seriously good judge of character."

"Not surprising," Vern Rodenberg concurred with a knowing nod, "what with him being such a hack-meister,"

"Huh?" Erin stared at him with another twitching nose, "What's that got to do with anything?"

In response, the rat looked over at his client. "You want to explain it, or shall I?"

"I'll tell her." The young silver fox replied, and then warmed quickly to his subject. "Forget what you think you know about hackers, bunny-girl, they don't spend all their time hunched over laptops in basements. The real deal knows how to work the street as much as the web, looking for code, passwords and whatever." He sat up, winked, and raised a thumb, "And believe me, nobody works the street like Kieran McCrodon; that guy can sell sand to a camel or make a grizzly bear beg his forgiveness. No kidding; when he leaves the room, better check your watch and wallet, ASAP."

A playful smirk crossed Erin's features.

"Like a certain Charcoal-Boy I know." It was just too good to resist.

Conor only waved her off. "Nahhh, I could never be as good as him," he said, refusing to rise to the bait. And then he got serious again. "It took me a long time to realize that Danny T. had been manipulating me, the same way Kieran had been playing puppet with Crazy Wez. But, by then, I was ready to accept it."

"Not that you were in any sort of position to do otherwise," Vern Rodenberg observed cynically.

"True enough," His young fox-client conceded, allowing his muzzle to dip earthward for a second. "But I would have let it pass, even if I'd had a choice. Whatever their motives, Danny and Kieran had gotten me out of Granite Point." His expression skewed sideways again. "The only questions were, for how long…and even if I didn't get sent back, what the heck was going to happen to me?"

Danny had just six words for me, as the van started moving

"Shut up and stay outta sight," which I did.

I had no idea where we were going, except for a vague notion that we were headed north somewhere. After maybe 20 minutes, the tension in the air seemed to noticeably slacken. I wasn't allowed to come out of hiding—they'd thrown a blanket over me and told me to stay there—but Kieran even cranked up the sound system. He was partial to any kind of Celtic rock; The Pigues, The Dropkick Furries, Shearing Molly, or, when he wanted something a little more upbeat, The Otterboys.

The reason for the lightening of the mood was very simple. We had crossed back into the state of Zoo York, where The Company had a lot more clout than they did in Zoo Jersey. No cops or troopers were going to pull us over up here—or if they did, they'd let us go, no questions asked. Though I didn't know it at the time, we were taking the 'scenic route' for just that purpose. We detoured all the way up to the Bear Mountain Bridge, just to keep plenty of distance between us and Zoo Jersey.

I remember that right before sunrise, we pulled into a diner. I had no idea where we were, and the place was closed. But when Danny went up to the door, it opened before he even had time to knock. He returned shortly with a huge breakfast of scrambled eggs and waffles, which the three of us scarfed in record time. It was the best meal I'd had in months.

We weren't there just to eat, though; we had also stopped to change vehicles—and for my rescuers to brief me on how to behave when they brought me to see The Mister.

It went without saying that he wasn't going to be thrilled to meet me. I could almost hear him already; "What the heck is THIS; where's my nephew?"

To give you the short version, I was told to keep my mouth shut and let them do the talking.

"Unless me uncle asks yer a direct question," Kieran said to me, cocking a finger, "In that case, go ahead and answer 'im, but play dumb—like ye don't know anythin', just a victim o' circumstance."

"And keep your voice down and don't look him in the eye," Danny T. advised, "And above all else, make sure to address him as either 'Sir' or Mister McCrodon—not anything else."

"Amen," Kieran put in, nodding dourly, "Nobody's allowed t' call him by any other name, boyo…not even 'is own brothers."

Even after we changed cars; to an SUV this time, I still had to keep my head down. And so, I had no idea where we were going.

When we finally stopped, it was somewhere near a waterfront, and the air was dense with a chill fog. In the distance I could hear the bass-fiddle wail of a ship's horn, and the slosh of waves against pilings. I remember that the air was ripe with the pungent odor of seaweed and, from behind me, I could hear the drone of traffic and the occasional car-horn.

And then I felt Danny's paw on my shoulder, "This way, kid." He said, and directed me towards this ginormous, blocky building of some kind. It was harder than heck to make out through the fog, what with having a whitewashed exterior.

But then, when I got close enough, I saw that I was wrong. The place wasn't done up in white paint, it was finished in white glaze. What the FOX…?

I turned back to Danny and Kieran.

"What's this, the world's biggest White Castle?"

I had no idea why, but they both nearly fell over, laughing.

But as soon as they recovered, they got very serious.

"Whatever, you do, kid, don't say that in front of The Mister," Danny told me, giving my shoulder a squeeze to emphasize the point. "Now, come on…we don't want to be late on top of everything else."

Yep, that's right—we were at Finagles; my very first look at the place.

They brought me in through the front door, past these two Kodiak bears who looked like a pair of walking bank vaults. I remember that the entrance was flanked by these two roughcut stone monoliths which—it was claimed—were actual Irish counterparts of the Stonehenge columns. I don't know if that was true, but it pretty much summed up the atmosphere of the place. I'll tell you more about that in a minute.

From the lobby I was taken to a private, glass-fronted elevator, like the kind you see in hotels, and brought up to an office overlooking the dance floor—where me and my companions were made to wait outside until we were called. That, I later learned, was how The Mister always rolled. No matter how bad he wanted to see you, he always put you on hold for a while; his way of letting you know who was in charge.

With nothing else to do, I turned and looked over the railing at the dance floor below.

…And let out a low whistle; even at that age, I could tell that this was one seriously tony establishment. The dance-floor was easily as big as a ZBA basketball court, with a translucent, parquet floor, in the design of a ginormous Celtic knot. That in fact, was the theme of the place. All of the support columns were hexagonal in shape—in homage to this Irish rock formation, the Giant's Causeway. Even the DJ's pulpit fit the atmosphere; fashioned from a single massive piece of bog oak. I remember thinking, if this is how cool the place looks during the day…

And that was as far as my train of thought was able to get. Right then, the door to the office banged open, and another sea-mink appeared, not as tall as Kieran, but thickly muscled, and wearing a pinstripe, three-piece suit. Not The Mister, but his older brother, Gerald.

By way of greeting he snarled, "All right, you three, get in here!" at the same time, thrusting a finger in the direction of the office behind him. But as Kieran passed him by, I saw Gerry clutch his elbow for a second and receive a small nod in return. It was my first clue that the plan to keep Crazy Wez out of The Company ran deeper than I'd thought.

When we got inside the office…whoa, I'll never forget my first look at The Mister; a fat, stinkin', train-wreck. Ahhh, Mr. Rodenberg…you ever heard that name his enemies used to call him.

Riiiight, Jabba, the Mink; that should give you some idea how enormous he was, bunny girl. And that was just the opener, his head-fur was falling out in clumps, and he didn't smell too good either…even for his species.

I remember he was sitting behind this huge desk with nothing on it, no computer screen, no telephone, not even a pen, nothing…and that he was wearing a pair of dark blue coveralls embroidered with the logo of the jolly roger—except with a mustelid skull, and pair of crossed fishing gaffs in place of the bones. There was something written underneath, but most of it was hidden below the desk…which he slapped so hard when the door closed, it was a miracle he didn't break it.

"All right…what the heck happened?"

It was Kieran who answered him, holding his cap in his paw while he spoke.

"I-I'm sorry Mister McCrodon, but Wez didn't make it. We did our…"

His uncle hit the table again, this time with a fist.

"I already know that, you idiot! Why wouldn't I know…huh? What I don't know is WHY he didn't make it! WHAT? HAPPENED?"

Ohhhhh, foxtrot…he was looking right at me. I swallowed hard and tried to remember my instructions. And then I lowered my gaze and also my voice.

"I…don't know, Mr. McCrodon. Everything was going fine until the lights went out and we had to change pick-up points." I had to assume he knew about that too, "But then…I dunno why, but Wez froze up on me. I—I couldn't get him to move, no matter what I did." Aghhh, grrrrr…why hadn't Danny or Kieran told me whether or not I should lie to this guy? All I could do was cherry-pick my words and pray that he'd buy what I was selling.

He did, but that didn't mean he was satisfied.

"And then what happened, fox-kid? And who the heck told you to go first?"

Ohhhhh, NO! Now I was really in a bind. I could either lie again and maybe get myself iced, or else tell the truth and be a snitch.

As things turned out. I didn't have to make that choice.

"I told him," Danny cut in, stepping forward with his chest out.

"You…did WHAT, Tipperin?" the Mister almost shrieked, swinging his gaze like a searchlight.

"I told him, sir." Danny said again, speaking with an almost icy calm. "We were running out of time and I thought if Alan went first, then Wez might see it was safe, and it might be enough to snap him it out of it."

It was a good defense, but it only served to propel the Mister out of his chair and into a tirade.

"WHAT GOOD WOULD THAT HAVE DONE WHEN…?"

His rant ended in a sudden cough, and I knew then that he'd been in on the plan to leave me as a diversion. I also knew that if I somehow made it out of this office in one piece, I should never, ever trust this blob of a sea-mink.

In the meantime, the ball was in Danny and Kieran's court.

It was Kieran who fielded it…and whoo, what a smoothie.

"Perhaps nothing, Mister McCrodon…but anythin' was better than just sitting there, waitin' fer Wesley t' move on his own. Truth be told, I was hopin' that if he thought he was gonna be left behind, it'd wake him up, an' then I could send th' drones back and switch loads."

Whoa, how obvious could you get? I saw the Mister turn and give me a scrutinizing look. Again, I could almost hear his thoughts. Did this fox kid realize what his nephew had just said…that HE was supposed to be the one who got left behind? I just sat there looking stupid, remembering my instructions. After a moment, McCrodon seemed satisfied and returned his attention to his nephew.

"Only you didn't have time, didja?"

"No," Kieran admitted, but then amended, "The power came back on its own, like I was 'fraid it might…and the rest of it ye know."

It was the second fib he'd told since entering the office…and would his uncle see through it? I tensed, waiting for what might happen…not just to me but to the other guys.

Though I didn't know it at the time, the only guy I needed to worry about getting iced right then was me. Danny and Kieran might get a beating out of this, but they were far too valuable to whack, especially Kieran, who was virtually irreplaceable—and knew it.

"In any event," he went on, "Would y' even want a boy who lost his bottle like that as part of The Company?"

That really set his uncle off.

"You know there's more to it than THAT!" He screamed, hitting the desk so hard that this time, I felt the floor shake. He was so worked up, I could see redness in his cheeks, right through his facial fur.

And that was when he finally reached the tipping point. He fell back into his chair with his head tossing up and down like a bobble-doll—at last coming to rest with the chin against his Adam's Apple. He was breathing like he was trying to blow up a beach-ball, and for a second there, I wondered if he was going to make it. So did Danny, who tried to go to him but was immediately waved back. "Get away from me, punk!"

We spent the next…I don't how long, just standing there, watching The Mister recover. When he finally sat up again, he had his wind back, but most of the steam was gone. "How come you didn't plan for that power outage?" he demanded—in a civil tone for once, but it was still a pointed question.

This time it was Danny who answered him, "Like I mentioned many times before, Mr. McCrodon, there's always some things you can't plan for." As he said this, I had the distinct feeling that he had warned his boss about the possibility of a power failure—and that McCrodon had either forgotten about it or was pretending that he hadn't heard. In any case, it was a tough point to argue with, and he knew better than to try.

But then…a mink in his position didn't have to argue over much of anything.

"All right, I've heard enough," he said, leaning forward and gripping the desktop with a pair of gnarled paws. "Tell you what, I'm gonna check out your story…and you better have been telling the truth, or else…Ahhhhh, I'll think of something."

Yeah, I know…it sounded lame to me too, at the time. But when I looked over at Danny and Kieran, I saw both of them trying not to shudder. Eventually, I would find out they had a very good reason for their reaction.

As for me…

"As for this fox-kid, throw him in the basement—somewhere he won't get away. I'll decide what to do with him later."

And with that, the three of us were dismissed.

Chapter 62: Conor's Story (Continued...Part 12)

Summary:

Out of The Point, into The Company

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

---

The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Continued…Part 12)

♪ "Welcome to the jungle, it gets worse here every day
You learn to live like an animal in the jungle where we play
If you got hunger for what you see, you'll take it eventually
You can have everything you want but you better not take it from me

In the jungle, welcome to the jungle
Watch it bring it to your n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n knees, yeah eeh yes
I wanna watch you bleed!" ♫

Guns n' Roses – Welcome to the Jungle

---

No one would ever mistake Vern Rodenberg and Erin Hopps for a pair of kindred spirits…

But never had the differences between them been outlined in such stark contrast as they were right now.

"This must be how Christine felt," the young doe bunny was thinking, "when she pulled the mask off of Eric, the Phantom."

It was an apt analogy, she thought. At the time of his escape from Granite Point, Conor hadn't cared much for his face either. Not only that; he was a Phantom of sorts himself, the animal the ZPD had been pursuing for… Okay, she didn't know how long the police had been after that silver fox kid. True, they'd thought him to be only the elusive loan-shark's errand-boy but still… Believing that once they had him in custody, he would lead them to The Phantom, the city authorities had spared practically no effort in trying to bust him. When Erin had first heard of it, she'd thought it was total overkill—even then, before she'd learned the truth.

But now, she wasn't nearly so certain. With every word he spoke, Conor was revealing himself to be even more of a menace to society than the authorities had initially thought.

It wasn't what he'd done to Wez McCrodon that was chilling her blood to ice-water; it was the look on his face while he'd recounted the story. Sweet cheez n' crackers, he'd practically dined out on his description of the betrayal—setting his partner up and then knocking him down like a skittle pin.

…And then leaving him to a fate worse than death.

Yes, it was true; Conor had said it himself. 'I'll die before I go back to The Point.' There was indeed a monster lurking behind that mask.

And yet…and yet…

It wasn't as if Charcoal Boy hadn't warned her. 'You're not going to like this…or me,' he'd said. He hadn't wanted even to remember his final moments with Crazy Wez; much less recollect them. The truth of the matter was, he didn't seem to care for that part of himself either—much as he might want to deny it.

And, let's be honest…if it hadn't been for her coaxing, Conor would have never owned up to the betrayal of his partner.

No, she took that back; it wasn't only her coaxing that had made him fess up. Mr. Rodenberg's threat to wash his paws of the young silver fox had played at least as big a part, maybe bigger.

Mr. Rodenberg…Vernon J. Rodenberg, Attorney at Law…

His thoughts on the matter were entirely unequivocal. In the course of his life, the grey rat had witnessed treacheries that made the double-cross of Wez McCrodon look like a party game—and that had been before he'd set up his practice as attorney-to-the-underworld. "Life's tough; deal with it;" his creed then, and still his creed today.

Ironically enough, it was precisely because of his experience as a mob lawyer that Rodenberg was aware of something else—the real reason The Mister's associates had been so eager to keep his nephew out of The Company. Had he wished, he could have summed it up in two names—Sammy 'The Bull' Gravano, and Mickey Featherstoat.

Once upon a time, those two had been their respective gang's Crazy Wez characters, the psycho whose name was enough to strike fear into the hearts of even the toughest hoods—and prompt deadbeats to cough up what they owed right NOW. Gravano had served as John Gatto's much-feared underboss, while Featherstoat had been chief enforcer to the dreaded Jimmy Coonan, overlord of the Westies gang. In that capacity, they'd each excelled…except for one, tiny, little hitch.

Both of their bosses had ended up doing life without parole, and it had been Gravano and Featherstoat's testimony that put them there—along with numerous other members of their crime families. And, as Conor had said only moments ago, "No one had even the slightest doubt; Wez was gonna spill everything he knew about the escape plan, once The Mammal got hold of him."

Exactly! If The Mister hadn't understood the risks of bringing a loose cannon into his organization, his lieutenants had sure as heck seen the danger; it had been practically staring them in the face. And rather than just sit still and wait for the ax to fall, they had decided to do something about it.

At the end of the day, his client had been nothing more than a minor player in that drama, however passionately he might have performed his role. And the most impressive thing, from Rodenberg's point of view, was that the kid had managed to figure it out for himself. This really was a clever young fox.

Even so, there was still one question that had yet to be answered. WHY had the state of Zoo Jersey gone to such lengths to railroad a boy of absolutely no significance?

Yes, Rodenberg believed that now—and now he also understood the reason why Conor had insisted on telling his tale from the beginning. It was the only way to dispel any doubts as to the veracity of his story—a story that was about to venture into uncharted territory.

Lacing his fingers together, the grey rat settled back into his chair, watching his client carefully

And listening even more carefully…

---

They tossed me into this basement storeroom and left me there for three days. There was no water, no toilet and, goes without saying, no food. It wasn't as bad as it sounds though. I had access to the light switch, and the temperature down there was almost pleasant.

After I'd been in there for a couple hours, Danny showed up with a bucket and some toilet paper, and a while after that, he came back with a soda and two slices of pizza. Maybe an hour after that, Kieran came by with a mattress for me to sleep on, and a blanket.

But the best thing about that storeroom was…I managed to hook up with an old friend while I was in there.

You see…the storeroom where they put me wasn't just four bare walls, like The Hole back in Granite Point. It was an actual STORE-room; they had all kinds of stuff stashed in there. Extra chairs, a few St. Patrick's Day decorations, a box of laptops—none of which would power up—an amplifier that looked as if it had been used as a goal for street hockey, and all sorts of other junk.

What kind of other…? Like this pair of flat-panel TVs I found, with spiderwebs for screens, and this big, old storage trunk with a busted-up lid and nothing inside. And that's not even talking about all the cardboard boxes they had stored in that place; must have been about a hundred of 'em. Most of those bad boys looked ready to fall apart and had labels so faded, you couldn't tell what was inside without opening them. I even found an old boom-box, but without any batteries, and that storeroom had exactly zero electrical outlets. I was so ticked off I almost trashed it. I didn't though, I just tossed it aside.

Every time Danny and/or Kieran showed up, with food, or a soda, or whatever, they would always tell me not to touch anything. Yeah, right…like you're ever gonna get a bored fox-kid to pay attention to THAT rule. "I won't," I'd always say—and then as soon as they were gone, I'd start rummaging through whichever box caught my attention. Meh, total waste of time; most were full of paperwork, and none of 'em had anything interesting and/or useful inside.

But then…

I don't know what made me look behind those two particular cartons—I didn't even try to open them—but what I found back there was a pair of long flat cases, and a thicker one with an unmistakable shape—an acoustic guitar. When I opened it, I found an Ovation-Six, still strung and surprisingly still in tune, though it didn't matter diddly to me at the time. I hadn't played guitar since before my road trip with Jimmy Sanchez…and I wasn't sure if I could even remember how. In any case, I didn't have time to find out, coz right then I heard footsteps coming down the hallway. Uh-oh, I better get these things put back before…

Too late, the door swung open and there was Kieran, with a white bag in one paw and a big old can of iced-tea in the other.

"Here boy," he said, holding out the bag out like a peace offering, "Some fish an' chips from the Wicked Mink. Should just be cool enough 'bout now to…Oi, what's this ye got there, then?"

Ohhhh, snap! Now I was gonna get it, a smack upside the head, or at the very least, I could say goodbye to my dinner. And it smelled so yummy, too.

But Kieran only brushed past me, leaving the eats behind him as he went.

"Well, I'll be," he said, picking up the Ovation and turning it over in his paws. For some reason, it gave me a Pawstars vibe. "It is, it's one of Paddy's old guitars! Thought fer sure, they'd been tossed."

I felt my ears go up. "They?" I had only seen one instrument.

"Aye," Kieran waved a paw at the pair of rectangular cases, "There's a couple o' 'lectrics in…Ah, eat yer fish boy, before it get cold." He was looking at me with an annoyed expression, "But first, go shut th' door, would ye?"

Yeah…he'd left the door open, and no…I didn't even think about trying to make a break for it. Somehow, I knew I'd never be able to pull it off and then things'd be a whole lot worse for me.

Besides, where the heck would I go?

So…I did as I was told; I went over and closed the door, and then moved on to scarfing my fish and chips. Even now, it was almost too hot to enjoy. While I ate, Kieran explained to me about the guitars I'd found.

They had originally been the property of Paddy McCoul, a European Badger who'd once driven trucks for The Company and played guitar on his days off.

"He was never able to keep a gig for long, poor sod." Kieran told me, using my interest as cover to steal one of my chips, "As ye might imagine, workin' fer The Mister comes with rather irregular hours." He looked over at the guitar cases again, shaking his head and sounding almost regretful, "He'd 'ave done better t' 'ave bagged the guitar and stuck to' drivin'. Decent player, but never good enough t' make a livin' at it—couldn't sing worth a tinker's cuss, either."

"What happened to him?" I asked, grabbing the last of the chips before he could get to them. He looked hurt for a second—but not because of me.

"Died in jail, year before last," he heaved the words like a sigh, "Poor bloke had few too many one night; caused a car crash, and then tried t' run from it. Didn't make it more n' two blocks before he was caught." He sighed again, more of a grumble this time. "No one was killed, but several folks ended up in hospital…one of whom turned out t' be the daughter of himself, the Lieutenant Governor. Needless t' say, Paddy wasn't getting off with rehab an' a suspended license after something like that, 'specially with a couple o' priors for burglary under 'is belt." He shook his head again, this time looking like he'd just found a hair in his soup. "Silly idiot; hung himself in his cell the night before his trial."

"Didn't your uncle offer to help?" I asked; wasn't that how crime syndicates operated?

Yeah, I see the look on your face there, Mr. Rodenberg. And you're right, but little did I know back then.

"Nope," he said, and then explained. "Paddy worked fer the Company, but he wasn't with The Company, if ye know what I mean. And so, his problems were HIS problems."

"Right," I nodded, pretending to understand. I didn't; in fact, that piece of news spooked me big time.

Why? Coz at the end of the day, I was even less of an actual member of The Company than Paddy McCoul had been. And that did not bode well for what The Mister might decide to do with me.

I don't know if Kieran caught wind of my anxiety or not… No, I take that back, he prolly did. Whatever…he dropped the subject like a hot rock.

"Anyways, let's see what we've got in here, then," he said, picking up the nearest of the two electric guitar cases.

When he opened it, I had no idea what I was looking at…except that this bad boy was a lovely piece of work, jet-black neck, wine-red body and what looked like a brass pickguard. Kieran seemed to recognize it, though.

"Hunh, well there's 'is Strat," he said, although he was wrong. It was actually a Stratocatter knockoff from an outfit called Levinson-Blade. The other case contained an axe neither one of us recognized; a Beastman D'ambrosio, in dark turquoise with a deep red pickguard. To give you an idea of how familiar I was with electric guitars back then, I remember asking, "What the heck did he need two of them for?"

Kieran didn't answer, he just looked at me.

I couldn't tell a single-coil from a humbucker in those days, but you didn't have to be Jeff Buck to understand that neither one of those bad boys was playable. Kinda hard to manage, with three busted strings on one and none at all on the other. And anyway, like I said, the amp that went with them was toast and there was nowhere to plug it in.

Not that I cared very much…I had more important things to worry about right then—like what was going to happen to me? I hadn't given it a whole lot of consideration during my escape; it would have been a major distraction.

But now, I couldn't help thinking about it. And thinking, unfortunately, was all I could manage; at the moment, my train of thought didn't go all the way to my mouth. I wanted sooo bad to ask Kieran if he had any ideas about what his uncle might decide to do with me, but try as I might, I couldn't make the words come. Later on, I realized he prolly would have just dodged the question, but at the time I was like totally frustrated with myself.

My feelings must have shown on my face, coz on the way out, Kieran told me not to worry, everything was going to be all right…which was about as comforting as a doctor promising to, "...do everything I can."

After he left, it took me maybe half a minute to get bored out of my skull. Dangit, why wasn't there at least a deck of cards in here?

Yeah, Erin…I know. After all the time I spent in The Hole, back at Granite Point, I should have been able to handle that storeroom, no sweat. I dunno, maybe it was the anxiety of waiting or something; for all I knew, I might not be getting out of there alive.

No…not this time. I'd spent maybe ten minutes in The Mister's presence, but it had been all I'd needed to be aware of something. That big jerk was perfectly capable of giving the order to have me whacked, never mind that I was just a kid. Ask Mr. Rodenberg, he knew the guy. What do you think, Counselor; am I being over dramatic here?

There Erin, you see? I was a hundred percent right to be worried.

Anyway, with nothing better to do, I went over and grabbed the acoustic again, and began noodling around on it. I didn't have a pick, so I used my finger claws …which I still do, by the way. After just messing with that bad boy for a while, I tried picking out a few of the tunes that I knew. I didn't know if I could manage it; I could barely remember even having taken guitar lessons, much less what I'd learned from any of them. But I tried it just the same—and wonder of wonders, it turned out to be easier than I expected. Not a cakewalk; I mean, I couldn't get all the way through even one of those songs. It was all just licks and fragments. I kept at it for maybe an hour or two, and then set the six aside and prepared to go to sleep.

I never made it. Just as I was starting to drift off, I saw the ceiling shudder, and heard a thump of music, coming from somewhere above me. It was a song I recognized, Misty Mountain Hop, by Led Zeppelion…and it wasn't a recording, I was hearing it live. Not the original guys of course, but a darn good facsimile, a tribute band by the name of Black Dog Heaven. They had come to Finagles as part of a regular feature at the club, Tribute Thursdays. I didn't know any of that right then though…all I knew was that there was no way I was getting any sleep with all that racket going on overhead.

So…what else could I do? I snagged the acoustic again and tried to play along. I had never played by ear before, but…whoa, I was actually good at this. Not super-good; it wasn't 'til about halfway into their set that I was able to get all the way through one of their numbers. The very first rocker I ever played, from start to finish, was while I was down in that basement, "Over the Hills and Far Away." I did okay, but not great—and to this day, I've never been completely satisfied with how I play it. To do that tune right, you need a twelve-string, and I'm still not dialed in on that bad boy…not yet.

Wha…? Yeah, I am getting a little off track again. Sorry, Mr. Rodenberg. But there was one other thing that happened while I was waiting for The Mister's verdict. As a matter of fact, it went down the very next morning.

Black Dog Heaven didn't knock off until either way late, or way early in the morning, and so I didn't either. It was around about 8 AM I think; I still didn't have a watch, when someone started pounding on my door and I heard this really deep voice, "This is your wake-up call; prepare to DIE!"

I jumped up and did as I was told, but at the same time, I was more confused than scared. Who the heck was out there? I hadn't heard that voice before, though I was pretty sure it was another sea-mink; I could smell his musk coming in under the doorway.

And…whoever he was, his voice wasn't naturally that deep. You know how you can always tell when some mammals are faking it? That was this guy, whoever he was…and he proved it with the next thing he said.

"Outta that bed kid…right now, you hear me? Now! Now! NOW!"

What the FOX? I was already on my feet…and now he sounded about as much like a mob guy as a piccolo sounds like a tuba. Seriously, his voice was higher in pitch than Crazy Wez had sounded whenever he got screaming mad. Honestly…for a second, I was wondering if it wasn't a girl out there in the hallways.

"Get over to the door, punk. Now, turn and face the wall!"

All right, this jerk was beginning to make me mad. Seriously. I came that close to instructing him in the proper use of a red-hot poker. But then I remembered something. To look at Danny T, you would have taken him for a third-string stockbroker.

…And that would have been a major mistake; pound for pound, Danny was one of the most dangerous mammals in the Five Burrows. That was what I'd heard anyway.

So…maybe the animal outside my door was a lot more lethal than he sounded.

With that in mind, I did as he said—and immediately started sneezing my brains out. Did I mention how dusty the walls in that storeroom were? Outside the door, I could hear my visitor making little squeaking noises, like somebody rubbing a balloon. Okay, now I was back to being irritated again. That was exactly the way Crazy Wez had sounded when he was trying not to laugh.

After another couple seconds, I heard the door-bolt thrown back and felt a rush of air as it whipped open.

The next thing I heard was that really deep voice again, "Last for you, fox-kid!"

All right, he'd finally managed to scare me a little, but before I could even begin to process it, this big load of ice-water was pitched over me—we're talking water, with ice in it. Whoa, I'd never fox-screamed so loud; some of it got under my tail, and…

Oh, NOW look who's trying not to laugh, Snowdrop.

Anyway, when I turned around, I saw…yep, it was a sea-mink all right, same age as Wez, but pop-eyed and way more skinny. And…what the FOX? He was dressed like something out of that old Weird Al Yakovic video, 'Tacky'—a bright orange shirt with these lime green pants…and he was laughing so hard he could barely stand. "Nobody expects the McCrodon ice-quisition!"

I screamed again and launched myself straight at him. That is, I tried to. Halfway there I stepped on a piece of ice, and my feet went out from under me. Mr. Giggle-Mink just loved that; when he slammed the door and locked it, he was almost in hysterics.

Yep, you're right Mr. Rodenberg…it was my first encounter with James McCrodon, Jr., or just plain Junior, most of the guys called him—along with a few other names I'm not gonna repeat out loud. And, oh yeah…it was a very lucky thing that I wasn't able to get to him. I found that out when Danny came by a few minutes later.

"Sorry kid, there's nothing I can do," he said, offering me a pawkerchief, so I could at least dry my face. "Junior McCrodon's, the Mister's only son. And so, as far as his dad is concerned, he can do no wrong. You follow what I'm bringing out?" He shook his head in disgust. "You're just gonna have to eat it, same as the rest of us." As he said this, I could see his tail frizzing and his ears laying back. Then and there, I knew what he meant by 'the rest of us.' Junior was one of those privileged punks who treats everyone like his plaything…knowing Daddy will kick their tails if they object. It only made me hate the little jerk even more—until I remembered something.

"Uhm…" I felt a lump drop down my throat, "Am…I gonna get in trouble for going after him? I swear, if I'd known who he was…"

"Ah I wouldn't worry about that, kid." Danny smiled and gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You'll be okay, as long as you didn't get a paw on him." He stopped, and I saw his ears rise up. "You…didn't get a paw on him, right?" He had his head tilted sideways and was giving me the eye.

"Never came close, I swear!" I said, raising a paw for emphasis. What I didn't bother to mention was that I would have been all over that punk if I hadn't slipped on that chunk of ice…something for which I was now seriously grateful.

"Good," Danny nodded, and then added, kind of strangely, "Good thing it was you instead of Wez; he'd have torn Junior's head off his shoulders for something like that."

Huh, what now? Wez couldn't have made it to the door any quicker than I had; what the heck?

But then I noticed that Danny's eyes were angling over towards a box in the corner—and that he had raised his voice just ever so slightly when he'd spoken.

Ohhh-kay, now I got it; either he or Kieran must have planted it on one of their earlier visits…and he'd known without asking that I hadn't come anywhere close to laying my mitts on Junior. So, that was why he'd shown up so quickly after the little jerk drenched me with that ice-water.

Once I knew that, I knew right away where to go with it.

"Nahhh," I said, fanning a paw. "That's not how Wez rolls. He would have pretended to shine it on, acted like it was no big deal—'Ahhh, that was nothing compared to what got done to me in The Point…blah, blah, blah.' Heck, knowing him, he might have even tried to make friends with Jimmy Junior. And then, as soon as that other kid's guard was down…BOOM!"

I knew, or at least I hoped, that when this conversation was played back for the Mister, he'd believe what he was hearing. Everything I'd said was 100% accurate, no filler and no additives. That was exactly what Wez would have done if it'd been him instead of me that got the ice-bucket test—and he'd also have had an escape hatch ready. He'd lay his payback on Junior and be long gone by the time dear ol' dad found out. That kid was crazy, but he wasn't stupid.

But, getting back to the story; the rest of my time in that storeroom was spent eating, sleeping, and playing around on that acoustic six. To my considerable surprise, I not only got the hang back fairly quick, pretty soon, I was playing better than ever. Heck I was better now than if I'd kept up with my lessons all this time. Ahhh, if only my old music teacher could hear me now. Wha…what was his name again?

Yeah Erin, I remember it now…Mr. Jones. But even though that's a pretty common name, I couldn't remember it then to save my life.

On the third day, when Danny came to see me, he didn't bring any food or drink. And that was when I knew…it was time.

"The Mister?" I asked

"Yep," he answered, nodding, "Let's go, kid."

I was actually more relieved than anything else—though not for any reason you might think. Nobody had ever shown up to empty my waste bucket, or even given me permission to empty it myself. By the time Danny showed up to take me to The Mister, I didn't know which was worse…the flies or the stink.

Even so, I couldn't help asking him, "Do you have any idea…?"

"Nope," he answered, cutting me off…but he didn't look away. That told me, he really didn't have a clue as to what his boss had planned for me.

But I had an idea; in fact, I had two of them. First of all, why would The Mister have Danny bring me to see him, if he was planning to off me? If that had been the case, I'd have been toast the second the door opened. No yelling, no screaming, no anger …just bang-bang, no silver-fox kid.

Second of all, Danny and Kieran had done at least as much to put the shaft to Crazy Wez as I had—prolly more. If their boss had somehow figured out what really happened to him, then for sure he'd have figured out the part they'd played. In that case, he would have had them slapped around before moving on to me. Yeah, but the swift fox taking me to see him didn't have even a single strand of fur out of place. That told me his boss was still in the dark about what had gone down between me and Crazy Wez.

I must have said that to myself a hundred times before we even got to the stairs—and I didn't believe a word of it. After all the other stuff I'd got wrong in the past few days, why should I start nailing it now?

This time Danny didn't bring me up to The Mister's Office. Instead, he took me out though a side door to the parking lot and a cherry condition 1970 Dodge Super Bee in, what else, yellow and black. As I'm sure you know Mr, Rodenberg, he had a major liking for muscle cars.

From there, he drove me to this place called The Wicked Mink, a name I knew but couldn't quite wrap my brain around. Oh yeah, that was where the fish and chips Kieran brought me had come from. But now I saw that it was a pub, and I also saw the sign on the front-entrance door, 'No Minors.' Oh-kay, we weren't gonna stop here—I thought.

Yes…and no; Danny wasn't gonna bring me in through the front—but that was hardly the only way inside the place. He drove around to the back, and we went in through the kitchen entrance.

And that was as far as we got. At the doorway to the barroom, we found ourselves blocked by a grison with a rough-cut leather apron and rolled up shirt-sleeves.

"Sorry Tipperin, can't let ya in there," he said, folding his arms.

Danny answered by folding his ears backwards, and then waved a paw at me.

"I was told to bring the kid here by…"

"I know," the grison interrupted, cutting him off, "He told ME not to admit you until he gives the word, okay?

"Ohhh-kay," Danny half grumbled, half sighed. Here was The Mister playing Big Boss again. A quick search of the kitchen produced a couple of rickety, metal chairs, and we settled down to wait.

We didn't have to wait for very long; no sooner did our tails touch the seats than this big, blocky, Kodiak bear came lumbering into the kitchen. He was at least six times Danny's size, but from the way he behaved, you would have thought HE was the smaller of the two.

"He'll see yas now, Danbo," he said, offering a deferential dip of his muzzle, "Good luck in there."

Danny said nothing to this, only got up and smoothed down his jacket. While he did this, the bear was giving me an appraising once-over.

"Jeez," he finally said, shaking his head with a toothy grimace. "I heard Granite Point was rough for a juvie joint, but…wow." And then, he turned and beckoned with a pair of fingers.

When we got inside the barroom, the first thing I saw was what I thought was a gray fox, though he was actually platinum-phase red. I think I can be forgiven for making that mistake, though —since he was dressed a brightly colored jester's costume, and wheeling around the room on a unicycle

…playing the old Mott the Hippo tune All The Young Dudes on a set of bagpipes!

I didn't have time to enjoy the spectacle. Almost immediately a familiar, coarse voice called out from the far end of the room. "Awrite Estvan, clear out, I got business to attend to over here."

At once the music faded to a forlorn squeak, and then Uni-Fox was pedaling quickly for the exit.

With him no longer blocking the view, I was able to see, taking up the furthest part of the barroom, a slightly elevated section of floor. It was occupied by an elliptical table that looked to be about the size of a backyard swimming pool. This, in turn, was occupied by a motley collection of species, many of them apex preds and more than few of them looking tipsy, even though it wasn't even lunchtime yet. I couldn't see The Mister, but I knew he was there; there was no mistaking that scent of his.

"I got Tipperin and the kid here." The bear who'd brought us called out, raising his voice to be heard over the din at the table.

"'Kay, bring 'em here," that same, slightly ragged voice replied, and we were ushered around to the far side of the gathering.

As befit his rank and station, The Mister was seated at the center of the table, nestled in a high-backed chair, that would have only needed some gold trim to pass for a throne.

It was the younger sea-mink next to him that drew most of my attention, though; the same scrawny punk who'd given me the ice-bucket test the other day. The minute I saw him, I averted my eyes. What can I say, it was either that, or give him a look that his dad was NOT going to appreciate. Yeah, fine…but how the heck was I supposed to avoid looking at him when Dad ordered me to come closer?

Thank God, that problem solved itself. Clapping his kid on the arm, The Mister. told him, "Why don't you go take a walk, son?"

Whoa, Junior didn't like that one bit. "But daaaaad…" he started to protest, and I saw two of the other guys rolling their eyes. As I was soon to discover, he got that a lot…but only when his father couldn't see.

Anyway, The Mister said nothing to this, only scowled and pointed sternly at the exit. Junior got the hint but gave me a dirty look as he passed me—like the whole thing was my fault or something. I didn't have time to care right then—coz now was the make-or-break moment for me.

"C'mere kid," the Mister said, beckoning me over with waggling fingers. The expression on his face was neither benign, nor malignant; matter of fact, I couldn't tell what the heck was on his mind.

I took a deep breath and an even deeper swallow and then went to him on shuffling feet. "Here it comes," I remember thinking.

After looking me over for a second, The Mister folded his meaty arms and drew himself up in his chair. When he did that, I couldn't help noticing that he looked way better than he had the other night.

And then, finally, he delivered the verdict. "Okay…so my nephew really did chicken out on that escape." He turned and hawked into a nearby spittoon, as if to show his contempt, "Too scared of heights to go through with it; who knew? And then he goes and has a stinkin' breakdown." He seemed to be talking mostly to himself, "All right, that's it; he had his chance." With that, he clapped the arms of his chair and then waved a paw, as if dismissing Wez from his presence, once and for all.

And then, he focused on me again. "But now, what am I gonna do with you, fox-kid? You're not blood, you're not even species…"

Ohhhh, foxtrot! I was gonna get kicked out on my own after all…and then what was I supposed to…?

"…but, from what I hear, you got a lotta heart—and a lotta smarts. So, here's the deal; you can stay with us, but you're gonna have to earn your keep. Whatever, whenever, however, and wherever you're given an order, you follow it and you don't ask no questions—ever." He finished up with a raised eyebrow. "Okay?"

"Okay," I said.

Wha…why did I…?

Because, Snowdrop, that was absolutely an offer you can't refuse. If I'd answered 'thanks, but no thanks,' I would have been put out on the street—in a strange city, with no money, no friends, no place to stay—and wanted by John Q. Law for breaking out of jail, and who knew what else.

And speaking of jail, like it or not, I owed that guy; I would never have made it out of Granite Point if his boys hadn't been there to help me—and it was a slam-dunk that the only way to keep from going back there would be with their continued support.

And there was only one way I was gonna get that support…as The Mister made clear with the very next words he spoke. "But listen very carefully, fox kid…coz I'm only gonna say this once." He paused and leveled a finger, "You mess up on me even once—even one single time—and you'll be back in Granite Point so fast, you'll catch cold from the breeze." He paused and scratched behind an ear, loosening a small tuft of fur. And then, looking satisfied with his decision, he sat back and waved a paw in Danny's direction. "Okay fox-kid, that about covers it for now. Tipperin, take him back to The Club."

Ya know…that blubberball jerk told me a lotta lies in the time that I knew him, but that, for sure, was one of the biggest. 'I'm only gonna say this once?' Ha! Try once every ten, stinkin' minutes, practically every time I saw him after that. He knew what he was doing though; threatening me with The Point never failed to make me fall in line. Seriously…if he so much as mentioned Granite Point when I was in his presence, that was all it took; 'Yes-sir, No-Sir, Whatever-You-Say-Sir.' Right up until the day he died, he was laying that place on me.

After stopping for lunch on the way back to Finagles, Danny brought me down to the storeroom again—but this time he didn't lock me in. Now, at least, I could empty that danged waste bucket—thank God. I wasn't gonna be staying there for long, though. The next morning, I was put to work, cleaning and preparing another, smaller room for myself. This one was empty, but it was like a stinkin' dust-bowl in there; took me a whole day just to get the floor clean. When that was done, Kieran helped me transfer the mattress from the storeroom, and then brought me a table and a chair; both of them beat-up, but solid. Best of all, he let me bring the three guitars I'd found, along with a pedalboard stashed behind the busted amplifier. I also snagged that boom box, but it turned out to be broken. Anyway, that was pretty much it for now…but I'd be adding more stuff later. In the meantime, welcome to Home, sweet Home.

Nah, Erin, I didn't mind. Foxes are denning species, and this was still way better than my cell back at The Point. It was cool in the summer, warm in the winter, and they never locked me in. And right down the hall was this bathroom with a shower. It was set up for a bigger species than mine—I had to jump up to reach the faucet handles—but there was always decent water-pressure and, even better, plenty of hot water. Meanwhile, upstairs in the club and practically right over my head, was this break-room with a fridge, stove, oven, and microwave. I had to share this with the Finagles staff…but they were only around from maybe an hour before the club opened, until closing time. The rest of the day, I had it pretty much all to myself.

Yeah Erin, you're right…that break room wasn't gonna do me much good if I didn't have any food to prepare. Eventually, though, I was able to score a few groceries. I was a servant, not a slave, y'see; I earned some while I was with The Company. I'll get into more about that later.

Anyway…two days later, Danny took me out back to this garden plot in the yard behind Finagles. Then he handed me this thing like a big, bent, rusty metal fork and said, "Take care of those weeds, kid," and left me to my work.

Heh…yeah, I thought you'd relate to that, bunny-girl…

Uhhh, that's what the Hopps kids have to do when they mess up, Mr. Rodenberg. They get sent out to pull weeds. But, as I quickly found out, that gardening gig wasn't just a one-off thing. Tending that bad boy was now officially my job. I wasn't thrilled, but I could live with it…mainly coz it was a fairly small patch of ground, about as big as a couple of large-mammal parking spaces. It was where they grew some of the veggies and the herbs and stuff for the kitchen.

Yeah, that's right. When I was first with the Company, Finagles had a restaurant attached to it. Didn't last, though; eventually the Mister decided it wasn't making enough money, and closed it down. And he then used the extra space to expand the stage and put in some extra seating. From then on, his place was a straight-up dance-club and part-time concert venue. It still had a kitchen but smaller than before. The only stuff they served now was snacks and bar-food, nothing you could call a main course.

Needless to say, when the restaurant went, so did the garden…but by then I had plenty of other stuff to do.

It started a couple of days later, when Kieran picked me up in his Rovian and drove me out to The Humptons and this private beach. I remember that it was surrounded by this really high chain-link fence, and had a locked gate with a 'No Trespassing—Members Only' sign on it. No big deal for Kieran though; a quick swipe of a keycard, and we walked through, no problem.

On the other side of the dunes, we found The Mister and his brothers, together with their families, gathered around a big, steaming pit in the sand, covered with a canvas tarp. I later learned that clambakes weren't allowed on this beach, but since when was anyone going to tell these guys what they could and couldn't do?

I think the thing that most surprised me was the size of the McCrodon clan. Holy foxtrot, I'd had no idea that their family was so big. I counted at least thirty animals on that beach, every single one of 'em a sea-mink; no other species present except for me. I know that's gonna sound like chump-changed to a bunny Erin—but unless you're talking otters, mustelids almost never cluster in such large groups.

At the moment of my arrival, they were passing the time by swapping stories and slurping raw oysters—something that seriously turned my stomach the first time I saw it. That was another thing I was about to discover about the McCrodons, although I should have already known. Being sea-mink, they had a weakness for shellfish and crustaceans. They adored mussels and steamer-clams, couldn't get enough of scallops and shrimp, and were especially fond of lobster—something that was going to have serious consequences for me later on.

And then there were the oysters, or as Kieran liked to call them, Sea-Mink Kryptonite. Seriously, you could have tiled a roof with all the leftover shells on that beach. The McCrodons loved fresh oysters so much, they used to eat them for movie snacks. I saw them do it.

Anyway, when I looked around, I was gratified to see no sign of Junior anywhere. I didn't find out why until the drive back to Finagles. He'd been excluded from the gathering for 'borrowing' his dad's Hump-Vee—without even a learner's permit—and then returning it, late the next morning, covered in mud and with nothing but fumes in the tank. Even his old mink wasn't gonna stand for something like that; he took his kid's cell phone away and grounded him for the rest of the week.

I was even more pleased to discover that, despite his son's transgression, The Mister was in a particularly buoyant mood on this fine, Long Island evening. Laughing and joking with the members of his family, he was as jolly as old St. Nick. To give you an idea, for once, he didn't keep me waiting, motioning me over as soon as he spotted me. Not only that, it was one of the few times I talked to him when he didn't bring up The Point.

"Hey kid," he said, and then belched, "I wanna ask you something." He had obviously downed a few shots by then.

"Yes, Mr. McCrodon?" I answered, making sure to keep my gaze lowered.

Before continuing with his line of questioning, he reached over and snagged a bottle stuck in the sand beside his beach chair—which looked ready to collapse at any second—and took a short, hard swig. And then wiping his mouth with the back of his paw, he gave me a penetrating look.

"You know how to ride a bike…right, kid?"

What, was he kidding? How was an orphan fox-kid, with no money, supposed to get his paws on a bicycle, and/or learn to ride one?

That was the answer I would have given—except for two things. A. His question hadn't really been a question, and B. The way Kieran was grimacing at me, out the side of his face. Nope...if I knew what was good for me, I'd had better reply in the affirmative.

…which I did. "Yeah, sure, Mr. McCrodon, no problem."

"Good, good," he said. And then, noticing he was surrounded by a sea of inquisitive faces, he smiled and explained.

"This fox-kid's gonna be my new messenger-boy," he declared, clapping his paws together as if to seal the deal. If I'd been standing closer, I think he'd have clapped me on the shoulder. As it was, I wanted to slap myself straight into the middle of next week. WHY had I listened to Kieran and told him yes? Granite Point, here I come!

I wasn't the only one present who didn't feel happy about the idea. More than a few of the other family members were giving Mister McCrodon some seriously dubious looks.

He ignored them all.

"Kieran? Where's…? Oh, there y'are. Tomorrow morning, I want this kid set up with a messenger bike. Have Tipperin handle it."

"Aye, sir." His nephew answered with a quick, deferential nod. If he was bothered by the order, he was managing to keep it hidden. "But first…may I suggest that y'allow me to create a new identity for this boy? Also…we should put the word out on the street, an' with our contacts uptown—the kid's workin' fer us and not t' be bothered while makin' his rounds."

"Yeah, good idea," his uncle answered, with a short, curt nod. "Take care of it, nephew. Oh…!" He seemed to get an idea of his own, right then. "Now that I think of it, some jerk bean-counter's liable to start askin' why he ain't in school. Get that fixed too, while you're at it."

"Consider it done, Mr. McCrodon," Kieran answered, offering another bob of his head. And then laying a paw on my shoulder, he told me. "C'mon, boy."

"Wha…? All at once, his uncle was sitting up in his chair…while his eyebrows were standing up, "Hey, where you think you're going, huh?"

"Well, I…" Caught off guard by the question, Keiran was momentarily tongue-tangled. "I-I was just goin' to take this boy back t'…"

The Mister laughed and waved him off. "Ahhh, don't be silly; the provisions is almost done and we got plenty to go around. Go and grab yourself a chair, nephew. You too, fox-kid"

Much as I hate to admit it, I had a pretty decent time at that party—even though I was left mostly on my own. Nobody spoke to me except for Kieran…and he spent most of his time talking to this cute girl mink. I didn't think much of it at the time, I was too busy chowing down. The eats were excellent, and like The Mister had said, there was plenty to go around. It was one of the few times I knew him when he straight-up told the truth. Still, as much as I was enjoying myself, I had to wonder; what the heck was he being so generous for? Later on, I found out the reason—he'd made a particularly good score, earlier that day—but at the time I just told myself to shut up and eat. This was not only the best feed I'd had since the day of my arrest, it was maybe my best feed, EVER!

There was a price to pay for that luau, though. After all those months of Juvie cuisine, my body wasn't ready for a seafood slam. I found that out the hard way maybe an hour after I got back to Finagles…when King Neptune showed up to take his revenge. I stopped counting at six the number of times I had to run for the toilet…and I was supposed to have my first bike-riding lesson in the morning!

I stopped counting at eight, the number of times I fell off that thing. And every time I did, Danny would make me get back on and do it again.

Yeah, Erin…I'm surprised you didn't ask me that earlier. Like just about every other mob boss on the planet, The Mister wanted nothing to do with phones, especially cell-phones—even though he had a tech-wiz like Kieran working for him.

Uh-huh, you understand it, Mr. Rodenberg. There must be something like a zillion mob guys doing time coz of something they said on the phone—or on line. And the only way around that problem—from The Mister's point of view—was to send and receive information the old-fashioned way; in furson. That was where I was supposed to come in…running messages back and forth for him on a bicycle. Except the way things were working out, it looked like I wasn't going anywhere, except straight back to Granite Point.

Enter Kieran… The next day, when he showed up to help, it took him all of two seconds to spot the problem.

"Oi, y'can't just start the boy off on a messenger-bike, mate. Put 'im on somethin' a little easier t' begin with, and let him work his way up from there."

Danny wasn't at all pleased by this. "In case you didn't notice, Druid…"

"Don't call me that in front of the kid!"

"Sorry," his bud shrugged, and then pointed at his watch, "But like I said, we're on the clock over here. The Mister wants the kid ready to start work by the end of the week."

Kieran looked thoughtful for a second, and then pursed his lips and nodded.

"Tell yer what, boyo. You show the boy how to ride and let me deal with me uncle. I'll get yer the time y' need, no worries."

"How you gonna do that, huh?" Danny's head was tilted sideways, and his paws were on his hips.

Kieran answered with a wink and a toothy grin. Like I said before, foxes have nothing on mustelids when it comes to looking sly.

"Don't ferget now, Danny-Boy, the kid can't go nowheres 'til he's got his new identity…an' I can always say that the State o' Zoo Jersey's puttin' the screws to the ZYPD to find 'im and send him back right now. Matter of fact, I wouldn't be s'prised if that happens on its own."

The corners of Danny's mouth stretched back, almost to his ears.

"Yeah-h-h-h, reeeeeally," he said, drawing out the words like taffy, "Honestly, I wonder why it hasn't happened already."

With that problem settled—sort of—we drove in Danny's Super Bee to this outdoor bicycle dealer, over by the Barklyn Navy Yard, a real makeshift operation; Kieran called it a guerilla bike shop.

No, I'm serious. It was nothing more than a bunch of used rides, hung up on this chain-link fence in an empty lot, with an old parking-lot booth for a sales office. Some of the bikes looked like junkyard rejects, while others were practically brand new. All sales were strictly cash, and it would not have surprised me to learn that at least some of the merch was stolen. It was run by a pair of ocelots, one of them smaller and younger than the other, obviously sisters.

"Help you, sir?" the older one asked in a Latino accent, barely glancing up from the magazine she was reading.

It was Kieran who answered her, laying a paw on my shoulder, "Need a BMX bike that'll fit this boy, here. Have y' got one sitting about, then?"

"Huhm, let me see," she said, looking me over—and averting her eyes when she got to my face. To cover her awkwardness, she turned quickly to her sister, "Monica…go and get the Beastern we took in last month, ju know the one."

"Si, Clarita." She answered and went scurrying up the fence to the second row. She came back with a BMX bike in pure white, even the seat and the handle-bars.

Or, that is to say, it might have been white, once upon a time. Not anymore, though; now it looked like it had been ridden through either an oil slick or an inkwell. It was not a deal-breaker, though. The chain, pedals, gears and tires were all in great shape, and when I tried it on for size, the fit was excellent, not perfect but still excellent, and anyway…this was only supposed to be my training bike.

Danny could have afforded that bad boy a hundred times over, but he still insisted on haggling. Eventually he was able to talk the girls into shaving five bucks off of the asking price.

But then, just as he finished putting my new ride in his car-trunk, this Catillac Escalade came swerving around the corner and drifted to a halt, blocking in the Super-Bee so it couldn't pull away from the curb. In a blinding-fast move, Kieran shoved me to the ground and I watched Danny T's paw dive into his jacket.

At the same time, the Catty's doors flew open and these three big tayras got out. In response, Danny's paw came out of his jacket again—with nothing in it. As he later explained to me. "I could tell right aways those jerks were amateurs, easy targets, right out in the open, and none of 'em were packing."

Yeah Erin; tayras are another mustelid species, about the same size as a fisher—or a sea-mink. And these three did not look like happy campers, especially the one in the middle. As they got closer, I saw that they were wearing the same green and yellow t-shirts, identifying them as members of something called Palo Duro Boxing and Fitness. When they walked, they seemed to be trying not to swagger.

Almost immediately it became obvious that they were targeting Kieran. While the animal in the center kept a straight and steady course in his direction, the other two fanned out on either side of him. Needless to say, I was not thrilled by what I was seeing; the dudes who'd jumped me back at The Johnstone Campus had done pretty much the same thing. Without even thinking about it, I knew my tail was frizzing. But when I happened to glance at Danny again, I saw that his fur was completely relaxed. What the FOX? I reached over and tugged on his pant leg.

"Aren't you gonna help or anything?"

"Nah," he folded his arms, and leaned back against a fender, nodding in the tayras' direction, "Those punks got themselves into this—let THEM get out of it."

As if on cue, they stopped in their tracks and I saw the leader jab a finger in Kieran's direction.

"YOU!"

He just stood there, arms hanging at his side, "Aye, wha'd'yer want then?" His voice was soft, without a trace of fear. In fact, he sounded almost bored.

The middle tayra took another step and drew himself up to his full height. He was bigger than Kieran but not by much. "You think you can come on to MY girl, an' get away with it minky-boy, HUH?"

"What, then?" Now, finally, Kieran took a step backwards, but NOT because he was afraid. Rather he seemed genuinely perplexed by the situation. "What girl y'talkin 'bout, then?"

"Don' play pendejo, jerk." It was one of the main guy's companions. "Ju tried to put the moves on her at that beach party, the other night."

Oh, for the love of… I groaned and I heard Danny do the same. Put the moves on her? All Kieran had done was talk to that girl…and then she'd left the party with her girlfriends; I knew coz they'd walked right past me on the way out. I started to say something, but felt Danny's clamp his paw around my muzzle. "Don't bother kid," he said, "they won't listen anyway."

Kieran seemed to know that too—because he didn't even try to deny it. "Oi, YOUR girl was she?" he asked, tilting his head to the side, "Well, now…I don't recall seein' 'Property Of…' stamped anywheres on 'er." His eyes narrowed and his voice became almost a purr. "An' believe me boyo, if it'd been there, Oi'd have seen it."

Spark? Meet powderkeg. The tayra screamed, something I won't repeat, and launched himself at Kieran, ready to lay him out with a double fisted skull-crusher.

He never connected. Stepping out of the way as easily as if he was dodging a vacuum-cleaner, Kieran spun on his heel and slammed an elbow into the guy's ribs, sending him into sideways sprawl. And then leaping on top of the dude, he wrapped himself around tayra-boy like an octopus, and poked a thumb into the corner of his eye. I didn't see what happened next, too fast for me to follow, but when Kieran let go of the dude, he was holding a paw to his face and screaming.

But then he screamed, "Get him!"

His buds came in at Kieran from both directions, but he was already on all fours and on the move, going first for the animal on his left. The guy came at him with his claws and fangs bared, but he deflected it with a forearm swipe, and then pitched himself over the top of his opponent and into a liquid roll. Swirling into a crouch, he struck out with the speed of a rattlesnake. clamping his jaws around the tayra-two's hamstrings and biting down hard. The guy screamed and I saw blood—and then he was limping backwards, waving his paws in a pleading gesture.

That was enough for tayra number three. He turned and went running for his car, wanting to be anywhere but here.

Or…that's what I thought was happening—until I heard Kieran yell. "Danny…!"

"I'm on it!"

What the HECK, now? I had no idea what was going on here. I found out real sweet quick when a blast went off next to me that felt like it was gonna rip my skull apart. At the same time, the Catty's windshield disintegrated into a million glass beads, along with the rear window. When I looked up again, I saw that Danny had a gun in his paw—a BIG gun, like something you'd see an apex predator carrying instead of a swift-fox. And…he was handling it as easily as if it were a toy squirt-gun. I also noticed that he was rolling a toothpick in his mouth.

And then I heard him growl. "Toss it out, punk…or the next one sends your head to Pawkeepsie!"

I remember thinking, "Toss…what out?" And got an answer right away, when a sawed-off shotgun came skittering out from behind the Catillac and across the asphalt. Before I even had time to blink, Kieran had hold of it.

"'Kay…now get your tail out here!" Danny snarled again, while Kieran kept his buds covered. Tayra-three came out on his knees with his paws raised

That was when the leader finally broke. "You don't fight FAIR!" Sheesh, he was almost sobbing.

Kieran eyed him for a second and then smirked, "In a street fight, boyo, what's fair is what the bloke who's winning says is fair." He went over and leaned in close, lowering his voice to a hiss, "An' guess what? YOU'RE not winning."

He stepped back, and that was when a stench hit my nose, making me glad I hadn't eaten lunch yet. Tayra-one had lost control of his musk glands…and maybe his guts by the smell of it.

"Awwww, Jeez," Danny groaned, wrinkling his muzzle; he'd caught it too. "Quit bein' such a baby, willya? You're not gonna lose that eye. Any halfway decent ER doc can put it back in, no problem."

"Just th' same," Kieran chimed in, "I think ye'd do well t' get y'self t' hospital quick as y' can." His lips pulled back, revealing his fangs. "An' when y' do, ye'd be very well advised not t' mention me or me partner t' any of the doctors or staff...or especially t' any cops that might want t' know what happened to ye's." He nodded in Danny's direction. "Oh, and bye th' bye…that'd be Danny Tipperin over there and I'm Kieran McCrodon."

At the mention of that name, all three of his antagonists' eyes got big as sunflowers.

"M-M-McCrodon?" It was the guy he'd hamstrung, "A-As in…?"

"Aye, The Mister's me uncle," Kieran answered cheerily, and then cocked his head to the side again. "Din't ye know?"

Obviously, they hadn't, or none of this would've happened. But they didn't have time to think about it, because just then, Danny raised his gun like a starter's pistol.

"That's right…and now you punks got ten seconds to clear the fox outta here. One…Two…"

They were gone by the count of seven.

Chapter 63: Conor's Story (Continued...Part 13)

Summary:

Conor's life with The Company begins.

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

---

The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Continued…Part 13)

♪ "So much for the golden future, I can't even start
I've had every promise broken, there's anger in my heart
You don't know what it's like, you don't have a clue
If you did you'd find yourselves doing the same thing too

Breaking the law, breaking the law
Breaking the law, breaking the law
Breaking the law, breaking the law
Breaking the law, breaking the law

You don't know what it's like!" ♫

Judas Priest – Breaking the Law

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"I learned a whole bunch of stuff that day." Conor reached for his can of pop, but didn't open it. Instead, he pressed it against his forehead, as if the temperature in the cabin had just turned uncomfortably warm. Recollecting the incident outside the bike shop seemed to have drained him of all his energy. And yet, he was unable to stop talking. It was as if, in choosing to tell the story, he had pulled his finger out of a dike.

Erin couldn't help wondering why he was acting this way. At that point in his life, he'd been through a whole lot worse. And…he'd played no part in that confrontation. It was Kieran who'd been the target of the unholy trio, not him. All he'd done was watch from the sidelines.

So, why was the memory affecting him so deeply? Well, she'd find out in short order.

"So, what was the first thing you learned?" Vern Rodenberg's whiskers were quivering as he spoke. He, too, seemed to understand how enervating the last few minutes had been for the young silver fox. In fact, he was the one who'd called a refreshment break. However, he was still, first and foremost, an attorney…and no lawyer worth his salt was going to object when a client insisted on talking.

At last cracking his soda, Conor rubbed at the back of his neck for a moment, saying nothing. It made Erin wonder if he'd even heard the question.

But then he said, "I knew The Mister was a scary dude; I'd met the guy face-to-face, after all." He looked away for a second and then back again. "But you should have seen those tayra guys when Kieran told them the big mink was his uncle. They nearly lost control of their vehicle when they bolted; skid marks halfway down the street. And it wasn't just coz Danny shot out their windshield."

"How the heck could you know…?" Erin started to ask, before Mr. Rodenberg silenced her with a wave of his paw. Conor answered the question anyway.

"Coz those tayras weren't only ones with a case of the jitters. When we got back in Danny's car, Kieran was practically begging him not to say anything to The Mister about what happened. Danny finally agreed, but he didn't think it'd do any good, 'Okay, but you know your uncle; he's gonna find out.'"

"How come?" Erin could feel her ears, standing at attention. "I mean…why did Kieran want that incident kept quiet? None of it was his fault."

"Ahhh, that wasn't the problem," Conor fanned a paw while he answered, "It's coz The Mister would have expected him to lay some payback on that mink chick who started it all."

"Yep," Mr Rodenberg concurred from atop the tray table "That's something he'd have done."

"Wha…?" Now it wasn't just the young doe bunny's ears; her nose was twitching, too. "What the heck did SHE do?"

Conor's expression morphed quickly into one of disgust. "How about…she lied that Kieran hit on her," he sniffed derisively, "And yeah, that's what happened. I heard later that she was the kind of girl who gets off on making her boyfriend jealous. Only this time, she picked the wrong patsy. Kieran was willing to let things slide; he figured he'd paid her back enough by sending her guy to the ER—but he knew his uncle wouldn't see it that way."

"Right again, kid," Vern Rodenberg said, with another nod. "THAT sea-mink never let anything slide. If you crossed him, you paid for it; no exceptions." One of his eyebrows lifted higher than the other, "But then, may I assume that girl wasn't herself any relation to The Mister?" He seemed to be implying that if she had been, she'd have gotten a pass.

Conor answered with a shrug that fairly screamed, 'Well, DUH!'

"In that'd been the case, she would have known better than to sic her boyfriend on a member of The Company, much less on Kieran McCrodon. And that brings up another thing I learned that day. Even he had rules to live by. 'I never punch down,' he always used to tell me, meaning he didn't fight weaker opponents—not unless they gave him no choice. Anyways, that's the other reason he was willing to leave that girl-mink alone."

"So…did he?" Erin didn't want to ask, but she just had to know.

And she wasn't going to know; Conor tossed his paws upwards in a helpless gesture.

"To tell you the truth, I got no idea. Kieran never mentioned her again, and I sure as heck wasn't gonna ask him about it."

"And what else did you learn from that fight?" Mr. Rodenberg interjected…quickly, before either young mammal had time to say anything further. He seemed to have had enough of this particular subject.

So did Conor…

"That Wez's bragging about his cousin's fighting skills, wasn't just blowing smoke. My leopard-bud Cutty was maybe the toughest kid I ever knew…but even HE wouldn't have taken on three guys, all by himself. Later on, I learned something else; the thing that made Kieran almost a legend on the street was that he fought with his head as much as with his teeth and claws."

"How do you mean?" Erin asked him, surprising herself with the question. Conor's description of the fight with the tayras had been more than a little off-putting—yet for all that, the subject still fascinated her.

"He'd had those guys pegged the minute they exited their vehicle," the young silver fox told her. "Later, he explained it to me. 'I could see from their shirts that those boys were jocks…and yer average jock is used to playin' by the rules, isn't he? So, if YOU go outside the rules, they don't know how t' deal with it'"

He shook his head in rueful amazement.

"When I heard that, it was like someone hit the light-switch. I must have seen it a hundred times, during the Sunday fights, back at The Point. Every time—and I mean every time—a guy who'd been a jock on the outside went into the ring against a street-kid, he always had to be carried out. Cutty once fought this Tamaraw Buffalo who had a closet full of martial arts trophies back home. He didn't last more than two rounds against my guy."

The corners of his mouth zipped backwards, revealing a feral grin.

"And that leads to something else Kieran taught me. Anytime you're in a fight with a jock, always go for the knee. You put even a little bit of hurt on an athlete's knee and he sees that bajillion-dollar contract he's dreaming of sprouting wings and getting ready to fly away. After that, he won't be so eager to fight you."

"Right again, kid," Mr. Rodenberg nodded sagely from his makeshift chair. For some reason, Erin found it irritating. What was he, Conor's yes-rat? "That sea-mink was one sharp cookie. He knew that last animal was going for a piece—and he knew enough to let his partner handle it."

"Yeah," Conor agreed at once, "And that was also where I found out how Danny got his street name. The gun he used on that windshield was a .44 Magnum Colt Anaconda. He used to carry that bad boy everywhere he went—so after a while, the guys in The Company started calling him The Danaconda. He never let it show, but he hated that name."

"Tell me something else, kid." Mr. Rodenberg was scratching his cheek and looking puzzled, "Do you know WHY he always carried that piece? It's a crummy weapon for everyday use; heavy, bulky, hard to handle, kicks like an elephant, and not all that accurate. I could never figure out what he wanted with a gun like that—and neither could Mr. Big."

"Two reasons." Conor held up a pair of fingers, "First of all, as you pointed out, the Anaconda's a lousy gun for everyday use. So, if a guy can shoot good with one of THOSE things, it's a slam-dunk that he can shoot good with any kind of weapon."

"Which Tipperin could," the grey rat conceded, nodding his understanding. "I once watched him take out five bullseyes in four seconds—with a Desert Eagle .50!"

"Yep, that was Danny," his young client nodded

Erin Hopps nodded as well, but she was noticing something else—she thought. Was it her imagination, or had Conor's voice begun to falter a little bit just now?

"The other reason," he went on, "was intimidation. You stick a cap-gun the size of...a Colt Anaconda…in a someone's face, and you're GONNA get…th-their attention."

Whoa…no, it hadn't been her imagination. Conor's voice had become little more than a dry rasp and now he was shivering as if the temperature in the room had plummeted.

"Hey foxy…are you all right?"

The question seemed to shake him back to reality.

"Yeah, I'm fine, it's just…" his eyes blinked shut and held that way for a second. And then they practically flew open. "I HATE guns, okay? And that was where it started—I know, I KNOW!" he threw up a paw, as if to forestall any interruptions. "Nobody got hurt; the only casualties were a coupla car windows, but still…it scared the livin' snot out of me when Danny opened up with that thing." He swiped the back of his arm across his muzzle. "And everything that's happened with me since has only made me hate guns even more. I want nothing to do with 'em…EVER!"

For a long, awkward moment, nobody spoke. Erin was stunned and even Mr. Rodenberg looked fidgety. Conor, meanwhile, had pulled up into a semi-fetal position, hugging his knees tightly. Whatever that 'everything' was, it was obviously worse than any of the experiences he'd recounted so far…and that was a very high bar to clear.

And…it would be no use trying to get him to talk about it. He'd get there in his own, good time.

Or…probably, he wouldn't.

In any event, there was only one thing for the young doe-bunny to do—try and change the subject.

"And the next thing you learned was how to ride a bicycle, right?"

At first, her words seemed to have no effect on the nearly catatonic young silver fox. But then, with an almost painful slowness, he unwound himself and sat up again, offering a wan smile.

"Yeah…but even with that new bike, it took a while…"

Whoa, thank God for Kieran. Somehow, he managed to talk his Uncle Mister into laying off on me until I was ready.

It seemed to take me forever to learn how to ride that BMX bike. But once I got it dialed in, things came a whole lot easier. When Danny switched me over to a messenger bike, I got it down in no time flat. I fell off exactly once, and never again. Good thing, too, coz only a couple days later, The Mister had me start running messages for him.

That was where I lucked out in another way. The big mink wasn't stupid. He knew that I was not only just a kid, but also the new kid on the block—meaning I knew zippity about how to find my way around Zoo York.

And so, he started me off easy, just having me run messages between Finagles and The Wicked Mink. It was only after I had that down, when he started sending me further and further afield. Meanwhile, Kieran set me up with a smart-phone, equipped with GPS Navigation, and a pair of smart goggles. I was glad to get them; they'd help me out a lot. But, at the same time, I was wary. Even then I knew the risks they posed and I said as much. "What if the cops use it to track me?" I had a new identity by that time, and Danny had briefed me on what to do if the police pulled me over. Even so, I couldn't help worrying. In the back of my mind, being confronted by the cops was my first step on the road back to Granite Point.

Kieran moved quickly to reassure me. "Not that phone boyo, I've made sure of it, meself. Matter o' fact, it can help yer."

"How?" I asked him, and he pointed at the phone with a smirk on his face.

"It's got voice-recognition and AI; if it hears y' say, 'Is there a problem, officer?' it'll send me an alert that yer bein' rousted—and then encrypt itself so's it can't be accessed, except with a code known only t' meself."

Yeah Mr. Rodenberg, it does sound kinda self-defeating, doesn't it? Giving me a cell-phone when the whole purpose of making me a bicycle-courier was to avoid sending messages by phone. But you see, I couldn't call out or send texts on that thing; it was good for incoming stuff only—unless I spoke the magic words. And even without the encryption, there was never anything incriminating on that bad boy. The messages I delivered were carried separately, usually written down. always in code, and always sealed in envelopes. I never knew what they said and knew better than to ask. Or…sometimes, Kieran would give me a thumb-drive to deliver. Needless to say, they were always encrypted.

Not all of the deliveries I made went to wiseguys; a lot of times I'd make drops at this or that legitimate business. I remember one time when Kieran had me deliver a thumb-drive to this electronics repair shop, up in Catstoria. I was supposed to wait while the owner decoded it, and then bring back a reply.

She turned out to be the geekiest looking wolf I've ever seen, pop-bottle glasses, an upper lip that stuck way out over her jawline, and more piercings than a stinkin' dartboard; really skinny, too—and nervous. When she took the thumb-drive off me, she was shaking so bad, I thought she might be going through withdrawal or something.

She was still shaking when she took it to the back. But then, maybe a minute later, I heard a howl so loud, it made the front window shiver, and made this wildebeest passing by stop dead in his tracks. When Wolf-Girl came back out front again, she looked like she'd just scratched off a winning lottery ticket.

"Here," she said, giving me back the thumb drive, and then before I could say thanks, she opened the cash drawer and pulled out a five, "and this is for you."

Needless to say, I wasn't about to turn it down. It was the first money I'd earned since my arrest. The only problem was, what would The Mister say? I decided I'd better clear it with Kieran before I did anything else.

To say that he didn't have a problem with me accepting tips would be a little bit of an understatement.

"Sure y' can, boy. Matter of fact, ye might want to start holdin' yer paw out whenever ye make a drop." And then, like he always did, he curbed his enthusiasm. "Just make sure y' only do it when it's good news ye've delivered. If the animal who gets the message looks scared, or unhappy, or especially angry…then, f' heaven's sake, leave yer paw where 'tis."

Even though I heeded his advice, it didn't always pay off for me. A lot of times, when I held out my paw, all I got was a low four…fingers, not dollars. One time, this llama guy even spit in my pawlm. When I told Kieran about it, he scribbled another note and sent me back again. I dunno what was in that message, but the llama dude apologized so fast, I could barely understand him—and then he gave me five bucks—and another five every time I saw him after that.

What…? Oh yeah, my new identity; I forgot about that. From now on, I was to be known as Sean McCleod.

Nah, I didn't mind; in fact, I was happy. Alan Murphy, don't forget, was the name laid on me by the jerks who ran Granite Point. By tossing that handle, and giving me a new one, Kieran had severed my last connection to that place. He hadn't, but that was how it felt at the time.

And when I say new identity, I mean way more than just a new name; this was where I was first exposed to that sea mink's wicked hacking skillZ...and what a stinkin' genius! He set me up with a fake birth certificate, fake school records, fake health records, a fake social security card, even a fake accident report.

Yeah, that's right and it was pure, stinkin' brilliance; it said that I'd gotten my facial injuries in a car crash with a drunk driver—the same crash in which my parents died; two explanations for the price of one. And not only that—nobody gets more sympathy than the victim of a DUI. That story earned me a lot of dividends, I can tell you. I'll get more into that part, later on.

But when I say those things were fake; yes, they were, but they were NOT forgeries. Every single one of them had been issued by the appropriate agency, courtesy of Kieran's intervention. And like any good hacker, he knew how to mix in just the right amount of truth. F'rinstance, the accident in which I'd supposedly lost my folks actually happened…except the victim was this retired dentist with no living relatives. And, of course, the guy who caused it didn't survive either.

And that was only part of what Kieran did when he created that new me…and it was only the first one. He did it again later—like when I took on the name I got now.

Ye-e-eahhh, you're right Mr. Rodenberg, let's not jump too far ahead here.

Before I go on, I should say one thing, though. I don't want to give the impression that The Mister was running me ragged. Sometimes, okay, I'd be up before dawn and not get done till after midnight. But other times, when I'd go to his office, he'd tell me, "I don't need you today, fox-kid; go do whatever." Whenever he was out of town—which happened a lot—that was my real slack-time. His two brothers weren't nearly as wary of cell phones as he was. They were more than willing to use burners, and trust their nephew Kieran to keep them secure. He and Danny might have a message or two for me to run while the boss was away, but it was nothing like when he was around.

Hrm? No…Kieran's dad was The Mister's cousin, not one of his brothers. He lives over in Dublion; dunno if he's still alive. Same thing with Crazy Wez, only it was his mom, not his dad who was related to the big mink. She went back to her maiden name after she split with Wez's father; that's what he told me, anyway.

What's that Erin? Ahhh, I tried; I tried to hang with the other kids in the neighborhood when I wasn't running messages. I even got into some games of ringolevio.

It never worked out; sooner or later someone would make a remark about my face, and I could never keep hid that it was getting to me. You can guess where it went from there. And besides that, it didn't take long for word to get around that I was working for The Company. When that happened, a lot of the parents decided they didn't want their kids associating with me; a 'bad influence', you know the routine. And it didn't help at all that I was a fox. The thing that really bugged me was…whenever a lot of these moms and dads talked about The Mister, it was like he was some kind of folk hero or something—but they better not catch their kids hanging with his go-fer. Whatever…I didn't have any friends my own age, not a…

HUH?! What the HECK, Snowdrop? Lemme go, ya dumb bunny! Cripes, you're lucky Judy didn't see you hugging me.

And you can stop laughing any time, Mr. Rodenberg!

At first, I spent most of my free time practicing guitar, and/or pestering Kieran to let me have a computer of my own. There were plenty of laptops around, but I was only allowed to use 'em with permission and then only with someone looking over my shoulder. That was no good; I wanted a comp of my own and couldn't understand why I didn't have one. Even then, I knew Kieran could easily set it up with parental controls and monitor my activity. Finally, he sat me down and told me that if it was up to him, I'd already have a computer.

"But it's not up t' me, is it?" he said, "It's up to me Uncle, The Mister." And that was all it took to shut me up. No way was I gonna pester that guy to let me have a comp of my own.

In the meantime, if I had to say what was the biggest difference between my life in The Point and my life with the Company, it was how much better I was eating now. Whenever Danny or Kieran would send out for lunch, they would always ask if I wanted something. Or…when the McCrodons held one of their famous clambakes, they'd always bring me along. Yeah-h-h…as a waiter/busboy/whatever but I'd always get to chow down with the others. And like I said, I had money to buy my own food now, but you know what? The more I earned, the less I needed it. If the parents in the 'hood didn't like me 'cause I was running with The Mister, the local business owners were a different story. More and more, I was finding that I didn't have to pay for stuff. I would go into a bodega to snag a few provisions and the animal behind the counter would wave me off without ringing it up. Same thing with every deli and fast-food joint on the Company's turf. One time, I even got a 100% discount on a pair of flip-flops.

Nope…no one ever got resentful on me. My rule back then was never to push for a freebie, but never to turn one down either. And I never got greedy, never tried to grab off half the store—something Junior liked to do, I found out later. But you understand…I wasn't being fed decently coz of charity or compassion, or whatever. The Mister wanted to make sure I kept my strength up for making his message runs.

As those duties expanded, and I began to know my way around the city, I found that I could save time by making use of the subway for part of the longer runs. I would get on with my bike at one station, get off at another, and then ride it the rest of the way to my drop.

Nah, The Mister didn't mind; just the opposite, in fact. I remember this one time when he gave me a message to deliver to the Air Egypt cargo terminal at Idlewild Airport, the longest run he'd given me so far. When I arrived back at The Wicked Mink after only a couple of hours, he was so triggered, it gave him a nosebleed.

"WHAT THE…? What're you doin' here, fox-punk? I thought I sent you to the airport!"

"I went," I answered quickly, doing a fast draw for my messenger bag, "I saw the guy and here's your answer." My paw was shaking so bad I almost dropped the envelope.

The Mister had his bodyguard take it while he wiped his nose. But when he opened the message and read it, he was like a kid at his first magic show, staring at me wide-eyed, with his mouth hanging open. "Son of a…how'd you do that, kid?"

When I told him, he not only wasn't mad at me, he whooped and clapped his paws together. "Yeah! That's what I like to see, Lefty." He was speaking to the Kodiak bear standing next to him, "Guys who know how to think outside a' the box. C'mere, kid." I went over and he patted me on the cheek, and gave me a twenty…and then gave me the rest of the day off. I was grateful for the cash, but when I got back to Finagles, I went straight to the bathroom and spent the next ten minutes scrubbing my face.

But that was another thing about The Mister. As long as you got the job done, he didn't care how you got it done—provided, of course, that you didn't take any unnecessary risks. It was one of the secrets to his success.

And as long we're on the subject, kind of…The Company was one of those outfits where guys were allowed to run side hustles, provided they kicked up a share of the profits to the boss.

Oh, yeah…that's right, Mr. Rodenberg. Except for one thing—drugs. Dealing in dope was totally forbidden. If the Mister caught you messing with drugs, you didn't get a warning; you got whacked. The one exception was bootleg pharmaceuticals; the Company was heavily into the bootleg pharma racket. But even then, they never dealt in the addictive stuff—no Oxy, or anything like that.

Yep, right again…a lot of the side hustles were totally legitimate. Danny T. owned a transmission repair and a tire dealer, and Kieran had a couple of Game Spot stores. He also did a lot of business online, no surprise there. I didn't know too much about that part though, at least not then. He did all of the heavy cyber stuff in a part of the basement where I wasn't allowed to go, and he never talked about it. But on the day after that airport run, he presented me with a transit pass, good for the rest of the year, and—finally—a laptop computer of my own.

There was a catch, though. I could only have it to keep after he taught me how to use it.

"But I already know how to use a computer," I insisted, citing my experiences with the library comps. It left him completely unmoved.

"I'LL decide when ye're ready, boy." He said, folding his arms to inform me that no further discussion would be permitted.

We started the very next day…and right off the bat, I had to admit, he'd been right not to just let me have that laptop. There was still so much that I had to learn; how to spot scammers, how to spot phishing, how to deal with online trolls, what websites to avoid, and especially—how to know when John Q. Law was monitoring my activities. I remember that there was this one cop in particular he wanted me to watch out for.

"Goes by the online name of LotusFlotr355," he said, looking for a moment like he wanted to punch somebody, "but don't let the name fool ye; the sod's 'arf dragon, 'arf demon—an' ALL business. Been a thorn in me side ever since Pennanti put 'er. on me."

"Who?" I asked. I had never heard that name before.

"Detective Lieutenant Martin Pennanti." Kieran spoke the name with a mixture of bitterness and grudging respect. "He's a fisher; head o' the ZYPD's Organized Crime Strike Force; practically obsessed with takin' down The Company. Me Uncle's like Moby Dick to his Cap'n Ahab. He won't… Oi, what's the joke, then?" he was staring at me with his paws on his ribs

"I'm sorry, it's…" That was all I could manage before I started laughing again. I couldn't help it; the imaged of The Mister as a Great White Whale was just too good.

In the end though, it wasn't funny. If The Company went, I'd go too—straight back to Granite Point. My only reassurance was that while Kieran didn't seem to care much for this Pennanti guy, he was no way afraid of him.

Neither was his uncle; "That jerk's got nothin' and he'll never HAVE nothin'." he always used to say. I always used to wonder how much of that was real, and how much was him just putting on a brave face.

My new laptop didn't come without a price, though. It was shortly afterwards that I was given my first message to take across the river to Mancattan.

It was like entering another world. No kidding, I felt like a character in a video game, dodging traffic, dodging pedestrians, trying to avoid running over any rodents, getting cussed at left and right, to say nothing of all the cops everywhere. The worst part was The Suit-Mammals, especially the younger ones. They treated bike riders like peons and like they were the lords of the manor or something—meaning cyclists were fair game for any kind of prank. One of their favorites was to throw open a cab door when they saw one coming, and try to clothesline them. The cabbies hated when they did that almost as much as the bike-riders, but…tough luck, blue-collar boy. I got money and you don't; maybe I should call your dispatcher, blah, blah, blah…"

Because I was a kid, I got cut a bit more slack than most of the other cyclists. So did the hardcore, professional bike-messengers—but for a different reason. Those dudes were built like tank-destroyers and they didn't take scrap from anybody—and they didn't care WHO you were. Try to smack one of them with a car door, and you'd get zapped with a stun gun—or even hauled out into the street and have the snot beat out of you. I actually saw it happen, on that first day. I didn't breathe easy until I was safely back in Barklyn.

I shouldn't have. No sooner did I cross the river than I took my first pinch.

It happened when I stopped at a bodega to grab a pop before heading back to Finagles. When I walked out again, there was a cop-car parked at the curb and two officers, standing between me and my bike, a deer-buck and a buffalo. One look at their faces said it all; could they have made it any more obvious? I knew right away what I needed to do, and went straight over to where they were waiting, making sure to keep my cell-phone close, so it would hear the magic words.

"Is there a problem, officer?"

"Yeah, kid," the buff answered, pointing at his watch, "It's 11:00 in the AM right now; how come you're not in school?"

I knew how to answer him. After all the times Danny had drilled it into my head, I had BETTER know what to say.

"I'm home-schooled," I said, and that prompted his partner to ask me, then how come I wasn't at home. I had an answer for that one too, I told him I wasn't schooled regular hours.

I'll skip over the rest of our conversation. They grabbed my bike and cell phone, put me in the back of the cruiser and took me to the police station. All the way there, they kept asking me questions, but I just sat still and said nothing. And that wasn't just coz of what I'd been taught. I tuned out on most of what they said; too busy hoping that my 'distress signal' had been received.

It had; when we walked in through the precinct door, we found a two-mammal reception committee, waiting to greet us; Danny Tipperin, and an opossum guy that I think you may know, Mr. Rodenberg, Franklin P. Henschel.

Yeah, I thought so. Ah, he's The Mister's attorney of record, Erin. Or…he was, before the raid went down.

Anyway, as soon as he saw me, Danny got down on one knee and spread his arms, "Come here, son. Are you all right?"

Wha…? Ah, sorry…could have sworn I mentioned it earlier. Yeah, Danny was now officially my legal guardian, and Frank Henschel had the papers to prove it—along with a waiver, signed by a judge of the Barklyn Supreme Court, allowing me to be home-schooled. All of it was bogus of course, but anyone checking the computer records would have seen otherwise; more of Kieran's handiwork.

Not that it mattered—not to the desk sergeant, the watch commander, or especially the officers that brought me in. Their attitude was 'We don't need to see no stinking papers!' And now they turned on my 'stepdad' with a barrage of questions. Why was I out on the street right now? If I was being home-schooled, what time were my classes? What were my study materials?

Yep, you're right Mr. Rodenberg…and that's exactly what Mr. Henschel said; Danny didn't have to answer any of those questions. But then he said something that I thought sounded kind of strange. "Might we discuss this in private, gentlemammals?"

They all went into the back and came out less than five minutes later. Soon as they returned, I was free to go. Danny drove me and my bike back to Finagles and I just couldn't keep from asking. "How'd you get those cops to turn me loose so quick?"

He responded by holding up his paw and rubbing his fingers together. I had no idea what he meant by that, but I didn't push the question any further.

I know now, of course. Those cops hadn't really been looking to bust me; the whole thing was a shakedown.

Yeah…they were pushing for a payoff bunny-girl; you know, a bribe. Look, like anyone can tell you, Zoo York isn't Zootopia…am I right, Mr. Rodenberg? And even the ZYPD has some good cops, like that fisher-guy I mentioned a minute ago.

I was worried that The Mister was gonna be mad at me for coming back late, and without an answer to his message. The cops had taken it off me before putting me in the cruiser, and then, "Whoops, sorry fox-kid…guess we lost it somewhere." On the way to the station, they had read it out loud, demanding that I tell them what it meant. Nice try; I couldn't have told them if I wanted to—those messages were always in code, remember—but that wasn't gonna help me now.

And sure enough, the first words out of The Mister's mouth when I was brought in to see him were. "Where's my reply?"

I started to answer, but then realized something and hesitated for a second

The big mink did not appreciate my THAT, "Hey fox-kid, you deaf or something? I said…"

"The cops took it," I answered quickly, "But I remember what it said." And then I proceeded to recite what I'd heard in the back of that police cruiser. Heh…it's amazing what being scared outta your skull can do to jog your memory—I hoped! Like I said, I'd barely been paying attention to those two cops. And halfway through my recitation, I had to stop and start over so Lefty could write down what I was saying…and then I had to wait while The Mister translated it. Hoo-boy, was that a tense moment; I thought for sure I was headed back to Granite Point.

But when he finished reading and looked up again, he was Mr. Smiley-Face.

"I don't believe it; nice save, fox-kid…and I heard you held up good under questioning, too," And then motioning me over, he presented me with a pair of twenties. And this time—thank God—he didn't pat me on the cheek. "Take tomorrow off."

I should mention here that he hadn't been bothered much about having to make that payoff. Like every other crime boss on the planet, The Mister considered the occasional shakedown as part of the cost of doing business. "It comes with the territory," he always used to say. It was only when someone decided to get greedy that he'd pull out the hardball.

And, though I didn't realize it at the time, I hadn't gotten out of that pinch completely unfazed. Yeah, the cops who'd taken me in had only been looking for a payday…but I was still now officially on the ZYPD's radar.

I found that out on another run, maybe a week later—when I looked over my shoulder and saw a cop-car tailing me. I managed to lose it by ducking through an alleyway too narrow for it to follow. When I told Danny about it, though, he wasn't pleased.

"Never try to ditch the cops, kid; that only tells 'em you got something 'interesting' on you—and it also makes 'em mad."

I listened to his advice. From then on, if I saw a cop-car following me, I just pretended like it wasn't there.

Nobody was taking any chances, though. After my performance in his office, The Mister started having me memorize his messages and deliver them verbally. At first it was only the shorter ones; later on, they got longer. He also decided that since the ZYPD was now aware of me, I had better get some actual schooling. And so, he had Kieran sign me up to take some classes online. I didn't like that one bit, but he wasn't having any of my complaints. "You gotta problem with that, fox-kid? Well, guess what? You're gonna have a whole lot bigger problems if The Mammal finds out that you ain't actually learned anything from being home-schooled. If that happens, I couldn't keep your tail outta Granite Point if I stinkin' wanted to!"

I dunno how much of that was true, but at the time, I cursed him for it. Now, I almost bless the guy…almost.

For the next…honestly, I don't know how long it was, my life settled into a kind of routine. I ran messages, tended the garden, watched that garden get taken out, ran more messages, and did whatever odd job The Mister wanted. Between my assignments, I would study, work out, or practice guitar.

The high point of my week was always Tribute Thursdays, when I'd get tapped to play gofer for whichever band was appearing at Finagles that night. On those evenings, I would bring along one of my guitars and try to wheedle a quick lesson out of whoever was playing lead. Some of these guys were so good, they could have replaced the mammals in the original band.

And it wasn't always tribute bands that came to perform, either. Sometimes a name act would show up to play Finagles. The one I'll always remember is Joe Catriani. He'd been a guitar instructor before he went pro, and was only too happy to give me a few pointers.

Hee, hee—eat yer heart out, bunny-girl!

That was the high-point of my life. The low point was Junior McCrodon…whom I soon began to think of as living proof that somebody up there didn't like me. Every once in a while, when I was about to head out on a message run, he would order me to bring him back this or that item, and never mind how far out of my way it'd take me. And I didn't dare say no to that punk. The one time I tried, he went running to his dad with a lie about how I'd threatened him. For that, I got a smack that nearly sent me to the ER—and I never again objected when he demanded that I bring him something from a message run. He used to razz me about my face all the time, too. And that ice-bucket test he gave me was only the first of many pranks he pulled. The one saving grace was that he got bored really quick with harassing me. Why stick it to some fox-kid, smaller than him, when there were all these big, mean guys around who also didn't dare lay a finger on him? Even his two uncles weren't immune to his shenanigans—nor were any of their kids. In fact, his cousins were his favorite targets. Luckily for them, they weren't around a lot of the time. All of them went to boarding school, and spent most of their summers at camp. I didn't know whether to feel sorry for those guys or jealous of 'em.

In the meantime, my bike messenger skills continued to improve. Eventually some of the animals in The Company began making bets with each other on how long it would take me to get to a certain destination and back. One time, Junior made a bet on me, and then sent me out of my way to make sure he'd win. He never got to collect, though. His old mink canceled the run at the last minute and sent me to a different location. It was across the river in Mancattan again, and by now I'd gotten the hang of that place, with the help of some of the full-time bike messengers. They were a real tight community, and always willing to help when I asked for advice or directions. I picked up a lot of great riding tips from those guys too.

But getting back to the subject of Junior, I want to tell you about The Mister's birthday-bash clambake. This time, he was there and he made a bet with Kieran and a few of the other guys—that I couldn't eat a raw oyster without hurling it up again. If I hadn't wanted to spite that jerk so badly, I don't think I could have pulled it off. I even went double or nothing…and for once, Junior couldn't complain, coz his dad was right there on the sidelines, cheering me on. Kieran was so pleased that ended up giving me half his winnings.

And…would you believe, I eventually learned to like raw oysters? Yep, I can scarf 'em by the half-dozen now.

Nothing lasts forever, though. In that life, you're lucky if it lasts for more than a month. And so, it wasn't long before my somewhat comfortable routine got upended in a big way.

I was heading back from delivering a message to this coffee-house up in Little Yeenmen. It was a one-way gig, no reply needed, so I didn't have to rush my return. I remember that it was a rainy day and I just made the subway entrance when it started to come down. I was lucky too, that with just a single change of trains, I could make it back to the Dumbo District, no sweat.

That was what I thought…

When I got off to switch lines, the lunch hour rush had just ended and the platform was kind of empty. I'd been up late the previous night, working a Tribute Thursday gig and so, I was pretty tired. Otherwise, I might have picked up on the three dudes right away. They were older than me by a couple of years, and all three were members of my species, two reds and a bat-eared fox. When I stepped off the train, they were talking amongst themselves, and it wasn't until later that I realized—the bat-eared kid's ears had been aimed in my direction from the second I stepped onto the platform.

I didn't think anything about them and didn't even notice that when my train arrived, they got on, too. Nor did it catch my attention that when we reached the next station, they all stood up to leave. I did find it odd that instead of exiting through the nearest door…they chose to get off by way of the next one down.

…which took them right past where I was sitting—and also past where I'd hung up my bike.

What happened next went down in the blink of an eye. Without any kind of warning, red-fox one snatched my bike off the hanger and bolted out the door. I jumped up to go after him…only to find his buds there, waiting for me. They body checked me from either side, and threw me back in my seat again. And then they were out the door too. I leaped up again and went flying after them, but when I hit the station platform, they were nowhere to be seen.

That is, until I heard the subway doors close, and turned around to see them back on the train again—with my bike in their paws and making gestures at me as it began to pull away.

Almost at once, I heard a voice behind me. "What happened, son; someone steal your bicycle?"

I turned around, and there was this transit-cop, an older caracal in his late 50s. And yeah, I had been ripped off—but I sure as heck wasn't telling this guy! And besides, where'd he been when I needed him?

"Nah," I fanned a paw, "They're just borrowing it."

I had no idea that I was saying more than I knew. Anyway, I had to reassure Officer Transit Cop two more times before he left me alone. And then as soon as he was gone, I found a pay phone and called Danny. I was so angry; I didn't think even once about getting sent back to The Point.

But you better believe it was on my mind by the time he showed up to get me. I had messed up big time, letting those other foxes get the drop on me—and The Mister wasn't going to like it.

When we got back to Finagles, Danny took me downstairs, gave me a soda, and began grilling about the guys who'd robbed me. What had they been wearing? Did I recognize any of them? How tall were they? Did they say anything? Okay, did any of them have an accent? What about their fur color, describe it in detail. He never once mentioned my Epic Fail, which made me even more anxious.

Finally, he just shook his head. "You really dropped the ball on that one, kid. You know that, right?"

"Yeah." I hung my head, and studied the floor, "I know." And then I just couldn't stand it anymore. "Is The Mister gonna send me back to Granite Point?"

"Well-l-l-l-l," Danny rubbed the back of his neck, looking upwards at the ceiling. And then he looked me in the eye and almost grinned. "He left town right after lunch; I think he's headed down to his beach-house for the weekend." He was talking about his boss's condo in Bulize. I'd never been there but I'd seen pictures; a stinkin' beach palace would be more like it. It wasn't just a vacation home, though; he did a lot of business out of that place. "He won't be back 'til Wednesday, so I should be able to get this handled by then," he said, and then shot a finger at me. "But YOU still need to think about how you messed up…and how you're not gonna do it again, you follow what I'm bringing out?"

Oh yeah…I read him loud and clear.

As things went, it took less than a day for Danny to get the issue settled. The very next morning, when I opened my door, I found him standing there with my bike his paws.

"Here, kid," he said, wheeling it towards me. And then he winked, "And try not to lose it again, huh?"

"I won't," I promised, crossing my heart before taking it. But then, I couldn't help noticing; the chain and the front wheel were both brand new—and there was some kind of dark stain on the saddle, like it had been hit with a paintball and then cleaned off.

And it was giving off a faint, but familiar coppery smell. What had Danny done to those guys? He wouldn't…? Nah, not for stealing a bicycle…No! Way!

It did nothing for my worries when he pulled out his wallet and gave me exactly 43 dollars. Wha…what the heck was that for? And why such a weird amount? Before I could ask, he was already answering me, "Call it an apology from the guys who ripped you off. And now, go get showered and get back here. I gotta message, I need you to run."

He didn't; not really…it was only a make-work thing.

When The Mister got back from Belize he was in an excellent mood. He never said a word about my bike getting stolen. Honestly, I'm not sure if he ever found out. Just the same, his return marked the beginning of what I call my Ugly Time with The Company.

It began a few days later with a knock on my door…which quickly became a pounding after a couple of seconds. When I looked at my watch—yeah, I had one now—I saw that it was Quarter to One. What the FOX?

When I opened the door, Danny was there, with a face like a rubber mask; no expression, completely unreadable.

"The Mister's gotta job for you, kid."

"What, NOW?" I thought, but knew better than to say. And what the heck was going on with Danny? His voice was so toneless, it sounded almost like a robocall.

"You know The Nest, that bake-shop, down by Front and Washington?"

As a matter of fact, I did. It was a tiny little joint, just a hole in the wall, run by these two hedgehogs. I happened to know the place coz their blackberry sour-cream muffins were just the bomb. I had never gotten one for free—those guys never gave out freebies—but I didn't care, they were that yummy.

"Yeah."

"Right." Danny reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. "Here, put these on."

I just stared at them for a second.

"I-I don't…"

"Put…them…ON!" he repeated, in that voice, the one that said shut up and do as you're told. So, I did as I was told, and then he gave me this Shake Shack bag. There were no shakes or bug-burgers in it, though. I'd have smelled 'em if they were there.

"Take this to that bake-shop, and use the tape to stick it to the window…in the corner, not the center. Then light the incense and clear out. Do NOT go back, not for any reason…and get rid of the gloves and the other stuff when you're done, got that?"

"Yeah, okay." I actually didn't get any of it, but I wasn't about to say so.

When I got to the bakery and opened the bag, I found three things inside; a roll of duct-tape, a disposable lighter, and a thing that looked like a can of car-polish, with a stalk of incense sticking up out of the center. I was more confused than ever but I did like Danny said. I taped the can to a corner of the window, lit the incense stick and cleared out. At the first trash can I came to, I pulled off my latex gloves, stuffed them into the Shake Shack bag and tossed it. Then I rode on back to Finagles, eager to hit the sack again.

If I'd looked more closely at that can of 'car wax', I might have noticed that the incense stick was taped to a fuse.

What? Nope…nada; all the way back to the club, I never heard a thing.

I might not have heard anything ever…except the next morning, I was given a message to take to the Naval Cemetery.

Yeah, that's right. It was concealed in a bunch of flowers that I was supposed to leave on one of the graves. I had no idea who it was for, and didn't care. I had the wind in my face, all the way there, and after the first few blocks, I was huffing my lungs out. Twice, I nearly lost that stinkin' bouquet; I couldn't wait to get it dropped and head on back to Finagles. When I finally got where I was going, I had to plant those stupid flowers something like eight inches into the ground to keep them from blowing away. After I finished, I decided to make a little detour and treat myself. Carrying that bag around last night, had given me a serious Jones for a milkshake…and it just so happened there was a Shake Shack nearby, practically right underneath the Mancattan Bridge.

What I hadn't thought of—or maybe I had, in the back of my mind—was that my new route would take me past the bake shop I'd visited last night.

I might have smelled it sooner if I hadn't been riding with the wind at my back—an odor like burnt toast and burning coal. As it was, it didn't hit me until I was practically right on top of the place…and by then I didn't need my nose to tell me what had happened. The cop-cars, and fire-engine pretty much said it all…together with the police barricade and the long, black streaks, rising up the front of the building.

That was just about all I could see. A crowd had gathered behind the barrier, and was pretty much blocking the view. I wanted desperately to know what the fox had gone down here, but knew better than to ask anyone. Just the same, I was silently begging, "Please don't let it be that bake-shop."

But deep in my heart, I knew that it was…and my fears were quickly confirmed when I overheard somebody asking, "What's going on?"

"Somebody firebombed The Nest," another guy answered, "you know, that teeny little bake-shop next to…."

Ouch! Suddenly, I didn't want that shake any more…or any food ever, it felt like.

Instead, I turned to go, forcing myself not to bolt. I had just put a leg over the top bar of my bike when I saw them, the hedgehogs who owned the bakery

They were clinging to each other like shipwreck survivors. And the look on their faces, oh my God! Not sad, or angry, but scared…really scared. There were tears, yeah…but other than that, they were totally terrified. They knew…somehow, they knew it was The Mister who'd ordered their shop burned down.

But it was ME who'd carried it out…I had put that look on their faces. And I don't think you'll be surprised to hear that I didn't sleep too good that night. But the worst part was, I had no idea why I'd been ordered to firebomb that bake shop. And to this day, I still don't know. I think it may have had something to do with Junior, but that's only a hunch, I never had anything solid to go on.

And that was only the first of many sabotage missions I was given. I slashed tires, pitched buckets of sand through store windows, gave door-locks a squirt with Krazy Glue so they wouldn't open—and the Sterno-Bomb I used to take down that bakery wasn't the only one I ever set. Eventually, I learned how to make them myself.

Okay…so now maybe you guys will understand why I started that loan-thing, huh? Like I told you before, Erin…I got a lot to make up for over here. The hedgehogs who owned that bake-shop ended up leaving the neighborhood…and they weren't the only ones.

Most of the time, I had no idea what the mammals I sabotaged had done to make The Company mad at them. In fact, I only found out once.

Did I mention that The Mister owned a house out in The Humptons? Well, one day, he found himself with a new neighbor…this red wolf who ran a private equity firm, and who road to work every day on a vintage motorcycle, something called a Hariel Square Four. That bike was almost as fast as it was loud, and every time he went into the city, it took him right past The Mister's place…do you see where I'm going with this? Wolfy never rode late at night, but since when does a crime boss keep regular hours? Not only that; thanks to some of the meds he was on, the big mink had trouble sleeping to begin with. Twice he sent messages asking his neighbor to keep the noise down, and both times he was ignored.

The third time, he sent me.

For once, I'd seen it coming. This one morning, while I was waiting outside The Mister's office I overheard him ranting about 'that stinkin,' noisy, biker-wolf punk.' When I heard that, I knew it was only a matter of time. And sure enough, the very next day, Danny showed up at my door with another 'special package' for me to deliver. It was small this time, almost tiny; only about the size of a golf-ball and tightly covered in black shrink-wrap. I had no idea what it was and by now, I didn't want to know; I just wanted to get this thing over with.

Now, it so happened that Mr. Red Wolf had a girlfriend who lived in this brownstone flat, over in Cobble Hill, not far from Finagles. On Fridays he'd often spend the night at her place. When he did, he'd leave his motorbike in a parking garage around the corner, a place that advertised itself as being totally secure.

Not against Kieran McCrodon, it wasn't! There was no actual attendant on duty, everything was computerized. I was able to waltz right in, no problem and no security cameras—and I had no trouble finding the guy's motorcycle; he always parked it in the same place. Not only that, he was one of those types who insist on keeping their rides as OEM as possible…meaning it didn't even have a locking gas-cap.

The whole thing was a total cakewalk; unscrew the cap, drop in the package, put the cap back and clear out. I was done in less than a minute.

Nobody ever told me how my 'specials' turned out, and I never asked. And after that thing at the bakery, I always made a point of staying away from the places where I made those drops.

Not exactly, bunny-girl. Yeah, I was sticking my head in the sand—I'm not even gonna try to deny it—but that was also how The Mister wanted things. The less I knew, the less I'd be able to say if the cops ever picked me up.

And I didn't have long to wait before they did.

That ball started rolling about a week later. I had just finished dropping a message with Denis McCrodon at this retro clothing-shop he owned—which was actually a front for a fencing operation, but never mind. It was my last stop of the day, and I was eager to get back to Finagles and my guitars.

No such luck; I was just about to boogie when Denis called me back inside again.

"See that SUV across the street there?" he said, pointing, "the dark blue Furred?"

"Yeah," I said, stifling a growl. So typical of this sea-mink dude; just when you thought he was done with you…

"Good, wait here," he said, and disappeared into the back for a moment, returning with a small plastic disc, about the size of a quarter. For once, I knew exactly what I was looking at, a GPS tracking pad. What I didn't know was, what the heck was I supposed to do with this thing?

I quickly found out.

"Go stick this inside one of that SUV's tail-pipes, and then you can go," he said.

"Tail…pipe?" I repeated, blinking. Normally, I didn't ask questions when given an order, but that seemed like a really stupid place to put a tracking device; those discs didn't play well with heat.

And while we're on the subject of normally…ordinarily, my question would have been good for at least a mention of Granite Point—except Denis McCrodon wasn't his older brother. He just gave me a crinkled smile. "Yeah, that's right…those pipes are fakes, that rig's a stinkin' lightning bug."—Company slang for an electric vehicle—"Go take care of it."

If I hadn't been in such a hurry to get out of there, I might have stopped to wonder…WHY would anyone want to disguise an EV as a regular car? As it was, I had other worries; like the fact that it was occupied. I could make out a figure, sitting behind the wheel, a small-to-mid-size mammal of some kind.

And that was pretty much all I could see. That SUV had tinted windows; I couldn't even tell what species that driver was. Sniffing the air didn't help either; it could have been any one of a dozen different animals.

Aw, foxtrot…this was gonna be trickier than I thought. How was I supposed to…? Wait a minute…that alley across from Denis's place, the one that emptied onto the street about five feet behind that SUV. Yeah, that could work.

I got on my bike and rode to the end of the street, making sure NOT to look at the SUV as I passed. And then pulling around the corner, I doubled back on the next street over and then ducked into the alleyway. Leaving my bike propped against the wall, I dropped to all fours and crept out into the street, trying like heck to stay in my target's blind-spot; no mean feat, since I wasn't sure where it was. All the while, I kept expecting to hear a voice, "Hey, what're you doing there, fox-kid?" but it never came. Long story, short, I stuck the tracker inside that tail-pipe, got back to the alley and got out of there.

I wasn't pleased with myself, or angry, or even relieved, just glad that I could finally call it a day.

No…I couldn't. I hadn't gone more than three blocks when that SUV came barreling out of a side street and screeched to a stop in front of me, blocking my path. No time to run, I watched as the door flew open and the driver got out, more like jumped out.

She was a red panda, wearing jeans and a denim jacket. But what really caught my attention was the thing clipped to her belt, an NYPD Detective's Shield—ohhhh, crike!

I thought for sure I was gonna get busted again, but Ms. Red only reached into a pocket and pulled out the tracking tag I'd planted on her vehicle.

"Here, kid," she said, flipping it at my feet, "Tell Kieran to try harder next time."

And then she got back in her ride and drove away.

Chapter 64: Conor's Story (Continued...Part 14)

Summary:

Conor meets his match...and then some

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

---

The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Continued…Part 14)

♪ "No matter how the race is run, it always ends the same
Another room without a view awaits downtown
You can shake me for a while, live it up in style
No matter what you do, I'm goin' to take you down

Shakedown, breakdown, takedown
Everybody wants into the crowded line
Breakdown, takedown, you're busted
Let down your guard, honey
Just about the time you think that it's alright
Breakdown, takedown, you're busted" ♫

Bob Seger  -  Breakdown

---

"Hold it right there, fox-kid!" Vern Rodenberg was out of his chair with his arms spread, like Mooses preparing to part the waters. And then he lowered them again, very slowly. "That red panda cop…she wasn't…who I THINK she was?" His whiskers were quivering like guy-wires in a gale.

"Yep," Conor nodded, unaffected by the grey rat's outburst—as if he'd known it was coming all along. "That was ZYPD Detective Sergeant Claudia Nizhang." The right-side corner of his mouth angled upward, "Or…Zootopia City Councilmammal Nizhang, as she calls herself today."

Rodenberg's gaze hardened and his whiskers froze in place.

"Then you better hope you never run into her, booby. She'll recognize you in a Zoo York minute. She may not be a cop anymore but believe me, she never lost the instinct…or the hunger."

To both his and Erin's considerable surprise, the fugitive young silver fox only fanned a paw. "Nahhh...nothin' to worry about there, Counselor."

The grey rat blinked, stared, and then unsheathed his incisors.

"DON'T get cocky on me, kid." He hissed.

"How do you know that?" Erin Hopps interjected…quickly, before the rat-attorney could threaten to quit on him—again.

Conor sat like a stone figure for a second…but the young, white-furred bunny could tell that he was trying not to smirk. It was a useless effort, and in a flash, he was sporting a puckish grin.

"Because I already ran into her, here in Zootopia—and she didn't know it was me."

Erin's eyes went wide and her ears dropped sideways. Mr. Rodenberg only drummed his fingers on the crook of his arm, looking testy. Conor saw him and swiftly back-pedaled.

"Maybe…I better tell you how it happened."

"Yes, that would be nice," the rat-attorney nodded, refusing to soften either his expression or the tone of his voice.

"Okay," The young silver fox returned the nod, and quickly went on to explain. "I had just come out of seeing the Emoji Movie…"

"You paid money…to watch THAT thing?" Erin's burst of incredulous laughter was enough to ruffle Conor's facial fur…and also his pride.

"I was bored and had nothing else to do, mmm'kay?"

"Hey-y-y," Erin's ears shot backwards, and her foot began to thump. "Don't you EVEN bare your fangs at me, Charcoal-Boy!"

Now, his ears were also laying back.

"I wasn't baring…!"

"Yes, you were…!"

The argument ended in a piercing shriek that made both young mammals hurriedly cover their ears. For such a relatively small animal, Vern Rodenberg was capable of producing a very large whistle.

"Thank you," he said, glaring balefully from the fox to the bunny, and then back again. "And now, would YOU mind getting on with it, please?"

Conor grumbled under his breath for a second and then complied with the grey rat's request.

"It was bright outside, so I stopped to put on my mirrored shades. Someone bumped me from behind, and when I turned around, there she was, along with her daughter—I assume it was her daughter—a red panda girl, a few years younger than me."

"And she really didn't recognize you?" Erin asked him. If Mr. Rodenberg was expecting a snarky comeback to this, he was to be wholly disappointed; his client's tail only frizzed up a bit.

"Nope," he said, biting his lip and glancing sideways for a second "Scared the snot out of me when I saw her; thought for sure she was gonna make me…but no, she just said 'Oh, excuse me,' and went on her way without another look."

"Alllll right," Rodenberg nodded, only half satisfied, "I get why she missed your eyes, kid…but standing that close, she must have caught your scent—and that's another thing you can't change."

"Actually…you can." Conor tapped his fingers together and looked up at the ceiling. He seemed embarrassed at having to correct the older, wiser mammal, a nearly complete reversal of his attitude from only a moment ago. "Takes time, but it can be done."

"How?" It was Erin again, blue eyes wide with astonishment. "How can you change your scent?"

"By changing your diet," the young silver fox told her. "What you eat plays a serious part in the way you smell. It was something Danny taught me, after…ah, I'll get to that later." There was nothing arrogant in his reply, not even a hint of derision. It was nothing more than a simple statement of fact.

And then he went on.

"When I ran into Councilmammal Nizhang, I was eating way different than when I'd been running with The Company. And I'd been chowing down like that ever since I got here—to Zootopia, I mean—and that had been more than…Oh, foxtrot!" His paws clapped suddenly against the sides of his face. "Ohhhhh, that's right…dumb, dumb. DUMB fox!"

"Wha…? Now both Erin AND Mr. Rodenberg were staring bewildered.

Conor looked at them with eyes that were almost pleading.

"After I broke outta Precinct One, I changed my diet again—on purpose this time—to mostly seafood; the same way I was eating back in Zoo York City." He slapped the side of his face again, this time with only a single paw, "I take it back, Mr. Rodenberg. you're right. If that red panda gets even a whiff of me, she will know I'm the fox-kid who tried to plant a tracker on her."

"I thought so," Rodenberg heaved himself back down into his chair, at last looking gratified. It had taken some effort to get through to this silver-fox kid, but not as much as it might have. And truth be told, even in his most stubborn moments, he wasn't nearly as obstinate as some of the grey rat's other clients. "And I'm betting that wasn't your only encounter with her, that time when you were running with The Company."

"No," Conor admitted, looking not at all abashed, "No it wasn't."

"And what did The Mister say when he found out?" Erin's ears were up and her nose was twitching. "About her finding that tracking tag you put on her cruiser?" Once more, her curiosity had trumped her trepidation.

Conor's reaction to this could almost have passed for a case of multiple fursonalities. First, he winced, then he bit his lip, then he looked away, shamefaced, and then finally, he grinned, crookedly.

---

"Whoa boy…it hit the fan like a stinkin' hurricane…"

By now, I knew The Mister well enough to know that he was gonna find out what happened. Like Danny said to Kieran, after that thing with the tayras, nothing got past that sea-mink. What I didn't expect was that he was gonna find out so quickly. No sooner did I walk in through the door to Finagles, than Lefty grabbed hold of me…I mean literally.

"'Bout time you made it back here, punk…let's go."

He hauled me to the elevator, and from there, straight up to The Mister's office. When we got there, he didn't bother to knock, he just threw the door open and flung me inside. "Here he is Mr. McCrodon."

I landed on my paws and knees, and when I stood up again, I was surprised to see that the big boss wasn't alone. There was Denis, sitting in the chair facing his desk, the one everyone called The Hot Seat. Crike, how the heck had he made it here ahead of me? I didn't have time to think about it, though—because The Mister was leaning over the desk with his teeth bared and his paw out.

"Give it up, kid!"

I knew right away what he wanted and pulled out the tracking tag I'd been given. Thank God, I'd kept it; I had almost tossed that bad boy.

As soon as he had it, the Mister held it up over his head and snarled—not at me but at his brother. "She'll never find it, huh? Never FIND it!" And he flung the tag in his brother's face. "And that better have been just you being stupid, instead of lying to me!"

A few weeks earlier, I might have thought I was in the clear; he was blaming Denis, not me. But by now, I knew otherwise; any time the Mister got that angry, you didn't have to be guilty for him to lose it with you, just handy. And sure enough, he turned on me next.

"And as for YOU, fox-kid!" He was leaning out over the desk again, looming over me like a thundercloud. "Why the heck would you ever go along with a brain-dead scheme like that?"

I gave him the only answer I could think of. "M-Mister McCrodon, didn't you tell me when I got here that when I'm given an order, I'm s'posed to obey it right now, or else, it's back to Granite Point?"

D'ohhhh...I immediately wanted to swallow my tongue. Stuuuupid fox-kid; now he was really gonna be torqued at me.

Nope…he only waved a paw.

"Yeah, yeah…I did say that. Okay kid, go ahead and get you tail outta he…"

That was as far as he got before the door banged open and Kieran came storming into the room. It was obvious he knew what had happened, but holy foxtrot—I had never seen him this angry.

And I had never heard him scream like that before—and this time, I was relieved that Denis was the target instead of me.

"You stupid git! I orta kick yer stinkin' tail right now!"

Denis was instantly out of his chair.

"Hey, punk…you don't talk to me that way!"

"He does, if I say so," The Mister snarled, from behind his desk, "and I'm sayin' so!"

Whoa, THAT put Denis back in his place, real quick. But then, HE turned on me. "Hey, Z-Face, I thought you were told to get outta here."

Z-Face…I hadn't been called that since I'd broken out of The Point—and now it was MY turn to be triggered. My job with the Company was supposed to be Messenger Boy, not Whipping Boy.

And it just so happened, I might have a way to get back at this jerk.

"Okay," I shrugged, and then speaking to The Mister, I said, "But before I take a hike, there's something you may not know." And I told him what Claudia Nizhang had said to me, just before she'd driven off.

Bang—Kieran went off like a cherry bomb…just like I knew he would. Bad enough that Denis had tried to put a tracker on that cop car without consulting, or even informing, him…but now The Mammal was blaming him for it? You'll understand, I think, if I don't repeat back any of the next few things he said. In any case, I only heard the first part, having wisely chosen to make myself scarce as soon as I was done with my recitation.

What? Yeah, Snowdrop, I used Kieran to get back at Denis. So…? That's how it was in The Company. Everybody used everybody—even the guys they liked. Danny used Kieran, and Kieran used Danny…and both of them used me. So, don't try to ring my guilt bell over here, okay?

Anyway, there were other repercussions. Less than a minute after I got back to my room, someone knocked on the door. I expected it to be Kieran, but it was Danny.

"C'mon kid…let's go grab some pizza."

I knew right away that we were not just going out for pizza.

He took me to the Grunt Street Pizzeria, ordered us each a Sicilian slice, and then took me upstairs to this empty apartment that The Company used for, uh, 'different things' from time to time. We had to sit on the floor to eat, but like I said, we weren't there for the food.

I was several bites into my 'za, before Danny got down to business.

"First of all, kid…I want you to know that nobody blames you for what happened. Like you said yourself back there, you've only been told a thousand times that when you're given an order, your only answer is 'Yes sir.'"

He took a short pull from his pop…and I knew that a, 'but' was coming.

Not quite, but close.

"Just the same, you should have told Kieran what Detective Nizhang said to you in private, and after he had time to calm down—not in front of The Mister, while he was still mad."

He set down his drink and gave me a serious look.

"When you did that, kid, you played right into that red panda's paws; she knows that Kieran's too smart to get behind a stunt like that. What she said to you back there was only to try and sow some discord in The Company. How do you think The Mister found out so quickly about what happened, huh? Because she WANTED him to know." He reached up with an index finger, and pushed back the brim of his touring cap. "And did her plan work? You tell me."

Oof! Talk about a punch to the gut. I pushed the rest of my pizza away, not hungry any more.

Danny nodded, and put a paw on my shoulder. "Like I said, no one's blaming you…and you're not in any trouble. I'm telling you this because I need you to understand something. You're up against some very smart cops over here."

It took a minute for what he said to register completely…and then I felt my ears wilting.

"I'm…I'M up against these cops?"

"Yep…'fraid so," he answered with his mouth turning downwards in a long, foxy frown. "If Pennanti even suspects you're the one who planted that tracking tag, it's all he's gonna need to want to bring you in for questioning."

He must have seen how scared I was, coz he laid another paw on my shoulder.

"He doesn't know it was you…or, at least he can't prove it. Otherwise, Lady Nizhang would have busted you, right then and there."

Okay, that made me feel better, not a whole lot, but enough so that I could go back to my pizza again.

Danny let me finish before he went on.

"That being said, he's got enough to bring you in for an 'interview'," On the next few words, he tapped the table like a telegraph key, "and make no mistake, it's going to happen."

"How?" I asked, feeling my pizza wanting to come back up, the way it had gone, "If he can't arrest me, how can he bring me in for questioning?"

Danny rubbed a paw across his eyebrows for a second.

"I… to tell the truth, kid, I don't know." He frowned deeply, "But I know that fisher; he'll think of something, he always does. The important thing is, you need to be ready for when it happens."

"I-I know what to do," I answered, trying not to sound too defensive. "Say nothing except that I want my stepdad." Yeah…I was torqued. There was another thing I'd been told, about a zillion times before.

"That's good, but not good enough," Danny answered me, leaning forward and nodding, just ever so slightly. "Not with Lieutenant Pennanti. Even if you don't say a word, you won't be able to keep from hearing. And trust me, kid…nobody knows how to find your weak spots like that guy."

"I…I don't understand," I said. Actually, I sort of did get it, but I didn't want to think about it,

Danny, however, had no such qualms.

"I think you do, kid. He's going to try to flip you." It was the same voice he'd used when giving me the job of firebombing that bake shop; the same expressionless face, too. That was the only reason I didn't laugh out loud. Turn snitch…ME? No! Stinking! Way!

Or…was there?

"Okay," I said at last, "Then besides keeping my fox-trap shut, how do I handle him?"

"Wellll," Danny seemed surprised by the question—though not unpleasantly, "First of all, you need to keep in mind that there's no rule, says the cops can't lie to a suspect…or even a witness."

I almost said 'Seriously?' Cop didn't lie, it was against the rules, wasn't it?

Nooooo, it wasn't, I realized almost instantly. While I didn't count the guards back at The Point as real cops—they worked for a private security company—how many times had the Zoo Jersey State Police lied to me after my arrest? Danny was right, and I should have known that without being told.

Wha…? No, Erin…I'm not calling your sister Judy a liar. But just coz SHE never lied to me; it doesn't mean that every cop tells the truth. Look, if it makes you feel better, it took me like maybe five seconds to forget everything Danny just told me.

I'll explain later.

We spent the next two hours going over what I should do if I got picked up. The most important thing was that I needed to stall until somebody could get to the precinct with Mr. Henschel. I suggested that he have Kieran reprogram my phone to recognize the word, Pennanti.

"Nice thought," he said, "but it won't work. He won't bring you in himself; he'll send a uniform to do it."

I tried, I really tried to psych myself up for getting pinched again—but, as it turned out, nothing could have prepared me.

It happened when I least expected it. I was helping out at another Tribute Thursday gig; the act that night was a KISS Tribute band called KUSS. While not one of my favorites, they were always a big draw. I was standing at my usual post backstage, when the camel who served as one of their two roadies came up to me.

"Hey kid, you're wanted out by the tour bus."

Tour Bus? That was what he called the beat-up motorhome KUSS used for transportation? Somehow, I managed to keep from laughing until I was out of earshot.

I wouldn't have thought it was so funny if I'd realized then what I found out later; those words hadn't been his, he'd been told what to say. And for good reason; there's nothing like a big laugh to make you drop your guard.

When I got to the 'tour bus', I was surprised to see that someone had left the door open. Not only that, the lights were out; I almost shined it, but thought I better check, to make sure everything was okay. Wouldn't it be just my luck to get blamed if that rig had been ripped off? I knocked on the door frame and went inside.

Ewwww, when was the last time they cleaned this rolling landfill? I called out a couple of times, but got no answer. Finally, I shrugged, and hurried to get back inside the club. It was cold that night, and I didn't have my jacket.

But when I turned around…what the heck? I was sure I'd left the door open—and I knew I hadn't locked it; what the fox? I tried it once, twice, and when it opened on the third try, two things happened.

Just as my feet hit the ground, the band cut into a full-blast rendition of Detroit Rock City—and at the same time, I found myself surrounded on two sides by a pair of ZYPD Officers, a pronghorn and a cheetah, animals that could easily catch me if I tried to make a run for it. Right away, I asked, "Is there a problem, officer?"…only to realize that I could barely hear myself over the music—which meant my phone couldn't hear it at all. It was clipped to my belt, too far away from my muzzle to pick up the distress call.

And before I could make a grab for it, the cheetah cop beat me to the draw, slipping it out of the holster as easily as picking flowers.

From there, I was hustled to a police cruiser and put in the back—at least they didn't cuff me. The pronghorn got in the driver's seat, but the cheetah didn't join her. Instead, this kinkajou in plainclothes got in. I could tell right away that he was the mammal in charge, and demanded my phone back.

He only shrugged. "Sorry, muchacho." He said, holding it up on the other side of the plexiglass so I could see. "Needa be sure this isn't no stun-gun, ju know?"

Ho…lee…foxtrot. It would have taken him all of two seconds to find out that my phone was just a phone, but yeah! A lot of the guys in The Company did carry cell phones that doubled as stun-guns, another one of Kieran's contrivances. After my bike got stolen, I'd asked him if I could have one.

Uhhhh, he told me not to ask again, and in language I don't think you wanna hear. But the point is, it gave the cops probable cause for taking my phone away; stun-guns are illegal for a kid to carry. Whoa, Danny had warned me that these dudes were smart, but I never could have imagined they were that stinking smart.

For instance, instead of taking me to the 84th Precinct, the closest one to Finagles, they drove me across the Mammalhattan Bridge and all the way to One Police Plaza. They knew, like Danny had known…the longer they could keep Mr. Henschel away, the more time they'd have to work on me.

It was perfect. They had snagged my phone before I could send the SOS, and at the same time, I had no idea where we were headed—except that no way was this the first place The Company would come looking for me.

As soon as we arrived, they brought me straight into one of the interview rooms. When I got there, I found the red-panda whose ride I'd attempted to tag waiting for me. But it was the fisher, sitting next to her at the table, who really drew my attention.

I'd been told about him and I'd seen his picture, but none of that came close to being in the actual presence of Detective Lieutenant Martin J. Pennanti, ZYPD.

He was about the size of a full-grown fox…maybe a little bigger, although he gave the impression of being a whole lot larger. He was dressed in a turtleneck and sport jacket and built like an Olympic wrestler, with deep, dark eyes that seemed to go right through you. Like all of his species, he seemed to be constantly on the alert; you got the impression that this guy never missed a detail.

Whoooo, I'd been face to face with some overwhelming characters in my life—Lurch, Blackbird, Crazy Wez, and especially The Mister—but I'd never met anyone like this fisher. If they'd left the door open, I think I would have bolted.

I was sure I was gonna get the old Good Cop/Bad Cop routine—with him as the hard-case. Nope…he was way too smart for that, and he proved it with the first thing he said to me.

"Hey, c'mon in son, have a seat," he said, gesturing to the chair on the other side of the desk. From the tone of his voice, he might have been asking me to watch a movie with him. I pulled myself up onto the chair he'd offered, but at the same time, I told him. "I wanna talk to my step-dad."

It was Claudia Nizhang who answered me.

"We're trying to locate him, Al…excuse me, Sean." Her voice was soft and lilting. "Do you have any idea where we might be able to find him?"

Ouch! Holy foxtrot, these cops were even smarter than I thought. I had just been hit with a double-whammy. In one swift move, that red-panda cop had just informed me that she knew I was the fox-kid who'd escaped from Granite Point. I might have wondered why the heck they didn't send me back to Jersey right now—except for the second half of that broadside. Yeah, I knew where Danny was—and I was sure the cops also knew. He was somewhere over in Afurica, on Company business…a little hard to get hold of at the moment. Truth be told, I had only asked to speak to him coz that was what I'd been told to do.

As for Kieran, he was pulling an all-nighter with his hacker crew, and so he was also incommunicado. Pennanti had chosen his moment perfectly.

"Would you like a soda-pop?" he asked me.

"No thanks," I said, even though I was practically dying of thirst. Another thing Danny had taught me was never, never accept any offer from the cops, no matter how small or trivial.

"Well," he shrugged, "Then I hope you won't mind if Detective Nizhang and I have one. Claudia, would you mind?"

"Not at all," she said, getting up and going to the door.

Agggggh, grrrrrrr…blankety blank fisher! He was one step ahead of me again!

Nuh-uh…not this time. There was an appendix to that thing I'd been taught. I waited until just before the door closed, and then let out a fast gekker.

"Ahhh, I'm sorry, I think I want a pop after all," I said, "Do you have any Mountain Mew?"

Because, Erin…if you accept an offer from the police during questioning, you're basically giving them control. But if you say no, and then change your mind, you're the one in the driver's seat…you follow what I'm bringing out?

Yep, that's also true Mr. Rodenberg. My interview would have to wait until she got back…and every second wasted gave The Company that much more time to find out what had happened to me. Accordingly, I planned to keep silent until Detective Nizhang came back.

Not that I needed to. The whole time we were waiting, Pennanti never said a word to me.

His partner returned several minutes later with a cardboard tray and three fizzing paper cups; no cans or bottles allowed in the interview room.

I drained mine in a single gulp; I was that thirsty. Pennanti gave me a crinkled smile and then began to count backwards. "5...4…3…2…"

Ahhh, I tried my best to hold it in, but no way, Renee. On the count of one, I let loose a ginormous burp.

And now having regained control, he got right down to business.

"Do you know why you're here, Sean?"

I responded in the way I'd been taught.

"I wanna talk to my stepdad…and where's Mr. Henschel?"

"You're not under arrest, son," Claudia Nizhang told me. I wanted to tell her not to call me 'son.' But then she added, "You can call Mr. Henschel if you like…though at this time of night, you'll probably just get his answering service."

Aggggh, grrrr; right again! DAY-ang these cops were good. I could feel my fangs trying to unsheathe; this was that maned-wolf jerk, Peter Shanks, all over again.

"Yeah, yeah…and I'm better off without a lawyer anyway. right?"

Ohhh, crike! I could have chewed my own tongue off—except for the reaction I got. For the first time since I'd been brought here, my friendly, neighborhood inquisitors were caught off guard, regarding each other with puzzled expressions. Without meaning to, I had finally scored a point.

"What do you mean by that Sean?" Pennanti finally asked me.

If I'd known then what I know now, I prolly would have told him. But I didn't, and so I clammed up and folded my arms, glaring up at him defiantly.

"Fine," he shrugged again, "If you don't want to talk, you can listen." He leaned towards me, laying an elbow on the table. At the same time, Claudia Nizhang was bringing out a laptop. "In case you don't know, you've fallen in with some VERY bad mammals, kid." Suddenly, he wasn't so congenial any more. "Forget how bad you think they are, they're really a hundred times worse."

Again, I said nothing and now Detective Nizhang re-joined the discussion.

"You saw what the gun your 'step-dad' carries did to that car window? Well, if you keep hanging with THAT swift-fox…sooner or later, you're going to find out what it does to someone's head."

"Make no mistake, Sean." It was Pennanti again, tapping the table for emphasis as he spoke, "That guy's a killer, it's what he DOES!" And with that, he tagged off on his partner, who rose quickly to the occasion.

"And we know he's not really your legal guardian. Oh, he has the documentation, all nice and legal, but we're not fooled. Dan Tipperin's a convicted felon; no way should he be allowed to adopt."

"Unless somebody's being paid off," Pennanti added, tartly "and if he's really your stepfather, then how come you don't live with him? How come you live all by yourself, underneath that nightclub?"

Again, I didn't answer, and again, they didn't expect me to. Instead, they switched gears.

"You know that bake-shop you torched?"

"I want to…"

"We can't prove it, but we know it was you."

I said nothing, expecting that the next thing they were going to say was WHY the Mister had ordered that shop burned down.

And again, I got it wrong.

"The owners' insurance policy turned out to be fake, a scam." Pennanti told me flatly, "They got no settlement, no compensation…you left them with nothing when you firebombed their bake shop."

Okay, THAT hurt…and it was about to hurt even more.

"And you know who else is into that fake-insurance racket, kid?" Claudia Nizhang was looking at me down the bridge of her nose, lip curled upwards almost to her nose. "Your other little bud, Kieran…or, he used to be. He even had a fake website that looked totally legit." I bit my lip to keep from responding, but she went on as if I had. "No, he didn't sell those poor hedgehogs their phony insurance policy…but it was still his game for a while."

Again, I just sat there and kept my mouth shut. It was no use; with every passing second, I was finding it harder and harder to make eye contact with these two.

And you better believe they noticed it. The next thing Pennanti told me was like a sledgehammer, upside my skull.

"And then there's that motorcycle you torched."

"Wha…I didn't torch any motorcy…" I forced myself to stop, but it was already too late. Claudia Nizhang began typing on her laptop while Pennanti leaned across the table at me again, speaking softly, very softly

"What, you think, you only gummed up the fuel works or something? Sorry kid, the thing you slipped into that gas tank was an old commando trick. You take a grenade, wrap it in rubber bands or shrink-wrap, and pull the pin. It won't go off, because the wrapping is holding the striker lever in place. And then you slip it into a gas tank and get the heck out of there. After a while, the gas eats through the plastic and frees the striker lever, and…BOOM!"

He shot up and threw his arms wide…and now he wasn't being so quiet. His outburst nearly sent me flying over backwards.

I gotta admit, it was the closest he came that night to making me crack. I almost…almost said it. "No way…that thing I put in the gas tank was way too small for a paw-grenade." The only thing that stopped me was…you don't hang out with a gang of arms merchants without coming across a piece of ordnance now and then. I had seen a grenade that small once; even held it in my paws. I remembered, coz at first I hadn't been able to tell what the heck it was…not until Danny yelled at me, "Put that down! You wanna blow your stinking head off?"

I bit my lip again, hard enough to draw blood this time. I felt like I was inching back from the edge of a cliff.

A quick glance at the two detectives told me that they knew their ploy had failed. But that wasn't the only card they were holding, not even close.

"In case you're wondering…you'll be happy to know that Mr. Rudel wasn't injured when the grenade exploded."

Whoa, thank God. At least that hadn't happened. Little did I know that I was being set up again.

"He wasn't hurt," Claudia Nizhang's righteous anger cut through my relief like a meat-cleaver. "But if it just so happens that his motorcycle blew right when someone was getting out of a car parked next to it." She spun the laptop around so I could see what was on the screen. It showed a small SUV of some kind with one side all charred and blistered. The windows were gone too.

"The driver sustained only minor injuries, and her daughter was unharmed," Lieutenant Pennanti informed me, coolly displaying his fangs, "Just the same, you could have been responsible for the death of two innocent mammals—including a three-year-old kit."

"And if you think The Mister cares even one little bit about accidentally hurting civilians," Claudia Nizhang had drawn herself up in her chair, the picture of high indignity, "Then I have six different bridges to sell you. To him, that's nothing more than a little collateral dam…"

She had more to say, but just then, someone knocked on the door to the interview room.

When she opened it. I couldn't see who was there; wrong angle. I did see her reaction though. First, she looked irritated, then her brows rose, and then she stepped outside of the interview room, moving cautiously, tentatively—as if she were stepping into a rowboat, and closing the door behind her. Only a minute later, it opened again—slammed open! And then she came STOMPING back into the interview room.

And I didn't have to wonder why. Following close behind her was a nattily-dressed opossum, Franklin P. Henschel, attorney at law—and right behind him was Kieran McCrodon.

I didn't know how the heck they found me, and honestly, I didn't give a flying fox. I lifted my muzzle and howled—yeah, foxes do that every once in a blue moon. Detective Nizhang, meanwhile, had taken her seat again, and was giving Kieran a look like a stake through a vampire's heart.

He could hardly fail to notice…and he responded in his usual fashion.

"As ye can see, Darlin', I took yer advice an' tried harder this time."

That yanked her chain.

"Don't call me Darlin'!" she snapped, jumping halfway out of her seat.

"Claudia!" Lieutenant Pennanti was also halfway out of his chair. They held like that for a second…and then both sat down again.

"Nothin' meant by it, Detective," Kieran shrugged mildly, "S'just a regular expression from the old country. I use it all the time, I do." But then, whoa…now he was the one giving HER a deadly look. "After all this time you've been plaguin' me, I should think ye'd be aware of that fact."

That was Martin Pennanti's cue to nip this conversation in the bud.

"What'd you do, chip the kid?"

"Well now," Kieran regarded him with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. "That'd be tellin', now wouldn't it, Detective Lieutenant?"

He pronounced it lef-tenant…and somehow it told me that yeah, that was exactly what he'd done. I wondered for a minute where he'd planted it on me.

Then Mr. Henschel cleared his throat.

"We'll be taking the boy home now—unless you plan to charge him with a crime."

From the tone of his voice, I could tell that he knew…the cops had never planned to book me.

Pennanti said nothing to this, only leaned back in his chair, waggling his fingers at the door.

Kieran was as quiet as an empty library, nearly all the way back to Finagles. I didn't think he was mad at me for getting pinched, but after everything that had gone down tonight, I couldn't be sure. My brain felt like a pin-ball machine on auto-play.

By the time we arrived back at the club the place was dark, and he took me in through the service entrance. And then it was time for my second interview of the evening.

Not before we got something to eat though; we had both skipped dinner. On the way back, we grabbed some Chinese take-out, and that was where Kieran surprised me again; placing the order in fluent Mandarin. "Drives ol' Lilylotus barmy, when I do that." He told me with a wink. "I speak it s'good as her, would ye believe?"

"So Lilylotus is Detective Nizhang?" I asked him as we sat down to eat in Finagle's employee lounge. I had suspected from the beginning but now, I was sure.

"She is that," He nodded, taking a bite of his Jang Bong noodles. They looked delicious, but I knew better than to ask for a taste. Kieran liked his food 'Alien Spicy'—meaning it'd eat through the floor if he spilled any. And then, setting aside his chopsticks—yeah, he knew how to use them—he took a short sip of his drink and got down to business. "Right, tell me what happened, boy…from the beginnin', and don't rush it, be thorough."

I had to repeat myself several times…and then a whole bunch of times when we got to the part about the motorcycle. But other than that, I was never pushed, never leaned on. I think that was why I was able to own up to having almost folded under questioning. Kieran responded by quoting one of Danny's favorite memes.

"Closeness only counts in pitchin' pennies an' paw-grenades, ye'll excuse my call-back t' that business wi' the motorbike." And then he got serious. "Just th' same, if I was you, I'd keep that to meself, goin' forward."

"I will," I promised, swearing to myself to do just that.

"Good," Kieran took another mouthful of noodles, this time lingering for a minute, looking thoughtful. And then he said, "But there's somethin' y'need t' understand, Sean. Pennanti wasn't tryin' to make you talk—he was tryin' to make you THINK."

"What now?" I set down my fork and looked at him with my head tilting sideways.

"Aye," he said, face steely, "'S how that fisher rolls; he never tries to break down a potential informant on the first encounter. What he did, back at One Police Plaza was try to plant some seeds, get ye to have some doubts, cause youse t' see what's goin' around ye in a different light." He sighed and shook his head. "And I'm afraid you've not seen the last of Martin Pennanti. You'll be meeting him and his crew again, count on it."

I don't know why, but that brought up a question I'd been wanting to ask ever since we left One Police Plaza.

"Does…Does The Mister know…about Pennanti hauling me in?" Once again, I had visions of Granite Point dancing in my head—although that would be the least of my worries if that fisher ever managed to turn me.

Kieran threw his right paw upwards.

"No…but he knew it was comin.' That's why he had me chip yer."

So…Pennanti had been right about that. Made me even more wary of the guy.

"Where?" I asked. "Where'd you plant it?"

Danny's eyes narrowed, shrewdly. "Ahhh sorry boy…that'd also be tellin', now wouldn't it? And you know what me uncle always says."

"'You can't give up what you don't know,'" I quoted. Yeah, really…he said that even more often than when he brought up Granite Point.

Kieran took the last bite of his noodles and then pushed the carton aside and folded his arms.

"Now, then…I believe y' have a question for me, don't ye?"

Ohhhh, foxtrot…yes, I did, but if HE hadn't brought it up, I don't think I would have had the nerve to ask it.

Now…resistance was futile.

"Is…Is it true. Did you really once run a fake insurance hustle?"

He didn't even flinch.

"Yes, I did, Sean…but Pennanti didn't tell you everything. There's a lot more to it than that." He got up and began to pace. "It was at The Mister's behest that I did it. I didn't like the idea. Matter of fact I hated it. It's one thing to rip off a big-time corporation or some stuck-up, greedy-rich jerk…but this was hurtin' regular folks, wan' it? I tried to object—and me uncle told me to shut my cake-hole and do as I was told, 'or you know what'll happen.'"

He stopped pacing and turned to face me, gripping the back of a chair with both paws. "You're not the only indentured servant in this gang, boy. The Mister's got at least as much leverage on me as he does on you; same thing with Danny Tip…and probably arf the boys in The Company." He let go of the chair and stood up again. "There's a little somethin' else he likes to say, something that ye likely haven't heard yet. 'I never trust anyone I can't destroy with a single phone-call.'

No…I hadn't heard that one before. But I was going to be hearing it a lot in the weeks to come. I finished the last of my Dan-Dan Mein and pushed the carton aside, offering him a hopeful look.

Kieran caught it at once.

"Almost done, boy." He said, wiping his chin as he got up from the table. "Just two more things. First of all, even if you wanted to—and I know y' don't—there's nothin' you could've given Pennanti anyway. None of the jobs you've done can be traced back to The Mister, an' even if they could, they're peanuts, petty stuff…an' that's not what he wants at all. That fisher'll settle for nothing less than putting him and his brothers away fer good. Certainly, it won't satisfy 'im to see them fined fer chump change. And that also goes for me and Danny Tip."

"Then why is he even interested in me?" I cried, hearing my voice crack in frustration.

"Because," Kieran dropped to one knee and put his paw on my shoulder, looking me straight in the eye. "He's hoping to get ye to do some diggin' on his behalf, d'ye understand? No…don't say it, just listen. I know ye'd never dream of doin' such a thing, but youse don't know Pennanti an' his crew the way I do. They're absolutely relentless…an' like that clown-thing, hidin' in th' storm drain, they know what scares you."

"A-All right," I said in a shaky voice. If that had been meant to reassure me, it was having just the opposite effect. My heart felt like it was gonna crash-dive, right through the floor. "And…what's the other thing?" I had to force myself to ask it.

"Something I need to show ye," he said, "come with me."

He led me downstairs to the basement, but at the third door, I balked,

"What, then?" Kieran asked me, raising a quizzical brow.

"I'm…not allowed in there," I said, pointing ahead with a quivering finger. It was The Mister himself, in fact, who had laid down that rule.

"He'll make an exception fer this, I think," he said…and then without waiting for my reaction, he grabbed my wrist and dragged me across the threshold.

When we got to our destination, my fears vanished like ice in a hot tub—replaced by a sense of total awesomeness.

I was standing before the most ginormous computer set up I'd ever seen. No kidding, it was like a multiscreen home theater, except with keyboards, headsets, mikes, and VR gear—and a killer speaker system.

"Say hello to The Beast," Kieran smiled, a note of almost fatherly pride in his voice. What the heck, if he was the one who'd built this bad boy, he was entitled to puff a little.

"Right, now sit there," he said, directing me to a high-backed task-chair, facing the center screen. It was a bit large for a fox my age, but he had a couple of cushions handy.

Satisfied, he began to work his fingers over the keyboard, bringing the screen to life. Several different web-pages came and went, none of them staying long enough for me to figure out what they were showing.

I turned to give Kieran a tilted look.

"Uh, what's going on?"

"Just watch," he said, "you'll see."

I did…and right when I turned to look again, the display settled on a slightly grainy black-and-white image, which I recognized instantly as the feed from a security camera. I had no idea where this was, but I did notice that the time-stamp was from several days ago—and that it wasn't moving.

And then the screen split into two separate windows—same location, but different angles, and now I knew what I was looking at. There was no mistaking that vintage motorcycle in the center of the second frame.

"Now," Kieran told me, "Keep yer eye on the ball, boy." This time it wasn't necessary; my eyes were Krazy-Glued to the display in front of me.

Almost immediately, a Toyota Rav4 pulled into the garage. Although I didn't know it, I had seen this ride before…except on that occasion, it had been a half-charred wreck.

As I continued to stare, it exited from the first window and reappeared in the second one…pulling into the parking space right beside the motorcycle. At once, I felt my stomach turn into a sour apple—but I couldn't look away.

And then the door opened and…heyyyy, wait a minute! That wasn't any young mother. It was this koala-guy, late thirties or early forties—and as soon as he got out of the car, he clicked his key-fob and the lights flashed. And kid…what kid? He was there all by himself.

Putting the keys back in his pocket, he turned and disappeared from window number 2, reappeared briefly in window number 1, and was gone.

As soon he disappeared, Kieran clicked and scrolled, and the footage began to fast forward. I never would have noticed except for the bugs flitting around the lights, and the accelerating time-stamp.

I was almost mesmerized, watching it scroll forward, 5 minutes, 10 minutes, 15 minutes, 16… At precisely 17 minutes, the playback returned to normal speed.

22 seconds after that, window number 2 vanished in a blinding flash of light. And then it faded to reveal the red wolf's bike engulfed in flame, a pillar of smoke rising from where the gas tank had been. After another few seconds, the sprinkler system kicked in, but nobody appeared in either window. Nobody came running to see what had happened, nobody tried to run away from the fire…nobody was there, period. The garage had been empty when the grenade went off.

When the show finally ended, I just kept staring at the display, unable to make sense of what I'd seen.

But Kieran could…

"That's right boy, Pennanti lied to ye." His shoulders went back and he put his paws on his ribs. "Matter of fact, there's nothin' says a cop CAN'T lie to a suspect, or a witness. An' that comes all the way from the blessed Supreme Court."

Like I mentioned before, I had already heard the same thing from Danny…and I immediately wanted to kick myself around the room. WHY hadn't I remembered it while Pennanti had been questioning me?

Because…until I saw the evidence, I hadn't believed it, not completely

What…? No Erin, that video wasn't a deep-fake. Even Kieran couldn't work that fast.

I spent the rest of that night tossing and turning, getting up to walk around, and then tossing and turning some more. While that sea-mink's revelation had gone a long way to dulling the impact of my session with Pennanti and Nizhang, in no way had it been erased.

Okay, so nobody had been hurt when that grenade went off…but someone could have been; it hadn't exactly been a precisely timed explosion. And even without that, I was still responsible for some innocent mammal's car getting fried.

And yes…I had fallen in with some very bad actors. I had known that from the day I arrived in Zoo York; I'd simply chosen not to think about it.

…until now.

And now I couldn't stop thinking about it. Kieran had just told me that I hadn't seen the last of either that fisher, or that red panda—and I believed him. What I couldn't figure out was…when would they show up next?

Yeah, I know Mr. Rodenberg…or I know now, anyway. Much as Pennanti may have wanted to flip me, he didn't dare try to put the squeeze on me. The Commissioner's office would have thrown a nuclear conniption if they'd found out he was trying to rope a kid into becoming an informant…especially against a guy like The Mister.

But there was nothing that said he couldn't work on my head…maybe get me to offer my services to the ZYPD The next thing I knew, his guys were following me on practically every single one of my message runs. Sometimes they'd even be waiting for me at my destination. They'd show up when I wasn't working too. One time, when The Mister was out of town, I decided to head out to Coney Island for the afternoon. When I got off the Cyclone coaster, who should be getting off with me but that kinkajou guy-–the one who'd grabbed me the night Pennanti had ordered me pulled in. It might have upset me, except as soon as his feet hit the boards, he bolted straight for the restroom—with his paw clamped over his mouth.

How could I resist?

"Too much for you, Detective?" I called out through cupped paws, just as he disappeared through the door.

The day didn't end well for me, though. I was waiting in line at the funnel-cake stand, when this wallaby passing by me snickered and said to his friends, "Hey, someone call the freak show, I just found their missing Picatsso-Face Kid."

If he'd been younger and/or all by himself, I might have gone after that jerk. Not right away, of course; I would have followed him and looked for an opening. But he was college age, and had three other guys with him. There was nothing I could do but suck it up and let things slide.

But then…whoa, where the heck had HE come from? There was that kinkajou-cop again—with his paws on his hips and getting right in that wallaby's face. "Hey puto, where you think you get off. talking to that fox-kid like that, huh? Ain't he been through enough already?"

"Oh, yeah? The wallaby slurred his words as he spoke, "What're y' gonna DO about it, huh?" Whoa, now I knew where he'd gotten his attitude.

But I didn't realize just how much 'tude he'd consumed until he kicked out with his foot, and sent the kinkajou sprawling on his back. When he got up again, wallaby-boy and his buds were laughing themselves sick…

…until they noticed the smile on his face.

…and the badge in his paw.

Whoa, you never saw four guys get sober so quickly…but by then, Detective Kinkajou had already called for Security.

Yeah, right again, Mr. Rodenberg. Those bums couldn't be charged with assaulting a police officer. The kinkajou hadn't shown his badge yet when that one guy knocked him down; I think he just wanted to scare them. Anyway, I didn't wait to see how it ended. I decided I'd had enough of this place, and made a beeline for the exit.

When I got there, I found Detective Nizhang waiting for me. I tried to sneak past her, but she spotted me right away.

"Just a minute, Sean, hold up there." I almost bolted; I dunno why I didn't. I stopped, and when she came over, she didn't look angry for once. In fact, she seemed almost sympathetic.

"I heard about what happened back there, kid," she said, jerking a thumb in the direction from which I'd come. "And I'm really sorry; mammals can be so cruel sometimes."

She reached out, and I thought she was trying to put paw on my shoulder. I batted it aside.

"Oh no, you don't," I remember thinking. This was another one of her mind games…and I wasn't gonna play along. "Get away from me!"

Yeah-h-h, you're right, Erin. Knowing what I know now, I'm sure she meant well and that she hadn't just been trying to manipulate me. All I can say is…my head was in a totally different place back then. Despite all of my best efforts—despite all of Danny and Kieran's best efforts—Pennanti and his crew were starting to get to me.

Ahhh, no…they never hauled me in again, but they never left me alone either. And every time I saw them, it was the same old song-and-dance. "Hey, kid…guess what else The Company is into—and you don't belong with guys like that…blah, blah, blah." I never said a word to any of those cops, but like Danny had warned me earlier, I couldn't help hearing what they said to me. The only good part was that The Mister stopped sending me on sabotage missions; with all that heat on my neck, he didn't dare.

No…he was mad all right, but mostly at his brother Denis. "See what you started, you stupid jerk?" Me? Well, I overheard him saying to Gerry once. "I gotta admit, that fox kid is holding up great under all that pressure; I wish I had more like him."

To tell the truth, Pennanti's chances of flipping me were doomed from the start. The Mister had a card up his sleeve that no one else could touch. He could keep me from being sent back to Granite Point…a play the ZYPD could never hope to match.

Just the same, I was worried. I knew that he'd continue to protect me only so long as he could make use of me. And thanks to the efforts of Detective Lieutenant Martin Pennanti and associates, my usefulness to The Company was rapidly dwindling.

And…what kind of life was this anyway—in hock to a crime boss, having to do stuff that made me hate myself, and with nothing to look forward to? No family, no real friends, no nothing. Again and again, I asked myself, "Is it worth it?"

But then—in a single night—everything changed.

It started with something I mentioned before, that the McCrodons were bonkers for lobster. And their favorite place to get 'em was this little joint over by Mill Basin called The Big Boil. I had never been there, but Kieran brought me a take-out bag from there once, and the food really was that good…even better than a McCrodon family clambake.

I mention all this because those sea-mink weren't the only ones with a jones for lobster. The Russian mobsters loved 'em too…only the predators yeah, but even the Mafiya guys who weren't aquatic species were always going out for lobster. For them it was as much of a prestige thing as anything else. If you could afford to eat THAT all the time, you were somebody.

That was why lobster was an equally big thing with wannabe Russian gangsters—like this crew of young wolf hooligons, practically just off the plane from Arkhangelsk; called themselves the Stalinzhky—or something like that. I…

No Erin…not hooligans, hooliGONs; Russian slang a street thug with big ambitions.

And these wolves had no shortage of either that or bad craziness. For street weapons they all carried hammers-and-sickles. It was their way of paying tribute to their idol, Josef Stallion.

I know, right? Totally weird. And get this; the oldest guy in the pack had only just turned 18; the rest were anywhere between 17 and 13…yeah, that's right, 13!

Anyway, they had just made their first big score, relieving every car in this dealer's lot of its catalytic converter—with a little inside help from the owner of course. Even after the kickback, they came away with a nice payday—and decided to splurge on a lobster dinner, a belated celebration of their arrival in Zoo York.

Of all the eateries they could have picked, it had to be The Big Boil. Unfortunately, somebody else had chosen the place for shindig of their own that night—Junior McCrodon. He was there with his girlfriend and his buddies, having a farewell dinner for… Ah, I forget their names, but they were these brothers whose folks had decided to split up. They were leaving with their mom for Liondon the following Monday and Junior wanted to give them a proper send-off. And since they were sea otters, and every bit as crazy for lobster as he was, the choice of where to go for dinner was a slam dunk.

When the Stalinzhky showed up a while later, the sea-lion at the front desk took one look and decided…no way was he seating these punks. They looked like something out of a low-budget post apocalypse-movie. Half of them were dressed in makeshift militia uniforms and the rest were done up in cloaks, hoods, and taped up arms; not exactly proper attire, even for a casual place. And so, he politely informed them that the restaurant was all booked up for the evening.

Like good hooligons, they refused to take nyet for an answer. Pointing out the several empty tables in the dining room, demanding to see the reservation book…they even tried telling a sob story about how one of their number had just been diagnosed with a terminal illness. When that didn't work, they planted their feet and point-blank refused to leave.

"We come here to eat lobster and we don't going nowhere until we get it."

No, Erin…the sea-lion dude didn't call the law. Yeah, he would have been perfectly within his rights to make that call…except he knew that these wolf-kids could do a LOT of damage in the time it would take for the cops to get there.

And so, he fell back on a trick he'd used before. "I'm terribly sorry, sir…but we're all out of lobster at the moment." It was a neat little maneuver; the Big Boil, in fact, was known to run out of lobster from time to time. And because of that, the 'sold out' hustle nearly always worked.

It worked this time, too. With a few snarls and growls, and some unpleasant name-calling, the Stalinzhky turned to go…just as Junior and his party showed up to take their leave.

That was where it really started. Out of habit, the sea-lion asked them, "How was your dinner?"

Junior could have said almost anything. What he did say was, "Fantastic, Pierre…and that lobster was just…" He topped off his words with a chef's kiss and then continued on his way—unaware that a dozen venomous lupine eyes were boring into his back.

So…THESE were the jerks who'd eaten up their lobster? Well, they weren't going to get away with it.

When Junior's limo pulled away from the curb, neither he, nor his guests, had any idea they were being followed. Heh, just goes to show how clueless he was. Danny and Kieran would have spotted those wolf-kids in a heartbeat. So would I, after all those times the cops had followed me on my message runs.

Why didn't the driver…? Coz he was from a private limo outfit, not one of The Company soldiers. Junior hated having his dad's guys along whenever he went out for the evening; said they scared his dates. While yeah, that was prolly true, I think it was more that he didn't want his father to know what he'd been up to during the night. And, it goes without saying that none of The Company soldiers wanted to spend their time driving THAT punk around.

Because…Both Junior and The Mister thought his father's reputation would be more than enough to keep him safe. If you're gonna mess with James McCrodon's kid…better make out your will first.

Yep, exactly Mr. Rodenberg…that idea only worked so far as anyone KNEW his father's reputation—and the Stalinzhky kids didn't have a clue. They'd been in Zoo York for less than a month on that particular night; they'd never heard of The Company, much less The Mister. And, as I'm sure you know, Counselor—to look at him, you never would have guessed that Junior's old mammal was a crime boss.

Uhmmmm…uh, listen I need to go take a whizz; is there anything around here for me to wear? Ahhh yeah, that lab coat'll work. Can you snag it for me, Erin? Thanks.

Chapter 65: Conor's Story (Continued...Part 15)

Summary:

A remembrance of beatings past

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Continued…Part 15)

♪ "His fists was raised in fury
The signal came at dawn
An army at the ready
Their vengeance will be strong

The kingdom, will always make its worth
The martyr, will soon fall on his sword
The freedom, the battle rages on
The righteous, will be here when you're gone

Their voices clash with courage
Their two worlds did collide
It echoes through the ages
They bravely gave their lives" ♫

The Dropkick Murphys  – The Battle Rages On

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Once again, the topic of discussion was the accuracy of Conor's recollections.

"I can tell you this much, Ms. Hopps." Vern Rodenberg stood up from his chair and stretched his shoulders, "What he said about Russian gangsters having a weakness for lobster? Absolutely true; Mr. Big's underboss, Kozlov, puts them away by the truckload…king crab, too. "He capped his words with a throwaway shrug, "'Course, he's a polar bear, but still…"

"What does that have to do with…?" Erin started to ask, but then caught herself. "Oops, never mind." She had forgotten that the big, white bears were a semi-aquatic species—and noted for having large appetites

"No worries," the grey rat told her, smiling.

Not…quite; there was at least one worry that Erin felt she needed to address, though it had nothing to do with seafood…or Mr. Rodenberg. When she'd grabbed that lab-coat for Conor, it had turned out to be so big, she'd ended up tripping over it. To his credit, the young silver fox hadn't laughed…hadn't even needed to stifle any laughter.

But still…the reason for her near face-plant was that she'd been making a conscious effort NOT to look at him when she'd brought it over.

Why had she done that? Never mind; she needed a distraction, and she found one almost immediately.

"What about the McCrodons? You must have seen them scarfing lobster, uhmmm…while you were representing The Mister as his lawyer I mean."

She was answered with a solemn nod and a knowing look. "Sure did—and they were crazy for oysters, too…also just like Conor said. The Mister's older brother, Gerry, used to keep an ice-chest full of them, next to the desk in his office. Whenever he got agitated, he'd grab one, shuck it, and sling it down, almost without even thinking. I remember one time…" His voice deepened slightly, taking on a down east brogue, "Huh, how'd these shells get all over my desktop?"

"Where was this?" Erin asked him, ears up and nose twitching. Honestly, she didn't know whether to be fascinated or repelled by the long, lost family of sea-mink.

"He owned a shipping warehouse, down by the South Barklyn Marine Terminal." Rodenberg waved a paw, as if it was right outside the door. "We used to hold strategy sessions there sometimes."

Erin wanted to ask the rat-attorney for his impressions of The Mister's younger brother—the one who'd managed to get Conor in Dutch with the ZYPD.

But before she was able to find the words, something else occurred to her; something she felt should be brought up immediately—while Charcoal Boy was still safely out of earshot

"Mr. Rodenberg," she said, taking a short breath, "Forgive me if I'm telling you something you already know, but…" she took in a longer, deeper draught of air, "But it can't be said too many times. Conor's about to get into a really painful part of his story. I…I hope you'll give him enough leeway to let him tell it at his own pace."

The rat leaned back in his makeshift chair, as far as it would allow him to go, and laid his paws across his midsection.

"You're right, kiddo…that IS something I already know. As a matter of fact…" He angled his muzzle in the direction of the door, "I'm not so sure that he really needed to use the toilet just now—have you noticed how long he's taking?"

Erin felt heat rising into her cheeks and on up into her ears. Yes, now that he mentioned it…Conor should have been back by now.

But then the rat attorney sat up again, at the same time raising a finger. "However, you're also correct in that it can't be said too many times…and for that, I thank you."

"Y-You're welcome," the young, doe-bunny replied, unable to think of anything else. But then she also looked in the direction of the door. "You don't think he might…th-that he'd try to…"

"Naaaaah," Rodenberg assured her, fanning a paw and looking away with a pursed muzzle. "He won't run out on us. If I thought that was possible, I'd have insisted on going with him." He smiled and offered her an upward thumb. "No worries, Ms. Hopps…like cockroaches and The Terminator, he'll be back."

Erin's shoulders hunched and she let out a short, sharp snigger. My, but this rodent had a way with the words. Ohhhhh, she had been so right to accept his offer to represent her. What jury could possibly resist such rhetoric?

Just then, as if on cue, the door creaked open and Conor slipped in through the opening. Dang, but that lab-coat looked even bigger on him than she remembered…like one of those movies where a grown-up drinks the wrong potion and shrinks down to kid size. It was so huge, in fact, that he had to grab the tail-end with his paw and pull it in after him. "Can you get the lock?" He said to her, "Jumping isn't exactly something I'm good at right now."

"Sure, no problem." She answered, slipping down off her stool. She nailed it on the first try, and when she turned around, the young silver fox had already shed the lab coat and climbed back into bed

And…why the heck did that make her feel a tiny bit let down? Never mind, he was about to get back into his story again.

"Junior and his crew went from the Big Boil to this rave, over by Rockawhale Beach. It would have been a great place for an ambush, but the Stalinzhkiy dudes didn't go for it. Why they shined it, I have no idea; too many other mammals around, or maybe they thought the cops were watching the place. Whatever—they decided to wait and keep following.

Meanwhile, Junior and his gang spent the rest of the evening party-hopping…and at every stop, the wolfpack just kept watching and waiting. Thinking about it now, I can imagine what must have been going on in their car right then—the younger guys demanding to know what the heck they were waiting for, while the older dudes counseled patience, and then finally told them to shut the fox up. It was a wise decision on their part. At house-party number three, the cops showed up with lights flashing only minutes after Junior and Company got there.

Nope…him and his buds were allowed to walk away clean. John Q. Law never even asked them any questions. If the Stalinzhkiy didn't know who Junior's old mammal was, the officers sent to break up that party sure as heck did.

Yeah, darn right, Mr. Rodenberg…that should have been their first clue that the dude they were stalking was connected. Did they not pick up on it, did they miss the significance—or were they just so torqued at being led around all night that by then they didn't care? Nobody ever found out.

Anyway, that turned out to be the last stop of the evening for Junior and his crew. After they left, the limo driver began dropping them off at their various houses and apartments.

That left the wolf-kids with another problem. The only time Junior got out of the limo was to say good night to his sea-otter pals…who just happened to live inside a gated complex where the Stalinzhkiy couldn't get to them. Their door was at least a hundred yards from the entrance, with at least a half-dozen security cameras between there and the exit gate. Those wolf-dudes prolly hated like heck, having to let anyone walk but they didn't have a whole lot of choice. It was Junior they wanted—they had long since tagged him as the leader of his crew—but they didn't dare make a move while he was still inside the limo. If they did, he'd get away for sure.

Finally, at about three in the morning, with only Junior and his girlfriend Peggy left, the limo driver pulled up in front of her dad's place—the Pierhouse Condominiums, over in The Heights.

And that was where he finally took his leave of them, both of them.

Heh…who knows, Erin? Junior always insisted it was because Finagles was only a five-block stroll, and he didn't want his dad to know he'd shelled out for a private limo. While he'd been right to do that—the old mink didn't like it when he heard—it was still a bad move on his part. The backside of those condos just happened to be right across a greenway from Pier One Park, a place with big lawns and clumps of trees-–very dense clumps of trees.

….and zero visitors in the wee hours of the morning.

In other words, Junior couldn't have presented the Stalinzhky with a more perfect set-up if he'd tried. And as soon as the limo was around the corner, the wolf-kids made their move.

Junior never saw them coming…or heard, or even smelled them. I think it was coz he was hoping to make a move of his own right then, if you follow what I'm bringing out, heh-heh. And like I said, he was never the sharpest tool in the shed. Before either he or Peggy knew what was happening, the wolfpack had them surrounded.

Then the leader, the alpha wolf, came pushing his way through the others, and drew himself up in front of Junior snorting and folding his arms

"Hey little jerk-mink," he snarled in a thick Russian accent, "you think you can eat up our dinner and just walk away, eh?"

Gotta give that sea-mink kid some credit over here. He didn't fret, he didn't panic, he didn't look confused; heck, he didn't even ask what Wolfie was talking about. Instead, he just looked up, real calm-like, and folded his arms, "You know who my dad is?"

For once, Junior was giving the right response—no name-calling, no aggression, no challenges, not even raising his voice; just as cool as shaved ice. Uh, that is…if that's really how he spoke to that wolf-dude, who knows?

In any case, that should have been all it took to make the Stalinzhkiy boys back off. Had they been native Zoo Yorkers, they probably would have. Nobody in the Five Burrows asks THAT question—and in that tone of voice—unless they've got some majorly family connections.

But, like I said, these wolf-kids were new to the neighborhood.

"Nyet…now ask me if I care." The Alpha dude snarled. And then, at his signal, the wolf standing behind Junior threw him in a wrist-lock, while Dear Leader seized him by the throat and stuffed a rag in his mouth, nearly choking him. At the same time another wolf wrapped a layer of duct-tape around his muzzle. After doing the same thing with Peggy, they hauled both of their captives around the back and over to Pier One Park. It had closed at 11 and the gate was locked, but the Stalinzhky had a rope with them, and also some experience. That car-lot they'd ripped off had been protected by a fence even taller than this one—and with razor wire to boot. Compared to that stinkin' fortress, this place was about as impregnable as your average speed-bump. Forming a lupine pyramid, they sent their smallest guy over the top with the rope, and then used it to bring over the rest of the crew, and then their captives. I don't know exactly how they worked that last part, but the whole time, Junior kept trying to scream through his gag—and took several shots to the head, and elsewhere, for his troubles.

Okay-y-y, at this point, the story gets kinda muddy. The Stalinzhkiy may have decided to leave Peggy alone and concentrate on Junior…or maybe they didn't. What I do know is that they used the rope to tie her to a tree and then dragged him over to the center of Harborview Lawn.

That was when he got his first look at the weapons they were carrying, and he reacted predictably.

Wheeew, if you've never gotten a whiff of mink musk, count yourself lucky; it makes skunk-spray look like air freshener —and the Stalinzhkiy boys were wolves, remember? Which meant they had a wolf's sense of smell; and so now, finally, they backed off.

But not for long. After less than a minute, the pack leader—who'd gotten the biggest dose—came snarling back at Junior. And now, he was really torqued.

"You think I can't handle your little stink, mink-boy? WRONG…and now you fight me." And to his comrades he said, "Untie his paws, and unwrap his mouth—and bring his girl over here." And while they went to fetch Peggy, he informed Junior that if he refused to fight, they would take it out on her. "That also happens if you scream," he said, and then drew the edge of his sickle across his throat for emphasis, "And then, is what you get."

Okay, I gotta hit rewind here. Meanwhile, back at Finagles—actually, some whiles earlier—someone was banging on my door again. "All right Danny, I'm coming!" I groaned.

Yeah, I knew it was him; by that time, I'd had so many guys paying me late-night visits, I could tell who they were, just from the way they knocked. Danny T. always hit like a jackhammer, and always just above the level of my head.

When I opened the door, the look on his face was way too familiar, pursed lips, rolling eyes, and raised eyebrows. Ohhhh great, just what I'd always wanted…to be sent on a fool's errand at Three O-Stinking-Clock in the morning!

"Sorry, kid," Danny scratched at the back of his neck, "Junior's not answering his cell. The Mister wants you to go find him and tell him to get his tail back over here, ASAP!"

"Wha…?" I started to ask, but all that came out was a yawn.

Danny answered my question anyway, spitting out the words as he spoke.

"Yeah…that stupid punk went out for the evening with his friends earlier tonight—and hired a private limo to take them." His ears went back and his fangs came out, "which he also charged to his Uncle Denis' credit card—along with everything else!"

"Good," I wanted to say, "Serves the stupid jerk right for bringing all that heat down on me." I didn't say that of course, but I had to practically bite my tongue off to stop it.

Meanwhile, Danny was still talking. "Needless to say, The Mister hit the ceiling when he found out; he wants his boy front and center and right NOW!"

"Okay," I was waking up fast, and getting seriously angry, "But where the heck…?"

"The driver says he dropped him off at his girlfriend's place—in the Pierhouse Condos, over in The Heights. You know where that is?"

"Yeah," I nodded. I'd delivered messages there a couple of times.

"Good," Danny nodded back, and gave me a slip of paper, "here's the exact address."

"Right," I answered, barely keeping myself from snatching it out of his paw. Oh well, I told myself, at least it was fairly close; a fifteen-minute round trip, give or take, and I could be back in bed again.

I was trying to calm myself and I thought it had worked. Nuh-uh, the next thing I said came out before I could stop it, "Why ME?"

Oooo, Danny T. did not like that.

"Because The Mister says so," he growled, folding his arms and showing a fang, "You want to take it up with HIM, kid?"

Obviously, I didn't and turned to grab my messenger bike.

As I pedaled in the direction of the Pierhouse Condos—all the while keeping an eye out for the Pennanti crew—I was not in a chipper mood. There were two things I knew for certain. Number one, Junior wasn't going to appreciate being ordered back to Finagles at this time of night.

Number two, he'd almost certainly take it out on me.

Not right now, of course, he'd give it a couple of days, and then…aggggh, grrrrr, why me, dang…?

All at once my nostrils flared, and I slewed my bike to a stop, jumping off and raising my nose, sniffing more deeply. The air was rife with the odor of mink musk—and not just any mink, Junior McCrodon. I felt my tail begin to frizz and the hair on the back of my neck turning to quills. This wasn't the first time I'd caught wind of him losing control of his scent glands; Captain Courageous, he wasn't.

But he'd never lost it like this; I was at least a block and half from the Pierhouse Condos, but from the strength of that smell, Junior might have been standing five feet in front of me. That could only mean one thing; whatever the heck was going on it was something serious—really serious; he wasn't just scared, he was terrified.

Oh, God…if anything happened to that kid while I was supposed to be looking for him, his old mammal would send me back to Granite Point in three separate containers.

I got back on my bike and put the hammer down.

It wasn't hard to track him, almost childishly simple, really. Less than ten yards further on, I caught the scent of another mink; a girl this time, and someone I didn't recognize. Never mind, her musk combined with his made the trail so easy to follow, I could have nailed it with my eyes closed. Took me like half a second to realize that their scent wasn't coming from the condos, but from that park on the other side of the greenway where I was riding. Yeah, but wasn't that place supposed to be closed right now? No, that was the location, all right…and as I got closer, I began to get a fix on Junior's exact coordinates. He was somewhere out the Harborview Lawn, near the west end of the park

As I hurried in his direction, I caught myself wishing, for once, that Pennanti's guys were following me. No such luck; like the old saying goes, there's never a cop around when you need one.

By the time I made it to the park entrance—locked, just like I figured—the scent of mink had begun to dissipate, but I was still pretty certain of the source. And now I was starting to pick up another scent, and one that didn't fill me with a whole lot of confidence—wolf, a species with twice my biting strength and more than twice my size.

And they never travel alone; this was not good.

That was when I heard the howling. Oh foxtrot, it was wolves all right; four or five of them, at least—and they were definitely somewhere out on the Harborview Lawn. Stashing my bike behind some bushes, I did a fast draw for my cell phone…only to realize that I didn't have it. Between having been half asleep when I'd been given this assignment and wanting to get it over with right now, I'd forgotten to bring it with me.

DUMB fox-kid…and what I did next was even more clueless. As it so happened, there was a hotel, down just past the park's west end. I'd delivered messages there a few times, and one of the night-clerks knew me. I could have gone there and had her dial 9-1-1, but did I?

Nooooo, instead I went looking for a way through the fence—and I found one almost immediately, a section where the ground underneath had worn away, leaving just enough space for me to squirm through. By now the howling had stopped, but not before I finally locked on to the location of Junior and the wolfpack, practically right in the center of the lawn. As I slithered underneath the fence-line I was cussing up a storm…about Zoo York and Zoo Yorkers in general. Here, in Zootopia, anyone making a racket like that, at 3:00 in the morning, would have a dozen animals yelling at them—and at least a couple more on the phone to the police.

But in Zoo York City? Fuggeddaboutit; not even a single, solitary light went on in the condos behind me…not a single one.

Dropping down on all fours, I crept through the underbrush to the edge of the lawn. And that was when I finally saw them; about five or six wolves, all gathered in a widely-spaced circle, with the biggest guy in the center. There was no sign of Junior but I knew he was there. By way of sheer, dumb luck I had somehow managed to position myself downwind of the pack. I could smell not only him but his girlfriend, too. There she was, over on the perimeter, held fast by another young wolf. What really made my tail frizz out was the way these dudes were dressed, like some kind of zombie death squad. To be hanging around Barklyn, at this time of night, and in those kinds of outfits? In Zoo York City, that isn't just asking for trouble, it's practically begging for it on your paws and knees. Holy foxtrot. these guys' brains had to be running on FUMES—and from long experience with Wez McCrodon I knew that crazy is the worst kind of dangerous.

Then the big guy snarled, "Now, you fight me…or die."

I found out who he was talking to when he was answered by a scream of mustelid rage. And then that was when Junior went for him.

Yep, he attacked first, can you believe it? Blew me away when I heard him—though it shouldn't have. Even the scraggiest mink will fight back when he's cornered; it's in their genes. And the attack caught Captain Alpha-Wolf completely by surprise. The next thing I heard was a yelp of pain and astonishment.

Sad to say Junior's gambit wasn't enough—not nearly enough. His screech ended quickly in a half-choked gurgle.

"That all you got, skinny kiddo?" I heard the alpha-guy growl. "Meh…I've done wasting time with you."

What I saw next remains tattooed on my brain, even to this day. The wolves surrounding Junior and the pack leader all began to move backwards, really slow and awkward, like they'd all nearly stepped on a rattlesnake. The guys whose faces I could see looked totally shocked and horrified. I remember that the dude in charge of minding Peggy—a kid, not much older than me—was trying to keep from puking. And then I heard her trying to scream and then starting to cry.

And that was when I finally saw him.

Junior was down on his knees, clutching his midsection—while standing over him was this big, brawny wolf with off-white fur. He was dressed in what looked like a raggedy poncho, and he was carrying…

"Oh, my GOD…Is…? I-Is that a…a…a sickle? I remember thinking.

Yes, it was, but he wasn't really going to…He couldn't actually be thinking of…?

The faces of his crew said otherwise, but it was HIS expression that sealed it. It was a look I'd seen before, ironically enough on the face of another sea-mink; a kid by the name of 'Crazy Wez' McCrodon…right before he'd wrecked MY face.

Yes, that wolf-dude could do it.

Yes, he would do it.

I always tell folks that the reason for what I did next was coz I was scared of what The Mister would do to ME if he found out I'd been there and hadn't tried to help.

And while yeah, that's true…I honestly don't know what I was thinking right then—or even if I was thinking at all. Kieran later told me that I must have had a death wish, or something, and who knows? Like I already said, in the past few weeks, I hadn't been into this thing called life very much. All I know is…I just exploded out of the underbrush, bolting straight for Captain Alpha. In theory, I shouldn't have been able to get anywhere near him…not with his boyz in the way. And I'm sure they would have stopped me, if they hadn't been totally hypnotized by what he was about to do to Junior. In any case I was past them before they realized what was happening.

Breaking through the ring, I leaped up in a fox-pounce with my jaws wide-open, catching the pack leader by the forearm and biting down hard. I heard another yelp of pain, but he recovered almost instantly; shaking me off as easily as a dusting of snow. The only good part was that he lost the sickle in the process; I saw it go flying off into the bushes. I hit the ground face first, and immediately tried to get up again. Not happening; the Alpha dude had already grabbed hold of me.

…from behind.

You can guess what happened next. In fact, you're gonna have to—coz I got no idea of what went down in the next few minutes. Except…even in that state, no way was I gonna beat an entire, stinkin' wolfpack.

The next thing I remember, I was on my back with my arms pinned, laying on something rough and hard. Somebody was dumping cold water on my face, and I could feel a puddle spreading out underneath me, soaking through my pants and jacket.

Only, this 'water' wasn't cold, it felt warm—and carried a coppery smell.

Another freezing load hit my face, and then there was Captain Alpha, kneeling over me and looking totally berserk. I couldn't understand a word of what he was saying, and thought at first that I must have gotten a concussion or something. Nope…Wolfy was just so mad at me, he'd reverted to Russian without realizing it. That was my first clue that maybe Junior had gotten away. If he hadn't, this dude would be sneering, not snarling at me.

When he finally switched to a language I could understand, he had just three words for me, delivered in a low, rumbling growl. "Time…to die!"

"Then, that's what's gonna happen." I croaked…and spat blood in his eye.

I badly wanted to make him lose it with that gesture; a last great act of defiance. No dice; he just calmly wiped the blood away and stood up again…at the same time, reaching under his cloak.

I expected to see that sickle again, but instead he brought out this big, heavy blacksmith's hammer.

Once more dropping down on his knees, this time so he was straddling me, he raised the hammer high above his head, and growled again, "Time to die."

Yes, it was…but not for me. At that instant, the air was ripped by a deafening blast. It was a sound I'd heard before—only that time, the target had been a car windshield. This time it was…it was…it…

Claudia Nizhang had warned me…she had told me that if I kept hanging with Danny T., one of these days I was going to see what that .44 Mag of his could really do. And now, I wasn't just seeing it…I was…I-I-was…

Yeah, okay, Mr. Rodenberg. Yeah, I'll skip that part; I blacked out anyway right then.

When I finally woke up, I was in a hospital somewhere, curled up on a bed in a semi-fetal position, and laying on my side.

Or…was this a hospital? It sure as heck seemed like one; the same bleached lighting, the same ultra-clean sheets and antiseptic smell. Something was clamped to one of my fingers, and off to my left, I could hear the rhythmic peeping of a monitor. Meanwhile, I had a tube plugged into my nose, and could feel the dull sting of an IV needle on the back of my wrist. So yeah, I was in a hospital, except…something was off here, something I couldn't quite put my finger on.

I rolled over onto my back. Or, that is…I tried to. Someone grabbed me by the arm and stopped me, an alpaca in a nurse's uniform. Whoa, where the heck had she come from? I had thought I was alone in here.

"No, son," she told me gently, "You need to stay on your side for a while, you've suffered a serious laceration to your back."

Right then, as if to confirm her diagnosis, a searing, white-hot pain shot downward from under my shoulder to just below my rib cage. Unable to stifle it, I let out a tortured whimper.

"Oh," she said, "I'll see if I can get you something for that," and then disappeared out the door.

While she was gone, I finally realized what was wrong with this room; it had no windows—none!

A surge of cold panic swept through me; it was the exact same set up as The Clinic. Could it…BE the…? Ohhhhh, no…oh please, not there.

No worries, I wasn't back in Jersey again. I found that out when the door opened and Danny Tipperin came into the room—right in the nick of time; I'd been that close to losing it.

"Hey kid, how ya doin?" he asked, toothpick rolling between his teeth.

"Better n' last time," I answered in a truthful rasp. Bad as I was feeling right then, it still wasn't nearly as painful as after my fight with those kids in the Johnstone Campus. Thinking about that incident reminded me of something; the kid who'd broken my face that day was now locked up in the REAL Clinic. "I hope they NEVER let you outta there, punk!" I remember snarling to myself. Weird thought to have at that moment—yeah, I know. But after everything I'd just been through, I could forgive myself a little insanity.

But then another memory came crowding into my head; or rather, a lack of one.

"What happ…" I coughed and tried again. "What…happened? I don't remember anything after that one guy…grabbed me." Danny was aware of my issue by then; he knew that when I said 'grabbed' in that tone of voice, it meant 'grabbed from BEHIND.'

And he also knew what happened when anyone did.

I saw him grimace and fan his paw. "Don't worry about it, kid. Those wolf-punks won't be giving you any more grief." His voice dropped to a guttural murmur, "Or anyone else, if you follow what I'm bringing out."

I did, but that wasn't what I'd been trying to ask him.

"No, I mean Junior. Did…Did he get away, okay?"

What? Yeah, Erin; I was concerned. You think I wanted to get beat half to death and have nothing to show for it?"

Anyway, for the first time since his arrival, Danny gave me a genuine smile.

"Yep…him and his girlfriend, thanks to you." He leaned in close, and lowered his voice again, this time to nearly a whisper, "And let me tell you, kid…The Mister is very appreciative of what you did."

Uhmmmm…I'm gonna jump ahead again here, 'kay? I only learned later about what happened with Junior after the pack leader grabbed me, but I think I oughta tell it now.

Everyone has their moment, that instant when they manage to rise above themselves…and that was James McCrodon Jr.'s time to shine.

No, he didn't try to help me—but he didn't run off and save only himself either. He turned and went screaming for the kid holding Peggy, catching him by surprise and taking him down. Yeah, that guy was the smallest wolf in the pack, but still…

Not wasting any time, Junior bit through the duct tape securing his GF's wrists and the two of them fled together—lucky for him, the wolf-kids had untied her before bringing her over to watch the fight.

And, would you believe…that sea-mink kid actually showed some smarts for once? Instead of going for the condos—too far away, they'd never have made it—he spun Peggy around and the two of them ran for the river.

Gotta admit, that was one seriously sharp move. By the time the Stalinzhky dudes realized what was happening, him and his girlfriend had already hit the water…where they knew the pack couldn't catch them. Your average wolves may be big and brawny—but no way can they outswim a sea-mink

Great for Junior and his girlfriend, but not so much for me; you can guess who the Stalinzhkiy took it out on, after they got away. I think that was when I got that sickle-slash across my back.

I would have been killed for sure if that sea-mink kid hadn't acted out of character again. Instead of heading downstream, as anyone might have expected, him and Peggy swam upstream, leaving the river almost directly in front of this 24-Hour bodega he knew. And, it just so happened, the agouti on counter duty knew HIM, too. That isn't to say he liked Junior, but he wasn't about to deny entry to the son of James 'The Mister' McCrodon…dripping wet or not.

Nor was he about to refuse this particular mammal the use of a cell-phone…which he used to dial his dad's emergency number. I'm told The Mister picked up on the first ring, and when he did, Junior used his head yet again—jumping in quick, before the old mink could utter a single word, and keeping it short and sweet.

"Dad, I got ambushed by this wolfpack, over by Peggy's place. Her and me got away, but not Sean…"

Danny was on the way with three other guys, before he was even halfway finished. Even then, they would have been too late if the pack leader had wanted me conscious when he finished me off.

And the rest…well, I already told you the rest, or as much as I remember anyway. I have no idea what happened to the other guys in that wolfpack, and honestly, I don't want to know.

No, Erin…why SHOULD I? I didn't call down Danny on those jerks, Junior did. And you know what? That's one thing I don't blame him for. As far as I'm concerned, those wolf-punks brought whatever The Company did to them down on themselves.

Yeah, you tell her Mr. Rodenberg; what the heck could I have done about it anyway? I was slightly unconscious at the time. Yes, I was, Snowdrop! The next thing Danny told me was that I'd been out for almost three whole days.

"That long?" I gasped. I never got an answer, because just then, the door opened and the nurse came back, along with a beaver in squeaky-clean scrubs, presumably my doctor.

He was not pleased to find Danny in the room with me.

"Just what do you think you're doing in here?" he demanded, laying his paws on his hips, "He's not ready to have visitors…OUT!" To emphasize the point, he jabbed a finger at the door.

Ohhhh, foxtrot; I almost wet the bed. I'd seen Danny threaten to WHACK guys for less than that.

Not this time, he only threw up his paws in surrender, "All right, all riiiiight, I'm going."

And then he slipped out the door without another word.

What happened next was the usual drill, having my vitals checked while Doctor Beaver gave me a rundown of my condition. The short answer was that I was very lucky, considering what might have happened.

"You lost a lot of blood from that injury to your back," he informed me, speaking in an accent that I couldn't quite place. "That's why you were unconscious for as long as you were; you went into shock." I'd suffered several bruises and contusions but—almost miraculously—nothing was broken. The worst of it was the slash across my back, not especially deep, but seriously long…and there was also another problem.

"Do you have any idea what it was that cut you?"

At first, I hadn't an inkling of what he was talking about…but then I realized. He wanted to know what kind of BLADE those wolf kid had used to cut me.

"Uh, I dunno," I answered. Actually, I had a pretty good idea, but I could just imagine his reaction if I told him.

"A sickle? Come now boy, what was it REALLY?"

If he wanted to know, he could take it up with Danny, I decided.

"All right," he said, "Then let's have another look at your wound. Nurse Echeverria, if you would…"

I felt her pull up my gown above my shoulders. The next thing I felt was…

Have a LOOK at my wound he said...yeah riiiight! Next thing I knew, he was probing my injury with gloved fingers, and he wasn't going easy on me; everywhere he touched me, it felt like I was being stuck with a red-hot needle. I practically bit my own lips off, trying not to scream; would have sunk my teeth into his arm if I'd had the strength. Finally, after what seemed like a year in hell, the torture ended, and the nurse pulled my gown back down again. At the same time Dr. Çetin—that was his name—came trundling around in front of me, with a big, deep frown on his face.

"Well, whatever it was that cut you, it was a very dirty instrument," he gave a small, tight head-shake. "We're going to have to put you on a course of antibiotics. But first, have you had your tetanus shot this year?" He blinked as he asked the question.

"No," I answered, although I wasn't quite sure. I'd had several shots during my stay at The Clinic, but had no idea what any of them had been for.

"Well, we'll take care of that," he answered breezily, and then turning to the alpaca nurse, he proceeded to rattle off a list of medications that I couldn't pronounce, much less remember.

That is, until she reminded him. "What about something for the pain, Doctor?"

He consulted a tablet that I hadn't noticed before.

"Mmmm, yes. Let's…put him on... Let's make it 10…no 15 CC's of Purrcocet.

Purrcocet…THAT name, I caught. And it was one I was going to be familiar with for a long, long time to come.

After telling me to stay on my side—like I'd ever want to lie on my back now—he departed along with the nurse. A few minutes later, she returned with a fistful of syringes.

The first thing she gave me was the tetanus shot.

"Okay, little poke," she said. And if THAT was only a poke, I'd hate to have felt what a…

Huh? What do you want to know that for, Erin?

Yeah, yeah…in my backside. Happy now, you little white-furred weirdo?

And you'll be sorely disappointed to learn that I got the rest of my shots by way of my IV feed…ha-ha.

Most of 'em I barely noticed—until she came to the Purrcocet. Whoa, that not only made the pain go away, it made the whole stinkin' world go away. It was like I was floating in a big, fat comfortable cloud. There'd be a price to pay later, but right then I didn't care; I wanted to stay like this forever.

Didn't happen, of course. Sometime later, while I was sleeping, it began to wear off…and it gave me the mother of all nightmares. There was that wolf again, standing over me, and then I heard Danny's cannon going off. Same effect, only this time Wolfy didn't die. The last thing I saw, before I woke up, was him bringing the hammer down and…

And then I was back in bed, fox-screaming to raise the roof and bringing an orderly on the run.

Sad to say, that nightmare wasn't a one-off deal. I had it many times afterwards, in different variations. Eventually the bad dreams went away, and unlike with being grabbed from behind, I learned to handle the trauma of that memory.

Except for one thing…I hadn't cared much for guns before then, ever since that incident with the tayras. But when I woke up from that nightmare, I stinkin' HATED 'em—even though a gun had just saved my life. And after all this time, even long after that dream finally went away, I still can't handle 'em. I can't so much as look at a gun without feeling a knot in my stomach.

And that's all I'm gonna say about it for now.

Yeah, all right. During my recovery…partial recovery, I learned a few things here and there.

For starters, I'd been right; this place wasn't a hospital, I was in the basement of a hospice, a place where terminally ill patients go to spend their final days. Smooth move, when you give it a little thought…no one would think twice if they saw drugs or medical equipment being delivered HERE.

The section where I was staying though, wasn't an actual part of the hospice. It was kind of a secret annex, a place where wiseguys who couldn't go to the ER could go to find medical treatment, no questions asked. It was hidden behind a secret door, and used not only by The Company, but by Cosa Nostra and the Russian Mob as well. Unless you were known or had the password, you weren't getting in there. And by mutual consent, the place was neutral ground, no guns allowed on the premises…or violence of any kind.

No Erin, I wondered about that myself, but no. The Stalinzhky wouldn't have been safe there, assuming they would have been allowed inside. That no violence rule didn't apply to independents, only guys who were connected. If those wolf-kids had shown up at that underground hospital—IF they could even have found the place—they'd have been turned away at the door. Either that, or they'd have been kept waiting until the Mister's guys got there.

Anyway, I also learned that the place where Danny found me was a set of stone steps called, get this, The Granite Prospect. How's that for irony?

I only saw him once in the next three days, and he got chased out of the room again.

But not before he told me that I'd gotten it backwards. Up until then, I had always assumed that Junior must have done something to provoke those wolves into going after him. It was just the kind of guy he was. Now, to my serious embarrassment, I learned that I was wrong. He hadn't done a thing to antagonize the Stalinzhkiy; it was all on them…all of it.

"Over a lousy lobster dinner, can you believe that stuff?" Danny growled, barely restraining himself from spitting on the floor. "And what a stupid name for a crew, sheesh!" And then he told me the rest about Junior. "I never would have believed it, but that mink-kid handled himself great."

If I'd heard that from anyone else, I wouldn't have believed it either. Whoa, good thing had I'd never given voice to any of my thoughts about Junior and the wolfpack.

Especially since, two days later, his dad finally came to see me.

He blew into my room like a stinkin' tornado, accompanied by Danny and two of his brown bear bodyguards. He was in pretty decent shape that day, needing only his gold-headed cane to get around. Behind him, I could hear the agitated voice of a nurse, insisting on only one visitor at a time.

When he was close enough, he got down on one knee beside the bed, and…

…And Jiminy Christmas, just when you think you've seen it all. Never before, and never afterwards, did he ever apologize to me.

"I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner, fox-kid." I saw him grimace and look away. "And…I'm sorry for what happened to you. I swear, if I'd had any idea, I never would have sent you to go find Junior, all by yourself." I said nothing to this, I was too blown away. And it wasn't just me; Danny Tipperin was actually pinching himself. But if you think that's nuts, how about this? When he turned to look at me again, he had tears in his eyes and his voice was cracking. "You saved my boy's life." He sniffled, laying his paw on top of mine. Lucky for me I was half-zonked on Purrcocet, or I might have pulled away. "I'm not ever gonna forget that, fox-kid…never."

To this day, I have no idea why I answered him the way I did. Maybe it was the painkillers again.

"He held up great, Mr. McCrodon," I said, "Never once begged or cried; I even saw him try to fight back." What the heck, it was true—although try telling that to the big mink's brothers. Right up until the day of the raid, they refused to believe that I hadn't just been trying to butter him up. I remember Gerry saying to me once, "Junior… standing up for himself? Yeah, riiight…now tell me the one about the Fang Fairy."

I would like to say that what happened to Jimmy Jr. that night was a life-changing experience…that it inspired him to finally straighten up and fly right.

Sorry, no soap. By the time I made it back to Zoo York, he was his old, spoiled-rotten self, again. I'll get into more about that later, but the next thing The Mister said to me was…

"From now on, things are gonna be different for you around here, fox-kid," he promised and then gave my paw a little squeeze. Again, I wanted to pull away, and again, I couldn't—thank God. "You got my word. Even as we speak, my nephew Kieran's working on it." I would have loved to ask him what he meant by that, but just then, another Company guy, a lynx named Carlos-Something came into the room and whispered in his ear. I saw him grimace and heard him utter a low hiss. "You tell that guy I'll get there when I get there. Stupid jerk; he knows what almost happened to my kid the other night."

If I could have moved my head, I would have shaken it. Holy foxtrot, he really did feel beholden to me. In the days before my encounter with the Stalinzhkiy, no way would he have put off attending a sit-down on my behalf.

But…there was something else he'd said, and it was only just now beginning to register through the painkillers.

"Where IS Kieran?" I asked, casting my eyes around the room as best as I could. He hadn't come to see me, even once after the fight.

I saw the Mister make a face and then a rumbling noise. "Ahhhh, I hadda send him down to the Beach House for a while." He leaned closer and lowered his voice. "The heat's on, if you know what I mean."

I did; Detective Sergeant Nizhang had never forgiven Kieran for humiliating her in front of her boss—or, that's the way HE told it. Whatever, I was missing him really bad right then.

Meanwhile, The Mister was frowning at his watch. "This late? Dangit…" He looked up at me again. "Sorry kid, gotta go. I'll come by and see you later. Tipperin? You stay here and fill him in."

"Yes sir, Mr. McCrodon," Danny answered—with a barely suppressed smile, happy at not having to accompany the boss to wherever he was off to.

When he sat down beside the bed, he was wearing the sly smile that only a fox can pull off.

"Sorry to have to tell you this, kid…but you're dead."

"I'm…WHAT?" I'd have sat up fast if my back would have let me.

"That's right." His smile broadened and he laid a paw on my arm, "On paper, you're toast." His head tilted sideways along with his mouth. "Doesn't it seem kinda strange to you, that none of Pennanti's guys ever showed up here for a talk?"

Actually, I'd never thought about it…but now that he brought it up, yeah, that was kind of odd.

Danny caught my expression and winked, "That's coz, officially, you were killed in that fight with those wolf-punks; they planted your coffin in Potter's Field two days ago." He let out a fox-bark of laughter. "And good luck trying to find it; Kieran made sure of that."

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him if my coffin had been empty. Except, I had a sinking feeling that it hadn't been—and that the occupant had been one of six convenient candidates. In that case, thanks, but noooo thanks; I wanna know nothing, nothing, nothing!

Meanwhile Danny was still talking, "He's also workin' up a new identity for you…a lot more detailed than last time. He won't be finished for a while yet, but you'll wanna start getting used to your new name; it's Yeats…Dylan Yeats."

"Oh, joy," I thought, "ANOTHER alias." Well, at least this one was sort of catchy. And later I learned, typical Kieran, he had named me after two of his favorite poets, Dylan Thomouse and William Badger Yeats.

Needless to say, faking my death involved a lot more than just a new name and a bogus burial. Even now, I don't know how Kieran managed to fool the world—and especially Pennanti and Company—into thinking I'd kicked it. I was aware that he had the resources, but still...

Whatever the case, I never saw that fisher or any of his crew, ever again.

Well yeah, Erin…but I don't include that, it was only a chance encounter. It wasn't like she was looking for me or anything.

Although I didn't see Kieran in the flesh and fur during my time in that 'hospital', I talked to him a lot online. Danny had brought me my laptop, that second time he came to see me. I had to change all my passwords before I could use it, but I understood the need—even if I didn't like it. The first time I spoke to Kieran, he brought me up to speed on some details his partner had missed. Yep…he had been sent down to Belize on account of Claudia Nizhang.

"Not that I'm complainin' y'understand," he told me with a smirk, "No Mister, no Junior, no pressure…I feel like I could stay down here fer the next ten years. Heh…remind me t' send that red panda cop a case of her favorite bev'rage sometime."

I was happy he was happy. And yet…I had the strangest feeling that there was another reason he was glad to be where he was; something he not only wasn't telling me, but couldn't have told me, even if he wanted to.

Part of it, I later discovered, had to do with something he'd taught me earlier. Whenever you breach a database, the first thing you want to do is create a second way in. That was exactly what Kieran had done when he'd hacked into the AKER mainframe; anticipating, correctly, that my escape from The Point would alert them to the breach—and then to him. Or, that might have been what happened, if he hadn't deleted that back-door and covered his tracks, as soon as he was done with my jailbreak. Wisely, he had chosen to allow the second one to remain dormant for a spell…until things finally began to cool off. Only recently had he gone back inside the AKER mainframe…and what he'd discovered there was, in fact, the main reason he was down in Belize. While that thing about Claudia Nizhang putting the screws to him was true, it was mostly a cover story. And even now, I'm not sure it was the whole story.

I'm telling you this because it has just about everything to do with what happened to me next. It changed my life—and no, I'm not exaggerating.

When The Mister finally came to see me again, he brought Junior along with him.

And ohhhh foxtrot, talk about putting the 'awk' in awkward; our encounter was as stiff as a stinkin' Kabuki play. Seriously, Danny told me later that we sounded like we were reciting from a book that both of us could barely understand."

"Thank you, Sean…for coming to…"

"His name's Dylan now, son."

"Yeah, right. Sorry dad. Thank you, uh, Dylan…for saving my life."

"Thank YOU…for saving mine." True…sort of; he was the one who'd called in the cavalry, after all. Honestly though, I didn't feel all that grateful to him right then…but what else was I gonna say, with his dad standing there? "Are…you okay?" I finally asked. He'd taken some pretty good hits himself that night.

"Uhhh, I'm doin' alright," he said, looking slightly embarrassed.

"Good," I nodded, "and what about…uh, Peggy, that's her name right? Is she okay?"

"She's fine!" he answered…very quickly, almost snapping at me. I later learned that she dumped him over the incident. Go fig.

As it turned out, that was the last I saw of Junior for some time to come. A week later, the docs took my stitches out and I was finally able to sleep on my back again.

But not for long. The next morning, at the bright and early hour of 4 AM, someone grabbed me by the shoulder and shook me awake. When I opened my eyes, I saw nothing but a blur and needed several good blinks to kickstart my eyes.

Yep…It was Danny again. And standing behind him was a pair of EMT's with a gurney.

And standing behind them was Nurse Echeverria, wearing a look that was half disapproving and half afraid.

…because standing behind her was a pair of Company enforcers—Alaskan Brown Bears, not the kind of species you wanna argue with.

"C'mon, kid," Danny said to me, "We're getting you out of here."

Standing back a little, he motioned to the guys with the gurney. In mere moments, I was outside the hospice and was being loaded into the back of a medical transport.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked, just before the doors closed—and I'm sure Danny only pretended not to hear me.

I had no idea where we were headed. The only thing I could see out the rear of the medical transport van was a narrow view of the streets behind me. All I knew for certain was that Danny was following close behind; there was no mistaking that ride of his. After a while, we stopped at a gate, somewhere. When the driver rolled down the window to speak to the guard, my nose caught the thick, oily scent of jet fuel.

Okay, now I knew where we were, but…HUH? Why the heck would they be taking me to the airport? Oh, wait…they must be sending me down to Belize. Yeah, that made sense…or it did, if you were high on Purrcocet.

When the doors to the ambulance opened…yep, I was at the airport all right. As a matter of fact, I was in a place I sort of recognized, behind the cargo terminals at Idlewild, where I'd sometimes gone to pick up and deliver messages.

When they wheeled me off the ambulance, there was my ride on the tarmac, a twin-engine jet in refrigerator white with red and blue trim on the fuselage. Imprinted above a line of windows, I saw the name, MEDICAIR INTERNATIONAL. It was only then that I realized something—I had never flown before, and I wasn't sure how I felt about it.

But then I saw Danny hovering over me.

"This is as far as I go, kid." He smiled, "But I'll be seeing you again, real soon." He reached down to clasp my paw for a second, then turned to walk away.

"Wait," I called out, sitting up as best I could with all the straps, "You haven't told me…where are you sending me?"

Danny stopped and winked over a shoulder, snapping his fingers in pretend embarrassment, "Awww, Jeez…sorry kid, coulda sworn I…We're sending you to get your face fixed."

And then he went on his way, without another word.

Whatever elation I may have felt at that news damped down real sweet quick when they bundled me onto the airplane. Okay…now I was scared of flying. I don't think I would have been, though, if I hadn't been all strapped down and helpless and whatever. Aw heck, I KNOW I wouldn't have been scared. When I flew into Zootopia, three years ago, I had noooo problems. And that flight had all kinds of issues, just getting off the ground.

But that first time I flew? Forget it, I was shaking all over and trying not to whimper as they transferred to the in-flight medical bed. I remember begging them not to strap me in again, but they just told me not to worry and did it anyway. That was when I really came close to losing control. It was just like the old Ram-mones tune, you know the one, Erin.

♪ "Get me to the airport, put me on a plane
Hurry, hurry, hurry—before I go insane
I can't control my fingers, I can't control my brain
Oh, no, oh-oh, oh-ohhhhh

Dah, da, dat-da, dat-da-dah, da-DAH!
I wanna be sedated
Dah, da, dat-da, da-dah, da-DAH, dat-dah, da-dah!
I wanna be sedated." ♫

Whoo, heh, heh…there's never a guitar around when you need one either, huh bunny-girl? But truer words were never sung, because the next thing I knew, somebody was sticking a needle in my arm. At first, I thought it was more painkiller…and that was the last thought I had 'til we landed again. God only knows what they gave me, but it was some seriously heavy stuff. I think I woke up twice, maybe three times during that flight, but I'm not sure.

When I finally woke up for good, my first thought was wondering why my flight had been canceled; it felt like no time at all had passed.

That all changed when they wheeled me off the plane—and into the brightest sunlight I'd ever experienced. It was so bright I was ready to sell my soul for a pair of mirrored shades. Ohhhh-kay, so I wasn't still in Zoo York.

But this sure as heck didn't look like Belize either. It was hot enough, yeah, but not nearly wet enough. It was so dry, I could almost feel my lips cracking. Not much jungle around here either…or any vegetation, period. Off the end of the runway, I could see nothing but an endless flat plain.

And then a grinning feline face leaned over me, a caracal in khakis and a beat-up baseball cap. "Eh, you're awake…perfect timing."

His name was Markus Klopper—and in the weeks to come, he and I were to become very well acquainted.

He was about average size for his species, though a little bit leaner than your standard-issue caracal; always with the air of someone sharing a private joke. And now he turned and whistled through a pair of fingers. "All reight, bring it over, let's get this young silver fox out of the sun, before he dries up and blows awey, eh?"

In response, another van began to roll in my direction.

Looking back on it now. Markus' accent and safari shirt should have clued me in about where I'd landed. But having just woke up from being sedated, I didn't pick up on any of it.

"Whe…?" I tried to ask, only to have the words shrivel up in my throat. I swallowed twice and tried again, "Where…am I?" Barely audible but good enough.

"Eh?" Markus' ears seemed to twist and then shoot upwards at the sky. "Nobody told you, then?"

"No," I answered, beginning to feel exasperated. Like that other old saying says, the condemned fox is always the last to know.

"Well then," his grin came back, even wider than before and he waved his paw in a sweeping gesture. "In thet case, welcome to Johorrnesburg, South Efurica, Mista Yeats."

Chapter 66: Conor's Story (Continued...Part 16)

Summary:

Conor's Odyssey

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Continued…Part 16)

♪ "I got nothing to say I ain't said before
I bled all I can, I won't bleed no more
I don't need no one to understand
Why the blood run hold
The hired hand
On heart
Hand of god
Flood land and driven apart
Run cold
Turn
Cold
Burn

Like a healing hand!" ♫

The Sisters of Mercy – This Corrosion

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Erin Hopps was flabbergasted.

"You mean…they flew you all the way to South Afurica for your operation? Why? Weren't there any plastic surgeons available in Zoo York?"

"And why Johornessburg?" Mr. Rodenberg was also a little confused. "I would have thought that Bangbok would be the better choice."

Conor answered the questions in the order they'd been asked.

"Number one, Erin…coz The Mister wanted the procedure done as far away from Zoo York as possible; the better to keep Pennanti and company from finding out I was still among the living. And secondly," he turned his attention to the grey rat, perched on the tray-table beside him. "Bangbok's the place for cosmetic surgery, yeah, but for reconstructive surgery, especially coz of a traumatic injury, Johornessburg's the way to go. It's got so many doctors, specializing in that field, some of them even have portfolios…with 'before' and 'after' pics."

"Why's that?" Erin and Mr. Rodenburg asked, almost simultaneously.

"Two reasons," the young silver fox answered, holding up a pair of fingers and ticking them off, one by one. "First up, coz most of the rest of Afurica's like one big war zone…and a heck of a lot of the soldiers fighting up north are mercs. They can't depend on their governments for help if they get wounded in battle, so they need to look for medical care in the private sector. That's where Johornessburg comes in. It's Afurica's number one evac point for mercenary soldiers. You know that big Russian outfit, The Hogner Group? They have their own, private R-and-R center, up the coast in Capetown."

"Ahhh, I see," Erin answered him with a small nod. She didn't quite get it, but she was starting to. "And…what's the other reason Johornessburg's the spot for reconstructive surgery?"

Conor made an unpleasant face.

"Coz South Afurica's crawling with guns. They're stinkin' everywhere…and with all that firepower around, gunshot wounds are pretty much a regular thing."

"Ahhh," Vern Rodenburg was raising a finger in that trademark gesture of his, "And The Mister, being an arms merchant, would naturally have some very good connections in that part of the world."

"Exactly," the young silver fox answered, cocking a finger of his own, "And not only that; according to what Markus told me, more than a few mammals in Joburg owed him favors." His face unzipped, revealing a grin of amusement. "Markus…now there was a character for you. He'd been a merc himself, until he stepped on an antifursonell mine. His voice took on a bad Afurikaans accent. "Bloody crocodile lunged at me. I jumped out of the wey, and thought I was safe, until…click, BOOM! Could hev been worse though, eh? Thet croc wanted a lot more then just me leg."

"I see what you mean," Erin answered, with a barely suppressed giggle.

"So…he wore a prosthetic, I take it?" It was Vern Rodenberg, serious as ever.

Conor's lips compressed and he nodded. "Yeah, when I met him, he was working as kind of a freelance fixer. Got problems with your passport? Go see Markus Klopper. Transportation issues? Talk to Markus. Someone hijacked one of your weapons shipments? That was how he came to work with The Company; never as an actual member though, strictly as an independent contractor. He dealt mostly with Danny Tipperin, and had a lot of respect for that swift-fox. 'Only bloke I eveh met, shoots as well as me,' he told me once."

He paused for a second, beginning to look uncomfortable at the mention of guns, and then went off in a different direction.

"I was seriously hungry after getting off that plane—I hadn't eaten since before my flight—and so I asked Markus if we could snag some grub on the way to wherever it was that he was taking me."

"Sure, no worries." He said, and directed the driver to pull up in front of a food truck, where he bought us each a bunny to eat."

"A WHAT?!" Erin was out of her seat so fast she almost fell over again.

"Aw nuts…sorry." Conor answered her, sounding wholly contrite—but looking like the sliest young silver fox in existence. "Not a bunny-bunny, a bunny-CHOW, a hollowed-out loaf of bread filled with curry. Really tasty, too." He licked his chops at the memory.

Erin Hopps was not pacified. "You creep; you said it like that on purpose, just to trigger me!" Her paws were on her hips, and her ears were plastered against the back of her neck.

"Darn right I did, Snowdrop!" Conor's ears were laying back as well, "And THAT's for bugging me about where the nurse gave me that tetanus shot."

She appeared not to hear him.

"Oh, har, har…really funny, Mr. Shiftyfox."

Conor gave her the talk-to-the-paw gesture.

"Yeah, yeah…whatever, Cutey-Pie."

Oops, there it was, the C-Word…and it blew the floodgates wide-open.

"Silver-weed Jerk!"

"Long-eared airhead!"

"Moron!"

"Pinhead!"

"Sicko."

"Weird, little…"

That was as far as things went before play was interrupted by a high, piercing whistle—even louder than the first time.

"Kinder, kinder…let's not fight," Vern Rodenberg was holding up his paws in the manner of a disapproving rabbi—but with an edge to his voice that said, Knock it off, and right NOW! With a nod towards Conor, he added, "This young silberfuchs still has so much more to tell us." And then, to drive home the point, he showed his incisors to both young mammals.

The response was a round of grumbling from the two young mammals, with Conor and Erin predictably accusing each other of having started it.

And then, at last, the young doe bunny returned to her chair, while the fox returned to his narrative.

---

Markus drove me to the Roodeport district and to the offices of Dr. Emile Lemolo, a specialist in something called Maxillofacial Surgery…according to the sign on his door. I had no idea what that meant, but it sounded promising.

The place could have passed for just about any medical office, anywhere in the world; semi-soft lighting, pastel walls, a woodgrain reception desk, and rows of cushion chairs, lining the walls

But the first thing I noticed when I walked into that place was this picture on the wall. It showed a honey-badger in camo fatigues and a dark red beret with a South Afurican flag in the background. As I looked closer, I noticed a row of medals and a red-cross armband. Was this Dr. Lemolo? I sure as heck hoped so; if this dude was a former army surgeon, then you'd better believe he'd know a thing or two about facial trauma. That was my reasoning anyway.

It didn't take long for me to get my answer. We were just about finished checking in at the reception desk, when the door to the inner sanctum opened and here came the Doc, sweeping into the front foyer with a big smile on his face.

At first, he completely ignored me, rushing straight over to the caracal who'd brought me here.

"Markus! Too long, brotha'!"

"Too long, Emile."

And they wrapped each other in a big embrace.

Oh-kay-y-y, if these two were old friends, I didn't mind being the invisible fox for a while—provided things didn't stay that way. Meanwhile, Dr. Lemolo was holding Markus at arm's length, and giving him the once-over.

"You're looking good, cat. How's the leg?"

"I'll put it this way, eh?" Markus answered, turning a180 on his prosthetic. It was the first time I realized he had one.

"Heh, I guess that answers my question," Dr. Lemolo clapped his paws and then, finally, turned his attention to me.

"And this," he said, getting down on one knee, "Must be the young fox you mentioned. Nice to meet you," he stuck out a paw, "I'm Dr. Emile Lemolo."

"S…Dylan Yeats," I answered, taking it. Oops, I almost gave him my old name.

"All right, Dylan," he said, standing up again, "Soon as we finish your paperwork, we'll get you backstage, and have a look at your injuries."

I was pleased that he said 'injuries' rather than 'face'.

What happened next was kind of an odd experience for me. I'd had mammals stare at my broken muzzle before, but this was the first time anyone went looking it over with a professional eye. Putting on a pair of magnifying spectacles. Dr. Lemolo gave my face a super-close inspection, pausing every now and then to either jot a note on a tablet or make a humming sound. Finishing up with the exterior of my face, he snagged a penlight and had me open my mouth, giving my jaw the twice-over from the inside. By the time he was done, my tongue felt like a slab of dried-out jerky.

But when he pulled off his glasses and gave me his verdict, it was all worth it.

"Piece of cake, this. I only wish it wasn't an old injury." His fangs came out, and his voice became a hiss. "Who the devil set it the first time? I'd like to bite them for it."

When he said that, I felt my tail trying to frizz. I did not want to tell this honey badger how it was that I'd gotten my face broken. If he knew, he just might decide to shine me as a patient.

Yeah, Erin…I know, I know-w-w. But if you'd been through all that I had back then, you'd be paranoid, too.

Anyway, it turned out to be a rhetorical question. From there, he went on to explain how the procedure to repair my face would work.

"First, we're going to need to re-break and then reset your muzzle and jawbones." I must have winced or something, because he quickly added, "Don't worry, you'll be under anesthesia."

That reassured me only a tiny bit.

"Then," he went on, "once the bones begin to knit, we'll start on the cosmetic end," Fine tuning, he later called it.

"And then, last, but not least, we'll see about some dental implants to replace the teeth you lost. How does that sound?" He threw back his shoulders and put his paws on his hips.

"Sounds great," I said…and it did.

I was feeling pretty confident at that point…and my conviction only strengthened, when our next stop turned out to be the Nelson Manedela Children's Hospital. Whoa, how could a place with a name like that be anything but top notch?

Yes, it was…as I quickly found out.

It was housed in a red-stone building that could almost have passed for a community college. After chaperoning me through the admissions process, Markus said good-bye for now, but promised to check in on me later.

From reception, I was taken by wheelchair to the third floor and my room in the 'First Class Ward.' That wasn't the official name; it was what the kids called it, although I didn't find that out until later.

As for my room, except for the plain white sheets and single-color blankets it could almost have passed for a luxury hotel suite, nothing at all like my cell in The Clinic—thank God. I'd been getting flashback vibes about that place ever since leaving Admissions. Now, they stopped, and with good reason. For one thing my new den had a big, beautiful picture window, overlooking a central garden.

After I got settled in, a duiker-orderly came by to give me a wheelchair tour of the hospital. What an awesome place; it was geared 100% towards younger patients. There were playrooms, mostly aimed at kids much younger than me, but also game-rooms, and a basketball court. There was even a soccer field—football pitch the orderly called it—though I didn't get to see that bad boy. Everything was done up in bright, cheerful colors, no unflavored-yogurt walls here.

But my most lasting impression of the Nelson Manedela Children's Hospital came when we paid a visit to Physical Therapy. That was where I learned something else. There were kids in that hospital with injuries far, FAR worse than mine. And they were only the first of many that I saw while I was there. A lot of them were missing limbs; souvenirs of an encounter with this or that militia group. Others had burn scars, while still others were confined to wheelchairs. A few had facial deformities that made mine look tame…or so I assumed, since they all wore masks, 24/7. Many of these kids were refugees from the wars up north, and some were former child soldiers. Those were the dudes that really spooked me. At first glance, they appeared to be totally uninjured—until you looked more closely at their faces.

Remember that line from Jaws, the one where Quint says "You know the thing about a shark, he's got lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll's eyes?" That was these kids; it was like there was nothing there. Wherever they went, they had to be escorted by two orderlies—I found out why later. But holy foxtrot…I had seen some pretty terrible things in my day, but these kids had not only seen worse, they'd DONE worse. All of them were either apex preds, or the kinds of herbivores you don't wanna mess with; elephants, hippos, and I assume that also included rhinos and cape buffalo.

Coz, I didn't see either of those species while I was there. But I'm here to tell you, guys… Even if Dr. Lemolo had decided to leave my face as is, I would have walked out of that hospital with a fully adjusted attitude.

But I WAS there to get my face fixed, and we started the very next day.

The first step—finally—was to get my injuries X-rayed, followed by an MRI scan. Heh, that was a trip. They'd done up the MRI machine to look like a transporter machine from Star Trak…and just before they slid me into the tunnel, the impala-tech in charge asked me what music I wanted to hear to drown out the noise.

Nah, good choice Erin…but that was before Try Everything even existed. Anyway, I had the perfect tune in mind; Welcome to the Machine, by Pig Floyd.

Hee, Hee…Yeah, I thought you'd like that.

When I returned to my room afterwards, I found my laptop waiting for me on the bed. Whoa, I'd forgotten all about that bad boy. Good thing I had it now though—coz the next few two days were 'hurry up and wait,' for my MRI results to come back.

The first thing I did when I got my laptop booted up was try to contact Kieran McCrodon, except WHOOPS—forgot all about the time zone difference—it was 3AM in Bulize. I was delighted, though, when one of the nurses showed me how to hook up my comp to the room's big-screen

I didn't spend a lot of time hanging with the other kids—most of them didn't speak my language. There was this one dude, though, a striped polecat from south Zudan named Kabwe who spoke it at least halfway decent. We played foosball and he stinkin' smoked me…even though he had only one arm.

Yeah, yeah…laugh it up, bunny-girl! That was our first and last game—coz the next day this lion-kid, one of the former child soldiers, trashed out the game room and broke the foosball table; nearly killed one of the orderlies before they got a tranq-dart into him.

Coz he lost it when he found out they didn't have any shooting games. Even for an ex-kid soldier that was pretty extreme. Most of them didn't like games of any kind.

But anyway…the following day, Dr. Lemolo came by my room with the results of my MRI. Just as he'd predicted, repairing the damage to my face was going to be a 'cakewalk', as he described it.

That was the good news; the bad news was that my recovery was going to be a majorly ordeal. I was gonna have to go through a lot of pain—and that wasn't even the worst of it.

While my jaw healed, I wouldn't be able to eat regular food. For the first week or so, I'd have to be fed through an esophagus tube. And even after they took it out, I'd still be on a liquid diet for a while. And while I was healing, blowing my nose would be an absolute no-no.

"Are you ready for that?" he asked me, looking very serious.

"Do what you gotta do," I said.

Uh, yes and no. Yeah-h-h, I thought it would be worth it to get my face fixed, but there was also something else. After seeing what some of those other kids had been through, what kind of a silver-fox wimp would I be if I couldn't handle not eating right for a while?

"Very well," Dr. Lemolo nodded soberly, and then went on to describe the operation in more detail.

He called it a Zygomatic surgical procedure. In the first step, I would be fitted with something resembling a muzzle. I'm still not exactly sure how it was supposed to work, but this was to endure that when Dr. Lemolo rebroke my muzzle and jawbones, it would be a clean fracture, and in the correct location

After that would come the recovery period, which he'd more or less already described, and then several more minor surgeries, which he'd also talked about.

I was scheduled for the day after tomorrow.

I wasn't allowed to eat for the last 18 hours before surgery, and could only drink clear liquids. When I woke up on the morning of the big day, the first thing that happened was getting my face shaved…and I mean totally shaved. This bushpig came in and went over my face with cream and, get this, a straight razor. And then after she was done, these two gerbils went crawling all over my face, looking for any spots she'd missed. Only then was I put on a gurney and wheeled into the operating room, where Dr. Lemolo and his team were waiting.

Even through a gown and mask, it was easy to tell which one was him. Except for wolverines, honey badgers are the only mustelids I've ever encountered with a stronger musk than sea-mink.

I don't remember much about the actual procedure though; I pretty much slept through most of it.

Now, now…don't everybody groan at once.

When I woke up in the recovery room, it felt like I'd been under for only a few seconds. By now, though, I knew better…especially since my muzzle and the back of my neck were encased in a plaster cast. And I could barely breathe; the holes they'd made for my nostrils were too small. Actually, no…my entire nose was uncovered, but I was still too groggy to notice. What I did notice was that I couldn't lower my muzzle. At first, I had no idea why, but as my head continued to clear, I became aware that I was wearing a neck-brace fitted with a prop—to make sure my face stayed upright. If I could, I would have fox-screamed; nobody had told me about THIS thing. What they had told me about was the real reason I wasn't breathing too good, a feeding tube stuck up my right nostril. And now I could feel that blankety-blank thing, running all the way down my throat and into my stomach. I remember thinking, "All right, all right! I'll go back to Granite Point, just please…make it STOP!"

And the pain still hadn't clocked in yet.

I spent another three weeks in that hospital and thank God for my laptop. I would have gone stir-crazy without it, confined to my room for the duration, except for the odd visit to an exam room, more X-Rays and another MRI. Even if I'd had somebody to talk to, I couldn't have answered them back, except by either a notepad or typing out the response on my laptop.

Holy foxtrot, it was awful. I was constantly hungry; whatever they were giving me through that feeding tube, it did zippity to satisfy my appetite. And whenever my painkillers began to wear off, it didn't happen gradually. It was like being smacked in the face by Crazy Wez all over again.

I got several visits from Markus following my surgery. The first time he came to see me, he took one look at my cast and said, "Eh look, it's the Phentom of the Opera." From that day, until the last time I saw him, that was what he called me, Phantom.

Noooo, that isn't where I got the name, Mr. Rodenberg. In fact, it's the ZPD who came up with that handle, not me. And no, Erin, I didn't mind; how could I have known back then? The only thing I knew about Zootopia in those days was the name; I couldn't even have found it on a map.

The next day, when I saw Dr. Lemolo again, he began, as he always did, by assuring me that my surgery had gone almost perfectly. He then informed me that I was going to be transferred to a recovery center at the end of the week, with regular returns to the hospital for further examinations. And then, when I was healed up enough, I'd be brought back for the 'fine-tuning surgeries.' The last step, as he'd already informed me, would be replacing my missing teeth with implants.

Later, that afternoon, an aardvark nurse came to my room, cheerfully announcing she was there to remove my feeding tube…which had been left in for a lot longer than one week, thank you very much!

"Great!" I thought. The next thing I thought was, "If I didn't have this thing on my muzzle, you wouldn't have any SKIN on yours!" Having my catheter pulled wasn't a whole lotta fun either, but at least it was quick. And at least now I could finally speak again, if just barely above a whisper.

Three days later, I was put in another medical transport and taken to a place called the Sunbird Recovery Lodge. Markus rode in with me.

I did not like that place, not at first; there was exactly one kid in residence there, and you're looking at him. It was something I could never figure out. I mean…I couldn't have been the only young mammal from the Manedela Children's Hospital who'd had maxillo-whatever surgery recently. I never did figure that out, but anyway…most of the patients housed at Sunbird were older mammals, and some were downright ancient. There were no diversions either, except for cable TV; at least nothing that would interest a kid my age. It was like I'd been transferred to another hospital, this time of the generic variety. For the first five days I was there, my only companions were the nurses, the orderlies, and my laptop.

How was…? Food…what food? I was on a liquid diet, remember?

But then…

One afternoon, I was heading back to my room from another exam, when I happened to hear someone playing guitar. It was an acoustic job, and in a tuning that I'd never heard before.

And whoever it was, they were killing it.

With my ears to guide me, I set off in search of the elusive player. At one point, the music stopped and I lost the trail. I was just about to bag it, when it started up again. And now I realized it was coming from one of the other wings. I had to ask permission to go there, but I got it right away.

Once I changed locations, finding the source of that music was a slam dunk. It was coming from a room about midway down the hall from one of the nurse's desks.

When I got there, the door was open, but I couldn't see who was playing. They were seated in a wheelchair with their back facing towards me. I could tell that it was some kind of small mammal, but that was about it.

Not knowing what else to do—or if they'd be able to hear me—I rapped on the doorframe. "Hello?"

The music stopped and the player turned to face me.

"Hello? Who's there, then? Time for my tablets, already?"

I was looking at a Cape Porcupine…and the oldest darn porcupine I've ever seen, before or since. No kidding, this guy was like a living mummy; there was no fur left on his face, and the skin underneath was like crepe-paper; his few remaining quills were nothing but stubs. He was thin to the point of being practically skeletal, and peered at the world in what seemed like a perpetual squint.

"Oh, hullo…what brings you here then?" His voice was dry and raspy, and his accent was pure native Afurican.

I stared for a second before my manners kicked in. In a voice no louder than his, I answered, "Oh, uh…Hi. I heard the guitar playing and…"

"Ah, you playa yourself, then?" he asked, patting the instrument laying across his lap, a six-string painted in tribal colors.

"Uhm…I'm trying to learn," I admitted. I could play, yeah, but no way was I even close to being as good as this dude.

"Well then, come in, come in," he beckoned, pointing to a chair beside his bed, "sit, sit, sit."

His name was Jasper Komeyaza, and like ten seconds after I took my seat, it felt as if we were old friends. "If you can find a guita', I'll teach you some t'ings," he promised.

As soon as I got back to my room, I messaged Kieran and asked if someone could get me a guitar. And the very next day, Markus came by to present me with a slightly used Marten acoustic.

I spent a lot of time with Jasper after that. You know that thing Richard Pryor once said? Uhhhh, never mind, but it goes like this. "You learn something when you listen to old mammals, they ain't all fools. You don't get to be old by bein' no fool."

That was Jasper; he taught me about a lot more than just playing guitar Afurican style. He also taught me how to play backgammon, and a little about life in general. And lemme tell you, that porcupine was a born survivor. He'd been shot twice, survived a cave-in, been jailed three times, and barely managed to talk his way out of being necklaced—all before he was thirty.

Uh, that's where they put a tire soaked in gasoline around your neck and set it on fire. Sorry, but you did ask. At the time, he was confined to a wheelchair because he'd lost his feet to a puff adder. How it managed to nail him in both ankles I have no idea. He never said, and I never asked.

But getting back to his guitar playing, Jasper was a stinkin' phenomenon. He could play with his guitar laying across the back of his neck. When I asked how he did it, he smiled and said, "Oh, that's easy, Dylan. Just play for sixty year'."

He also got me started on learning to play the concertina accordion, but we parted ways before I could really get into it. Yeah, I can play one now, but it took me a while to get dialed in.

Before I go any further, I don't want to give the impression that Jasper was some lonely old guy, wasting away all by himself. He had a large family and they visited frequently. Many times, when I went to see him, one of his kids and sometimes his grandkids would be there, and you could tell that they all loved him. Made me wish I had a family like his.

In the meantime, I had two more surgeries ahead of me—three, if you count getting my dental implants. All of them were minor compared to the first one, and when I woke up after each of them, I found myself back in the recovery center. The second time I came out of it, I found that my plaster cast had been replaced by this Kevlar-type mask thingy. Whoa, there was a serious improvement over that stinking face-cast. It was not only way lighter, but I could finally move my head again; the neck brace had been taken away. I could also talk in my normal voice, if not very loud. Soon as I woke up, I was warned, repeatedly, not to try and remove my new face-covering.

"No sweat," I said, and then, of course, as soon as the nurse was gone, my mask began to itch like you wouldn't believe.

When I went to show my new setup to Jasper, he was happy, but he also had some unhappy news…for me, that is. He'd be leaving Sunbird at the end of the following week. His eldest daughter had at last persuaded him to come home and live with her and her family. "You will come visit me, eh?" he asked, and I promised that I would.

It didn't happen. After he left, I never saw him again. I did keep tabs on him, though. He died last year in Joburg, after a bout of pneumonia, surrounded by his friends and family.

He was two months short of his 100th birthday.

When Dr. Lemolo finally removed my mask and let me see my new face, it was a major anti-climax. I didn't stare, I didn't tear up; there weren't any feelings of elation.

Coz…yeah, my muzzle was straight now, but my facial fur had only just started to grow back—in all these ragged clumps. And not only that; I'd lost so much weight from that liquid diet and whatever, I looked like a vulpine Grim Reaper. In other words, I was still gonna get stares and remarks—only now for a different reason. And I still had to get those dental implants.

Yeah-h-h, Erin, I know…and you're right. I don't think I would have been such a sour-patch fox about it if my latest round of painkillers hadn't started to wear off right about then.

But hey, now I could eat solid food again…and did I ever, pounding it down like the End Times were coming. Every time Markus would come to visit, he'd bring me a take-away bag and, like the movie title says, it'd be gone 60 seconds. In South Afurica, they make their bugburgers mostly out of termites, and seafood is a huge thing, including lobster and abalone, something I'd never had before.

After I got my dental implants, it was back to that liquid diet again—but only for a few days.

But then, one morning, when Markus came by, he told me Danny T. would be arriving the following Saturday to take me home to Zoo York.

I took the news like a punch to the gut. Home? Zoo York wasn't home, or at least it didn't feel like it. In fact, when I thought about it, since the day my mom had passed, I'd never been anywhere that felt like home—and that went double for Granite Point.

Still, somehow, I managed a smile.

I missed Danny's reunion with Markus Klopper—and so did he. At the time of his arrival, Markus was 'away, up country,' the life of a bush troubleshooter.

As for me, I didn't have time to say goodbye to anyone, not even Dr. Lemolo. I was sad about that and begged Danny to at least let me call him. No dice, he wasn't having any of it. "You got five minutes kid…and then we're out of here." Aw nuts, just when I was finally beginning to feel better about the results of my surgery. As you can see for yourself, that honey badger did a great job.

Yeah, yeah…nyuck, nyuck, nyuck. You're a real funny-bunny, Snowdrop!

I managed to get all my stuff packed in time. Except for my laptop, I didn't really have anything to bring with me. I had to leave my new guitar behind though, and there wasn't even time for a wheelchair. Danny practically dragged me outside and literally threw onto this Land-Rover he had waiting out front. Not once did he mention my new face. Heck, he didn't even seem to notice it.

I got another surprise when, instead of turning southwest for the airport, he headed straight north and out of town. After maybe an hour we came to this big airplane graveyard, with row upon row of planes without wings, broken fuselages, and some that were nothing more than skeletons. I had no idea what we were doing there, or even where we were. I would have asked Danny, but given the mood he was in right then, I knew I'd better keep my fox-trap shut.

When we got to the end of the second row, though…hang on, that plane wasn't a derelict; it was almost brand-new.

It was a four-engine prop-job, with a high tail and a deployed cargo ramp. And whoa…instead of stopping the Land Rover, and getting out, Danny drove us straight up the access ramp and into the cargo bay. As soon as he set the brake, a pair of hartebeests began securing our ride to the floor with tie-downs.

At the same time, Danny was scoping out his wristwatch. For the first time since his arrival, he smiled and then slapped his paw against the dashboard. "Ha! Told him we could make it!" Somehow, I knew that he was talking about The Mister. Hm, so picking me had only been kind of a side-op. Danny, meanwhile, was speaking into a two-way mike. "I got the kid and merchandise…let's go."

At once, I heard the engines starting to rev.

As we exited the Land Rover, I noticed, for the first time, a quartet of metal boxes stowed in the back, about the size of ice chests. Without thinking, I asked, "What's in those?" and immediately wanted to kick myself. At best, I'd get silence; at worst, a stern suggestion to mind my own business.

Instead, I got neither. Danny answered me for once. He could afford to, since what he said made no sense to me—not at the time, anyway.

"Palladium," he told me, and then directed me to follow him forward.

Yeah, I thought you'd wanna know. It's the stuff used to make catalytic converters. Super valuable, it's worth more than platinum and it's easy-peasy to obtain under the table in Joburg—and at a bargain price. South Afurica's the world's second largest producer of the stuff. Not only that. the demand for Palladium on the black market is stinkin' awesome. By the time we got to Zoo York, it'd be worth twice as much as when Danny drove it onto the plane.

There was plenty of other freight on that bird, either strapped to the floor, or secured in cargo netting. And THAT was something I didn't want to know about; guns…I was sure it was guns.

When we got to the front of the plane, which turned out to be a Chinese-made Shaanxi Y-9, I was surprised to find a nicely fitted out passenger lounge, just behind the pilot's compartment—complete with a big screen and a mini fridge. If it hadn't been for the engine noises, you could almost have mistaken this bad boy for a luxury-class airliner.

It was only after we were airborne that Danny finally took the time to scope out my surgery.

"Nice work," he finally said, "That doc did a first-class job, kid." I was more than a little pleased by his assessment. Being a former military guy, that swift fox knew a thing or two about facial trauma. That was also why he wasn't surprised at how thin I'd gotten. "When we get back to Zoo York, I'll treat you to a pizza at Giulianos," he promised.

I was gonna have a serious wait for that pizza. Our flight home was the longest, most boring, most tedious, I've ever been on.

No Erin, I've actually flown more than that. But you see, because that plane was a turboprop, it was way slower than a jet. And thanks to those noisy engines, I didn't get a wink of sleep the whole time we were in the air. Danny, of course, had no trouble dropping off—the stinkin' dirtbag!

When we finally landed, it wasn't back at Idlewild, or even in Zoo York. It was at this dinky, little airfield in the middle of nowhere—usually reserved for fire-fighting air-tankers, or that was what Danny told me on the drive back to Barklyn.

Isolated location or not, someone was expecting us. When we got off the plane, we found a (fake) Amazoon van waiting for us, along with two forklifts and a pair of semi tractor-trailers.

After transferring the palladium from the Land Rover to the van, Danny climbed into the driver's seat, with me next to him, and we were off. Unloading the rest of the cargo was apparently someone else's job, and that was totally cool with me. I wanted to get this trip over with and then go snag some sleep.

What wasn't so cool was when we came to a sign welcoming us to Barnecat Township, Zoo Jersey. Zoo…JERSEY? Agggh, grrrr…if there was one state where I didn't wanna visit… It was only after we crossed back into Zoo York that I began to breathe easy again.

I was gonna have to take a rain check on that pizza, though. When we got back to Barklyn, our first stop was this freight warehouse Gerry McCrodon owned. After getting rid of the palladium, we were informed that The Mister wanted to see us right away. Grumbling under our breath, we transferred to Danny's car, and drove to The Wicked Mink pub. Once there, I was conducted through the rear entrance for my first encounter with The Mister since leaving Zoo York…Gah, how long ago had that been?

It was in a meeting room in the back where I met him, one of those closed-door things, nobody here but us Company Guys…Ehhh, except for that platinum fox with the unicycle, that is. He didn't have it with him then, but I recognized him by his scent. Sometime during the next few minutes, he took a hike; I didn't see him leave, but I'm not surprised that he did.

And then, there was The Mister, at his usual spot in the center of the table. Soon as he saw me, he motioned for Danny to bring me over. He spent a few seconds scrutinizing me over the top of the table, and then said, "Bring him around, over this side; I wanna take a closer look."

When I got there, he took my head in his paws, turning it this way and that while he looked it over. It was like he was inspecting a melon, or something—don't say it, bunny-girl! Finally, he sat back again. "Whoa, look at this, wouldja? If I didn't know better, I'd swear I'd never seen this fox-kid in my life." He looked at Danny with a frown on his face. "What's the name my nephew gave him again?"

"Yeats, Dylan Yeats,"

"Right," he nodded, and turned to speak to his younger brother, "Denis? Put that doc in Joburg down for an extra grand—nah, make it two. He did a bang-up job on the kid."

Not the best choice of words, but I wasn't gonna correct this sea-mink. Then his older brother, Gerry spoke up.

"I-I-I dunno," he said, giving me a dubious look, "Gotta say, he don't look too good to me."

"Well whaddaya expect?" The Mister shrugged. "He hasn't been able to eat all this time; had his mouth wired shut while his muzzle healed up." Not exactly true, but close enough.

But that wasn't the only reason I was in a raggedy state right then. I had taken the last of my Purrcocets back on the plane…and that had been more than six hours ago. So, you better believe I was feeling the need right then—along with a big slice of sheer terror. By that time, I knew all about The Mister's less-than-zero-tolerance policy towards drugs. If he found out I was hooked on painkillers…

"He's also kinda strung out on Purrcocet." Danny Tipperin told him, matter-of-factly.

What the…? I could have fox-screamed my head off. "Danny, what are you doing?" I braced for an explosion, but The Mister only shrugged and nodded.

"Yeahhh, well that happens sometimes, when you get that kind of operation." His expression turned gravely serious. "But now we need to get his fox kid offa that stuff. After that we can get him back in shape, and start his training."

"I got an idea about that, Mr. McCrodon," Denis was raising his paw like a kit in school. "What say we send him down to the Beach House? Kieran's still down there, and nobody knows more about physical conditioning than that guy. Put him in charge of getting the kid back in shape. He can even start training him on the computer."

"Yeah, good thought," Gerry concurred with an eager nod. "And that'll also put more than a thousand miles between him and the Pennanti crew. From what I hear, that fisher still ain't 100% convinced that the kid's sleeping with the oysters."

"Okay, yeah…I like that." The Mister clapped his paws, looking pleased. "That's what we'll do, guys. Denis, you make the arrangements. Tipperin, you take the kid back to his room in the club, and make sure he stays there." A look of disgust crossed his face for about a second, "But first, go score him some more Purrcocet. Kieran can work on getting him unhooked when he gets to Bulize."

It was only after we left The Wicked Mink that I realized something. The whole time I'd been in there, no one had anyone spoken to me directly.

Even with his connections, it took Danny a little while to get hold of some more painkillers. By the time he did, I had the shakes so bad, he had to hold my head steady so I could swallow them. Afterwards, he left me alone in my room…and with my thoughts.

I was surprised at how clean it was. Even though no one had been in here since my fight with those wolf-kids, there wasn't a speck of dust to be seen anywhere. I didn't have time to be amazed, though. I had other things on my mind.

From the beginning, I had always suspected that the Mister's decision to have my face fixed hadn't been motivated solely by gratitude—or maybe not at all. There was always an ulterior motive with that guy. His little blurb about 'my training' all but confirmed it in my head. And with that realization came another, bigger one. Right then and there, I knew what he had in mind for me—he was gonna groom me for the role he'd originally planned for Crazy Wez.

And I wasn't sure I wanted to play that part.

Well, I reasoned, as I rolled over and began to drift off, there was nothing I could do about it right then.

But if I ever saw my chance…

I didn't take off for Bulize till the following Friday, and all during that time, I wasn't allowed to leave Finagles. Heck, I wasn't even allowed out of the basement, not even to eat in the lunchroom. The Mister wasn't taking any chances that Detective Lieutenant Pennanti might learn I was still alive.

My second day downstairs, I was on my way to take a shower, when I bumped into Junior in one of the hallways.

"Hey Sean…I mean Dylan," he said, sounding genuinely glad to see me again, "How's the face—still hurting?"

I fanned a paw. "Nahhh, it's fine now."

"Really?" he said, and gave me a big, stupid grin, "Well, it's killing me!" And then he bent over laughing his tail off.

Holy!

Foxtrot!

Was he kidding? The last time I'd heard that joke had been back in the second grade. And it confirmed something Danny had told me on the drive back from Zoo Jersey—that Junior hadn't mended his ways since our last encounter. Too bad for him, but now I couldn't wait to get to Bulize and as far away from this punk as possible. Later, as a prank, he tried to switch my Purrcocets for Tums tablets. It didn't work; those things smelled totally different than the real deal, and I'd stashed a few extra under my mattress, 'just in case.'

The really interesting part was that when The Mister found out, he ripped his kid a new one. Wow, now there was something completely different. Before my fight with that wolfpack, he would have let it pass, or even taken Junior's side. "Wish you coulda been there," Danny told me, after giving me the news—and so did I.

They sent me down to Bulize with a shipment of provisions for the Beach House. At least this time I was on a straight-up passenger plane instead of a reconditioned military transport and a jet instead of a turbo-prop. Much quieter, I was able to sleep most of the way. The Mister could afford to do that coz this time there wasn't any contraband on board—everything was all nice and legal.

Except for me, that is; when we landed, I had to be smuggled off the plane in a packing crate. Afterwards came a jouncing ride in the back on an unairconditioned truck, during which I stopped counting at twelve the number of times I hit my head against the top of that blankety-blank container.

When it finally opened though, there was Kieran, wearing the biggest grin ever on his face.

"Hullo, boyo…welcome to The Beach House," he said, and then picked me up and gave me a crushing hug. It made the rough ride to get here totally worth it.

It became even more worth it when he set me down again. THIS was what they called a 'Beach House'? If I hadn't known better, I would have thought it was a zillion-star luxury hotel—which, I later learned, it would have been if the developer hadn't gone bust.

It was located near the tip of the San Pedro peninsula, just across the bay from Bulize City, a sprawling compound of whitewashed stucco and terra-cotta roofs, with glazed tile everywhere.

After presenting me with a new pair of Meowi-Jim sunglasses, Kieran sat me down in a wheelchair—I said I could walk, but he insisted on it—and gave me the grand tour. Whoa what a palace. It had two swimming pools, both indoor and outdoor. The outdoor one was built in concentric circles and had a mosaic floor, showing a pirate ship. There were three different spas, each one set a different temperature, warm, hot, and OMG! There was a billiard room, tennis courts, a game-room and a theater with a 90-foot screen. There was also a marina and boathouse, but no boats—which didn't surprise me in the least. Before becoming arms merchants, The McCrodon's had been commercial fishermammals. For this family of sea-mink, the ocean would always be their workspace, not their playground.

But now I understood even more why the Mister had sent me here to get myself back in shape. The Beach House also had a gym, a weight room equipped with both machines and free weights, two climbing walls, and a running track that encircled the entire compound. The piece-de-resistance was this obstacle course Danny had designed fursonally. As I would find out soon enough, it took brains and guts as well as strength to get through that bad boy. I'll talk more about that later.

As for where I'd be staying, they were putting me up in the Guest Cottage—which was a 'cottage' the way that the Amazoon is a river. It had its own big-screen, its own private spa; every room was air conditioned and all the furniture was hardwood and plush cushions. Everything was in small-mammal size, but the place had space enough to accommodate a family of lions. It even came with a barbecue grill. And if I needed something—anything at all—I had to do was punch the intercom, and boom…there it was. The Mister's Beach House had a serving staff of…honestly I don't know how many, a doormammal two cooks, a janitor, three maids, a whole crew of groundskeepers, and that was just for starters. Whoa, no wonder Kieran had said he felt like he could stay here forever

Yeah, riiiiiight; it didn't take long for me to realize that the place wasn't quite the paradise it appeared to be. For example, the exterior fence was topped with a triple row of razor ribbon—same as Granite Point—and the bell-tower over the main house had a sniper instead of a bell. There were armed guards everywhere, though I barely caught a glimpse of any of them; these guys were total professionals. I also became aware of something like a gajillion security cameras, all over the compound. Oh, I'd known they were there, ever since the day of my arrival—but now I began to notice that every time I walked past one of them, it'd turn to follow me. In its way, The Mister's Beach House was every bit the prison that The Point had been; a candy-coated prison, but still a prison.

At the end of the day, the place could have been a total theme park and my first two weeks there would have been a holiday in Hell. Before anything else, Kieran needed to get me off that Purrcocet. To be fair, he didn't make me go cold turkey, and thank God for that. Instead, he gradually reduced the dosages, while at the same time, increasing the length of time between them.

And he refused, point blank, to alter that routine, no matter how much I begged and pleaded. If you want to know what that's like trying to kick a painkiller habit, it's like having the flu and being totally keyed up, all at the same time. You look at your watch and it's 3:30. You look again, four hours later, and it's 3:35. That's an inadequate description; you can't really put it into words what it's like, trying to get off Purrcocet—but that should give you some idea of what I was going through.

After I finally kicked the stuff, it was time to get fit again. Kieran started me off easy, no more than 30 minutes of exercise per day, to begin with. However, there was nothing that said he had to ease me into my training as a hacker; I hit that course head on.

I was never a natural with a computer, then or now; no one would ever call me a cyberpunk. Even so, I was a smart kid, a hard worker and willing to listen and learn. That was good enough for Kieran and my progress was sure, but steady.

As time passed, and my exercise fitness routine became more and more strenuous, my appetite also began to increase—even more than when after my face-mask came off. Before long, I was eating everything in sight. In time, I not only began to put on muscle; I could of sworn I was getting taller too. One thing I learned, and really quick, was not to get cocky with it—not unless I wanted Kieran to put the hammer down and with both paws. I found that out, the hard way, the first time I copped a 'tude with him. The next morning, he made me join him on HIS workout, running the compound perimeter three times—I could manage exactly one circuit—performing five times the number of weight reps I was capable of, and finishing with an ascent up the advanced climbing wall.

Dumb fox-kid that I was—and too proud let him see me quit—I actually tried to keep up with him. You can guess how that worked out. By the time we were halfway done, I was a silver-fox pretzel; muscle-cramps everywhere, even in my tail. I had to be carried back to my bungalow with Kieran razzing me every step of the way.

And then every stinkin' step of the penguin walk I was stuck doing for the next couple of days. After that, I learned to keep it low key.

Then…one day…

It was a moment I'll always remember. I had just finished drying off after taking a shower and was on the way back to the guest cottage; the showers in the gym always had better pressure. I was just about to make my exit, when a rain-squall swept over the compound. Nope…no thanks, I had only just finished getting dried, and those bad boys never lasted for very long anyway. On my way back inside, I turned the corner and bang…! There was this other fox-kid, another silver-fox kid, standing at the end of the hallway. Whoa, where the heck had HE come from? This dude had some serious tough-good looks. I…

Wait…hold it. Why was he wearing the same outfit as me? Holy foxtrot…he WAS me; I was looking into a mirror!

What happened next was the closest I came to crying since the day Crazy Wez trashed my muzzle. Again and again, I kept reaching out to touch that mirror…wanting to make sure it really was a mirror.

Yes…yes, it was.

I had my face back!

My happiness was good for about five minutes. I'd been around the horn enough times by then to know I wasn't getting off that easy. Sooner or later, the other hoof was going to drop, and maybe take the bottom out from under me in the process. All I could do was brace myself and try to be ready.

A good effort, but nothing could have prepared me…

Three days later, Kieran had me meet him in the gym for my morning workout session. That wasn't our normal routine; we usually kicked things off with a run around the perimeter track. I didn't see anything unusual about it though; it was raining like 60 on that particular morning. Ordinarily that didn't stop him—since when is a sea mink bothered by a little water—but again, I wasn't asking any questions. All I cared about was that I wasn't gonna come back looking like a water-logged plush-toy.

When I walked into the gymnasium though, I saw no sign of my guy. A quick sniff of the air told me, yeah, he was there, all right…standing in back of me. What the…?

Before I could turn around, or even try to say anything, he beat me to it.

"I'm sorry, Dylan," I heard him say…right before he grabbed me from behind.

When I came out of it, I was lying on an exam table a lot like this one…except for the straps, that is. I also had a muzzle on my face, and it was a good thing, too—coz there, sitting on my chest, was a very familiar looking dormouse…one that I'd been told I wouldn't be seeing any more.

…and whose head I would have bitten off, if I could have got to her. It was none other than Doctor…

"Winters!" I snarled, as best I could, though my facial restraint, "Get off me or I'll…" Uh, let's just say I didn't threaten her with anything nice. I then began to struggle furiously against the straps…to no avail of course, but that wasn't gonna stop me. The only thing that kept me from going into a full-blown panic was that I knew I was still in The Beach House, not back at The Clinic. The room where they were holding me had a window and I could see palm trees and one of the tennis courts outside. That was not, however, enough to make me calm down completely.

"Get off me, rodent!" I somehow managed to fox-scream, "GET YOUR STINKIN' TAIL AWAY FROM ME, YOU…!"

"Easy, boy…easy," a soft, Irish voice spoke from somewhere I couldn't see.

It turned my voice into a whimper. How…how could he have done this to me?

"Kieran…what's going on; why are you doing this?"

"I'm sorry, Dylan," he repeated again, and then moved into my line of sight. That cooled my jets a lot—not coz of what he said, but because I knew now that I hadn't hurt him after he'd grabbed me. As a matter of fact, he didn't have so much as a strand of fur out of place.

But still… "Dude, what the heck is this stinkin' dormouse doing here? Do you know who she is?"

"I'm just trying to…" Doc Winters started to say, but was stifled by Kieran's raised paw.

"Mister's orders," was all he said—and all he needed to say; spoken in the voice of a mink who genuinely hates himself. But then he added, "She's just trying to check yer vitals, boy…and best ye don't fight. She'll be done a lot quicker that way, won't she?"

There was no escaping his logic and I stayed motionless for the remainder of my exam…though it went a LOT further than just checking out my vitals. Doc Winters took four stinkin' blood samples, and when she got to number five, I just couldn't keep quiet any longer.

"What are you, a dormouse…or a vampire bat?"

She never gave me an answer.

Kieran wisely chose to wait until she was gone before removing my muzzle and other restraints. We then retired to the indoor patio for some key lime pie and a talk. I kept insisting I didn't want any and then devoured my piece in like two bites.

And then I was barely able to keep it down—because the next thing Kieran told me was that my session with Dr. Winters was only the first of several I was going to need.

"I don't need ANYTHING from that stinkin' rodent!" I wanted to scream. I didn't, but it took a supreme effort—something that the sea-mink on the other side of the table couldn't possibly fail to notice.

"I know, I know," he sighed, pushing his plate aside, "If it were up t' me, she wouldn't be allowed within hundred miles of ye." He let out another, bigger sigh, "But it's not up to me, is it? It's up to The Mister, and ye know what he's like; his way or th' highway. So…" he straightened up in his chair, looking me right in the eye, "For both our sakes, will ye promise to behave yerself 'round Dr, Winters and do what she says? Like, I told ye before, she'll be finished with yer that much quicker…"

"Okay," I interrupted, cutting him off, "I'll be a good little silver fox about it—on one condition!"

No way was I getting out of this; it was going to happen. But maybe, just maybe, I could make it happen on MY terms.

"An' what might that be?" Kieran asked me, speaking with a lot more patience than he obviously felt.

I leaned forward with my elbows on the table. I knew I might get smacked for what I was about to say, but I didn't care.

"I wanna know what Dr. Winters is doing here, and what she wants with me." I started to sit back again, but changed my mind. "No, I take that back…tell me everything!"

"I don't know everything!" Kieran replied, half resigned and half exasperated.

"Fine," I said, not about to be put off, "Then I want to know everything you know. ALL of it—or the only way you'll get me to hold still for that blankety- blank dormouse is if you tranq me."

Oh my GOD…had I really just said that? I had never talked back to Kieran like that before. I steeled myself for the rocket I was sure was coming, but he only folded his arms and raised an eyebrow.

"All right boy…have it yer own way, but always remember," he raised a finger and wagged it in my face, "You asked for it."

Okay Mr. Rodenberg…if you got a voice recorder with you, now's the time to bring it out. Coz here comes the part you've been waiting for.

Notes:

Author's Note:

Much thanks is due to O.H. Shoot, for clueing me in about the South African delicacy known as 'Bunny Chow'.

Chapter 67: Conor's Story (Continued...Part 17)

Summary:

Back to Zoo York City

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

---

The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Continued…Part 17)

♪ "I've got my head, but my head is unraveling
Can't keep control; can't keep track of where it's traveling
I've got my heart, but my heart is no good
And you're the only one that's understood

I come along, but I don't know where you're taking me
I shouldn't go, but you're wrenching, dragging, shaking me
Turn off the sun; pull the stars from the sky
The more I give to you, the more I die" ♫

Nine Inch Nails  –  The Perfect Drug

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"Kits…For Cash?" Vern Rodenberg repeated the words tentatively, as if they'd been spoken in a foreign tongue that he didn't quite understand.

"Yep…That's right, that's what AKER called it." Conor's ears were turning backwards and his head was hanging low between his shoulders; the fur on the back of his neck had spiked into quills. Even now, the rat attorney realized, the memory still infuriated his young client. He was almost afraid to ask what those words referred to.

He would ask though; this was why he had come here in the first place.

"All right, then; what is—or was—Kits for Cash?"

Conor's lip curled upwards, exposing first one fang and then the other.

"Heyyy, take it easy, Charcoal Boy!" It was Erin Hopps, trying not to sound alarmed—and only barely succeeding.

Barely or not, it was enough to get the job done. Taking a long, deep breath, the fugitive young silver fox shut his eyes, and balled-up his fists. After a short moment, his fangs went away and his eyes blinked open once more.

"Sorry," he said, speaking to the bunny-girl before turning his attention back to Mr. Rodenberg. "It goes like this," he said, "For every kid that gets sent to one of their juvie institutions, AKER Correctional gets a payment from the State of Zoo Jersey. Are you with me so far?"

"Yes, they're a private corrections company," the grey rat answered. Now HE was the one trying to maintain control. It had not escaped his attention that Conor was speaking in the present tense.

"Right," the young fox nodded, "So, what AKER did was come to a little arrangement with these two Zoo Jersey judges. For every kid they sent to Juvie—instead of community service, or probation, or whatever—they got paid a kickback…"

"Oy!"

"NO!"

Both Erin and Vern Rodenberg were gaping in openmouthed shock.

"YES! Conor snarled, folding his arms and looking grimly triumphant, "I didn't believe it either, not until Kieran showed me the receipts. Kits for Cash is a thing all right. And that's not all; along with the direct payment there's a bonus effect. When your clean-cut, regular kid, gets out of Juvie, he's far, far less likely to steal or whatever than a hardcase delinquent—especially if he was convicted on a bogus rap. So, if you send a bunch of regular kids to Juvie, the overall effect is to reduce the percentage of that reoffend when they get out. And then AKER can use that statistic as a marketing pitch, 'Look at our low recidivism rate, isn't it wonderful?' His eyes narrowed into fire slits, and he slapped the side of the exam-table. "And it's still a thing. Only it's not just for Zoo Jersey anymore; it's happening here—in Zootopia!" He was staring at Mr. Rodenberg with the intensity of a laser-torch.

"How…?" The rat attempted to ask, before the words dried up in his throat. He'd been expecting something scandalous, but this…this was monstrous!

IF it was true, he reminded himself. But even as the thought came to him, he knew—deep in his heart, he knew that yes…yes, it was.

He swallowed hard and tried again.

"How…do you know this?"

The answer hit him like a slap in the face.

"Like I said, I saw the receipts. And by the way, every single one of those 'for cash' kids were advised—same as me—to shine on being represented by an attorney." He looked away for a second and then back again, "Yeah, that's right; Kieran had an actual memo from AKER HQ. Those stinkin' judges were TOLD to recommend that those kids not seek counsel—and then, when they got to court, it was double-cross time. They got hit with the maximum sentence Their Dishonors could get away with." His fangs came out again, for just a second. "And…it gets worse."

"W-worse?" The word came out of Erin as a ragged croak. 'How could it possibly be worse?' she seemed to be thinking. Vern Rodenberg understood this, because it was exactly how he felt.

"Yeah," Conor was favoring them both with his burning-amber eyes. "If you were a kid on your own, no family, no legal guardian, no one to ask after you, you got selected for even more special treatment." He shook his head, as if he didn't believe it himself. And then without warning, his gaze snapped sideways, focusing solely on Mr. Rodenberg. The rat shrank back a little, as if caught in the beam of a powerful spotlight.

"They called it 'the upgrade program'. Remember those punks who jumped me in the Johnston Campus? That wasn't anything spontaneous; they were acting under orders. Yeah, that's right; The Enforcers weren't the only goon squad the Mammal had at his beck and call…and I was far from the only kid who got that treatment. By the time it was my turn, AKER practically had it down to a science; have their stooges pick a fight with a kid on the upgrade list, and then, no matter how it turned out, it was always that kid's fault. After that, The Mammal owned you. Once you were listed as a violent offender, you could be sent to The Clinic any time they felt like it. The only difference was that normally, the upgraded kids didn't end up in Granite Point first. I was the exception coz I really did throw the first punch…and because of what Wez did to me; I mean mentally, not physically. Those AKER guys weren't stupid, they knew I was a changed fox when I came out of their so-called 'infirmary'. If it hadn't been for my fight with that sable-kid, Wayne Babin, I might never have been sent to their stinkin' psycho ward."

"What about the Mearns Brothers?" Rodenberg asked him. "I remember you saying that they had their names changed, same as you did. Were they, um, on the upgrade list as well?"

Conor answered him with a short, tight nod.

"Yes, they were. Only there was no need to get THEM into a fight; they were already in for a violent offense. What it was, they never said, but they always insisted that they'd only been defending themselves." He waved a paw as if clearing away smoke. "But never mind; all three of us were headed for The Clinic the minute we got busted—and we never had a clue. THAT'S how AKER handled the kids without any family."

"But…But why?" It was Erin again, her nose twitching almost as hard as Vern Rodenberg's whiskers.

Conor looked from her to the rat and back again.

"Coz AKER also happens to be the owner of LPN Pharma; you follow what I'm bringing out? A chip the size of a roofing beam appeared to have materialized on his shoulder—or, that was the expression on his face at least.

"Hang on," Now Vern Rodenberg was the animal shaking his head. "Are you trying to tell me that…that AKER used you as a test subject for a new pharmaceutical?"

"No." For once, the young fox answered him in the negative—but not in a good way, "Not a pharmaceutical. I was used as a test subject for the Nighthowler antidote."

"Oh! My! GOD!" The grey rat's paws slapped against his cheeks, "Oh no, they couldn't!" Glancing briefly to his right, he saw Erin Hopps, blinking back tears but with her mouth set into a hard, flat line. Conor must already have told her this, he realized–-and she'd hated it, but she'd believed him.

His ears, meanwhile, had turned backwards and were lying flat against his neck. "Yes, they could, Counselor. It's called Morningmew. And, it's actually…"

"Hold it, hold it!" Rodenberg's paws were raised; a stranded motorist, trying to flag down a truck. As any one of his other clients could have said, he was noted for making fast recoveries. "How do you know this, Booby? And what the heck is Morningmew? I never heard of it before."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you…if you'll let me," Conor's face had morphed from defiant to irritated. "Everyone thinks Morningmew is the antidote to Nighthowler, but it's actually the other way around—hang on, hang on, I'm getting to that." The rat had started to raise a finger, but now he lowered it again. "Morningmew came first, then Nighthowler—and should I know, coz I'm totally immune to both of those bad boys." His arms folded and his face hardened into a 'show-me' stare. "If you don't believe me, have a nurse come down and give me a Mew shot—they prolly got a dose or two of that stuff somewhere on this barge." His eyes seemed to flash for a second. "Go ahead, it won't do jack to me."

"Ahhhh, that won't be necessary, kid." Vern Rodenberg's voice was gentle but also wary. This was something else he'd seen a few times; a client who knows he's telling the truth, but doesn't expect anyone else to believe it. From long and bitter experience, the rat attorney had learned to trust the word of such mammals, and trust it implicitly.

On the other paw…if Conor WAS telling the truth, then…

Then…!

"Wait, you mean…AKER had the Nighthowler antidote all along? They could have stopped the Savage Predator epidemic any time they wanted—and chose not to?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," the young fox answered, slapping the side of the table yet again.

"And you knew too—but you never said anything," Erin Hopps interjected. There was nothing aggressive in her voice, nothing critical; it was a prompt, not an accusation.

Conor rose to it at once. "Like I told you before, bunny-girl, who were they gonna believe, a fine, upstanding, billion-dollar company—or this punk fox-kid on the run from John Q. Law?" His head tilted sideways. "And besides that, I had no evidence; it all got burned up in the Finagles raid—or else AKER got hold of it. Either way, I couldn't prove a thing—and I still can't."

There was regret in the young fox's voice, Vern Rodenberg noted—genuine, deep regret. It was probably true; there was nothing he could have done. And yet even now, he was carrying a burden of guilt, as if the whole thing really had been his fault. It made the rat's next question awkward in the extreme, although he knew he couldn't avoid it.

"Understandable, son. But there's something I still don't get. Why didn't The Mister blow the whistle on what AKER was doing? I thought he hated that corporation."

Conor threw up his paws in frustration. "I don't know, Mr. Rodenberg; your guess is as good as mine. All I can say is, most of the time nobody knew what the heck was going on in that sea-mink's head—especially towards the end. The only thing I can think of is…maybe he thought he could use it to run a leverage-scheme on The AKER Group."

Rodenberg nearly guffawed at this. Even in their heyday, the McCrodon gang wouldn't have been any kind of match for a multi-billion-dollar corporation. It would have been like putting up a high-school football team to play the Super-Bowl champs.

He did NOT laugh, though…because he had met The Company chieftain face-to-face. He had seen for himself how random James 'The Mister' McCrodon could be at times—and that was before his health had begun to spiral. Yes-s-s…when you thought about it, that sea-mink just might have been rash enough to pull such a dangerous stunt.

And hey-y-y, hadn't AKER Security been running backup for the ZYPD during the Finagles raid? He'd have to check; if they had, it would fit in with Conor's narrative almost perfectly.

But in the meantime, there were some significant gaps in his client's story. For example, he still hadn't revealed…

"All right, but what DID Dr. Winters want with you?" he asked, circling back to the beginning.

That was Conor's cue to do the same…and he went all the way back to his first encounter with the dormouse.

---

When I woke up in The Clinic, and learned why I was there, I didn't see anything weird about it. Why should I? Any kid who'd lost it the way I had would have ended up in that place. So, when Kieran told me that my being sent there had been planned from the beginning, it practically blew me through the wall. I remember him saying that I was especially valuable as a test subject because of my species…hrm?

Wel-l-l, you know that old joke about how foxes are canine hardware running feline software? Well, a lot of it's true. We have paws like canines, and night vision like a lot of cat species; we even get off on catnip. And nooo, Erin, I haven't tried it…so don't ask.

Yeah, yeah…I'm no fun—wha-a-a-tever! The point is, a fox can be used to test pharma products for both felines and canine species.

Well, what else are they supposed to do, huh? It's not like there's all kinds of non-sentient mammals, just running around, waiting to be used as lab-animals.

Easy…easy, Counselor. I'm just parroting the official AKER line over here. But now do you understand why my tail gets frizzy and my fangs start showing when I talk about it? Right…exactly.

All right, this is gonna need some explaining—and I don't know all the details, so bear with me here, okay? Morningmew will undo the effects of Nighthowler, but Nighthowler won't do the same for Morningmew…not completely.

I don't know how, exactly…but that was the problem and it was driving the AKER guys bonkers; they needed it to work. Don't ask me why—even Kieran had no idea—but they were like a kid who can't get that last, stinkin' Tetris piece to fit. And that's why Doc Winters was so interested in me. You see—I didn't know this until Kieran clued me in—but when someone grabs me from behind, the effect is very similar to Nighthowler poisoning, except with one big difference. When I lose it after being snagged like that, the effects are only temporary. Nighthowler, on the other paw, will make you go savage for good if you don't get the antidote. And that's the reason that blankety-blank dormouse latched onto me. She thought that whatever was making the effects of me being grabbed from behind go away after a while; it might be the key to tweaking Nighthowler so that it could finally do the job as a Morningmew antidote. I'm not sure how that was supposed to work, and Kieran didn't know, either. Anyway, that was why Doc Winters wanted to make me her pet project.

But first she'd have to deal with this one, teensy-little glitch. Her bosses totally refused to get on board with the proposal; they thought it was a waste of time and resources. Still…they'd tried just about everything else by then and so they gave her the go-ahead—very reluctantly, and with all kinds of restrictions. Long story short, her theory didn't pan out and the mammals upstairs ordered the project terminated.

To say that Dr Dormouse didn't take it well would be a major understatement. According to Kieran, she screamed her stinkin' head off when she got the news. "You can't do this, you can't! I'm THAT close…yadda, yadda, yadda!"

Oh, you already know what happened next, Mr. Rodenberg. She snuck behind AKER's back and ran that little-late night experiment on me—totally unauthorized.

And that was where it really got interesting. Doc Winter was soooo sure it would work this time…and that when it did, her bosses would totally forgive her for going behind their backs.

Nice try, but it didn't work—and the mammals upstairs didn't give her a pass. They came down on her like a runaway wrecking ball. She was fired for cause, no severance, no nothing. And then she was blacklisted; AKER spread the word about her unauthorized experiment and after that, no legitimate pharma company would touch her. When she tried to apply for a job with ZooGen, she got slapped with a 'Cease and Desist' order.

So, guess where she finally ended up? Running The Company's bootleg pharmaceutical operations—at three times what she'd been making before.

Ahhhh, I'll get to that in a minute, but first I need to talk about something else. Like it or not, I had a reason to be grateful to that dormouse. Thanks to that 'guerrilla experiment' she ran on me I was deemed useless as a subject for anything else. Tainted—that's the word Kieran used—they couldn't do anything else with me, coz the results would be tainted. That's the real reason why I got sent back to The Point; the AKER dudes couldn't figure out what the heck else to do with me.

By the way, that was also the reason the Mearns brothers got let out of Juvie when they did. Catching the hantavirus rendered them useless as test subjects, too.

Beats me…but that's why AKER let them walk. Or, that's what Kieran found in their database.

Why wasn't I given my walking papers? Ahhh, Erin…I must have asked myself that same question a zillion times. Who knows? Maybe I would have been set free if I hadn't broken out of The Point…or maybe not, I'll never know. Whatever the case…right now, as far as I'm concerned, what's done is done and there's no going back.

But, getting back to Dr. Winters…I don't know how she did it, but eventually she found out I was running with The Company.

I can guess when it happened though; had to be after my fight with the Stalinszhkiy, but before my surgery.

Coz she must have gotten a look at me; my new name, Dylan Yeats would have meant zip to her, and that was my second alias since hooking up with The Company. Like I said, I don't know for sure, but if she'd spotted me, she would have known who I was in a heartbeat; she had seen me up close and fursonal in the Clinic—and before I had my face fixed, it was pretty hard to forget. Whatever the case, as soon as Doc Winters discovered that the kid she'd known as Al Murphy was working for her new employers, boom…there I was, back in her obsession book. Somehow, she managed to wangle an interview with The Mister and practically begged him on her knees to let her continue her experiments with me. To just about everyone's surprise, he gave her an instant green light.

"Could've knocked me over with a playin' card when I heard." Kieran was shaking his head when he told me. "After all the effort—and cash—me uncle had invested in having yer muzzle repaired, getting ye in shape, and yer training, he shouldn't have wanted t' let that quack anywhere near you." He lifted his paws in a helpless gesture. "But…that's The Mister for you. Y' never know WHAT'S gonna float 'is boat."

Truer words were never spoken. But before I could say so, he sat up straight, and folded his arms, giving me a look of chiseled marble. "And that's everythin' I know, boyo; I've fulfilled me part o' the bargain, so now it's time for you to own up to yours." he spit in his paw and held it out to me. "Promise me, right here an' now, that ye'll behave yerself for Dr. Winters."

What could I do? He had me. I took his paw and swore to be a good little silver fox for Doc Dormouse.

I had a total of eight more sessions with her. The first four began with Kieran grabbing me from behind, so I have no idea what she did to me afterwards. Like always, I blacked out…and no one ever filled me in on what had gone down while I was zoned.

But then, the fourth time…

For our fourth session, Dr. Winters had me lie down on an exam table, and then raised up the end so my head was elevated, kinda like the way this one is now. That was when I noticed a CCTV camera looking straight at me. Uh-oh, I had a very bad feeling about this—and an even worse one, when Kieran came in and began strapping me down. If it hadn't been for my promise…

And then, when I was all nice and secure, Doc Dormouse hopped up on the table beside me.

"Okay, just need a blood sample; little poke."

What? No, she didn't do it herself; she had a nurse with her—didn't I mention that before? No? Well anyway, she was one of my own species, a corsac fox vixen; Natasha-something, I never did get her last name.

But when she stuck me with that needle…it was really strange. It didn't feel like she was drawing blood; it was more like I was being given a shot. It did nothing for my anxiety when everyone cleared out of the room when she was done—and I mean really fast.

But then…

For the next ten or twenty minutes I just lay there…with nothing happening; nicht, zip, nada. Whatever that vix had given me—if she'd given me anything—it might as well have been tap water for all the effect it was having.

What the heck was going on here?

When Dr. Winters came back, I expected her to be all frustrated and stuff, the way she'd been during our last session in the Clinic. Nope, she was anxious, yeah, but in kind of a…I guess a hopeful is the way you'd put it.

We repeated the process three more times, and after each of them, her mood went up a little more. And then, after our eighth session …whoa! I've seen grand prize winners on The Price is Right who weren't that pumped. The really weird thing was when that fox nurse, Natasha, happened to mention the name, 'AKER' in her presence. When Doc Winters heard that, I swear, she looked like a witch, about to turn an enemy into a toad.

But then the next day, she was gone…no farewells, no goodbyes, just not there anymore.

Well yeah, mostly I was happy…except before she left, I really wanted to tell that stinkin' rodent what I thought of her—in graphic detail. I had never promised to be nice to her after she was done with me.

Oh well, she was gone, and that was enough, I'd settle. Gone, but not forgotten; I still had to sit for the occasional blood draw.

Gotta admit…Doc Winters knew what she was doing—or somebody did. When she took off, she left her nurse assistant behind. She was the one who drew those blood samples and checked my vitals—and I'd let HER do whatever the heck she wanted with me.

Are you kidding, Mr. Rodenberg? This corsac vix wasn't just cute, she was hot—we're talking centerfold-hot over here. Not only that, she was always getting flirty with me. Used to tell me what a brave kid I was, and how cute I looked with my new face. A coupla times she even stole kisses. Whoa, I was like…

Huh? Erin, what the…? Where you going? Hey, don't slam the door! Sheesh, Mr. Rodenberg, what the heck's wrong with her?

Green-eyed monster…what green-eyed monster? And what's so funny? Look, even then I knew that routine of hers was only to keep me in line…or maybe she just got off on being a tease. I dunno, but she was never serious about it. Later on, when Danny T. showed up, that was when she got serious—real serious.

Ahhh, I'll get into that in a few, but there's some other things I gotta talk about first. After Doc Winters left, Kieran kicked my training routine up to the next level, teaching me some of his mad fighting skillZ

Yeah, that's what I thought too—but I found out otherwise real sweet quick. It was…ahhhh, as if what I'd learned in Granite Point was basic training, and this was the advanced course. Like I said before, Kieran knew how to fight with his head, not just his teeth and claws, and now he started teaching me. The first thing he taught me—something he never stopped repeating—was to lay off the trash-talk, before and especially during a fight.

"Yer here for a Donnybrook, boy—not a debate. So can the yappin' and get to scrappin'!"

Later he taught me a little refinement; when your opponent starts in with the trash talk, that's the time to go after him. He also taught me how to size up an enemy before a fight; how to read their body language, and how to anticipate their next move. I was never as good at any of that as he was, but I still like to think…

Oh, hey Erin…you okay? Well, you don't sound fine; what the heck's the matter already?

All right, whatever. Anyway, I was just telling Mr. Rodenberg about Kieran teaching me some, uh, advanced fighting techniques.

Well, he also taught me how to adjust my strategy according to my opponent's species. F'rinstance, bobcats, lynxes, and the like all have thin skulls…so if you find yourself in a fight with a small-to-middling feline species, go for a head-shot, you follow what I'm bringing out? "Every species has their weak-spot," he always used to say.

Wel-l-l-l almost every species. One time I asked him, "What should I do if I find myself up against a wolverine?"

He told me, "RUN!"

I didn't laugh; I wasn't joking. I had never forgotten that one dude with the dirty-white paw; the one I'd encountered back at The Point.

In the meantime, Kieran also kicked my fitness program into high gear. He used to make me play Sisyphus with this tractor tire and have me climb this coconut tree while he timed me with a stopwatch. Even though mink are anything but an arboreal species, I was never able to beat his time; never even came close. Even so, I continued to improve, slowly, but surely.

Yeah-h-h, kinda goes without saying that he kept up with my computer training. But now he raised that up to another level too. One morning, he led me to the pool cabana, and a secret door, leading to a hidden basement. When he flicked on the light, there, inside a geodesic dome, was an almost exact duplicate of Brenda; the big computer set up underneath Finagles. When I asked him what the dome was for, he told me it was Furaday Cage, and explained how they work. From that moment, until I left Bulize, that cage was my computer school.

The Beast? Ahhh, my bad, I was thinking of, um...this other computer

As the days passed, they began to meld into each other; the same routine, over and over. Sometimes I couldn't remember what day of the week it was. The only break was when this big storm blew in and we had to shelter in place for a couple of days. I had almost no leisure time, and spent every single minute of it practicing guitar. Yeah, I'd been allowed to bring 'em; didn't I say?

Well anyway, this one morning I was having breakfast in my cottage, when the intercom buzzed. It was Kieran, telling me to meet him in the main house, pronto.

"Can I at least finish my…?"

"No, get over here, right now," he told me…in a voice that said I'd better move it if I knew what was good for me.

All the way there, I kept wondering what the heck I could've done wrong. As it turned out the answer was nothing—although what Kieran had to say wasn't much better. His uncle, The Mister, would be arriving in a few days.

Ohhh joy…I'd have rather spent a week in a dentist's chair than a day or two with that guy.

But then Kieran told me, "For the duration of his visit, you're confined to quarters, Dylan—meanin' you're stay inside the guest cottage and not come out for any reason." He sat back and aimed a finger. "I mean it, boy. I don't care if th' place catches fire; you stay put, y'understand?"

"Y-Yes sir," I gulped, although actually, I wasn't that bothered. The way I saw it, being grounded for a while was a small price to pay for not having to hang with The Mister-–especially if he was bringing Junior with him. (He wasn't…though I didn't find out until later.)

But when I say grounded, I mean guh-rounded! I was forbidden to use the intercom, my cell-phone was confiscated, and if anyone knocked on my door, I was to ignore them, even if they started pounding the heck out of it. Also, my window-blinds and shutters were to remain closed at all times. I could text Kieran by way of my laptop, but only in an emergency. "An' it better BE an emergency," he warned me. And…I had to wear headphones while using it, no speakers. Ditto for the TV…and especially if I wanted to practice guitar. I didn't object; what choice did I have? And even with all those conditions, I still considered it a fair trade-off.

I didn't catch The Mister's arrival—which was fine with me. He showed up in the middle of the night, while I was sleeping. I found that out when I woke up, next morning, to the sound of my laptop pinging.

That was pretty much how it went for me the whole time the boss mink was in residence. I never saw him—or anybody else during that week. I knew he was around though; at least twice I heard him throwing one of his epic conniptions. The second time, I swear…they must have heard him back in Zoo York.

And whoa, things were busy during his stay. No one ever came knocking on my door, but there was always some activity going on outside. Every day, at 10 AM sharp, a helicopter would come swooping in over the guest cottage and touch down on the pad outside the compound. And I don't mean one of your standard-issue, TV-news-type chopper, either. We're talking a king-size military transport over here. And it always took off at the same time; 6 in the evening, right on the dot.

As for me, every morning when I woke up, there were fresh provisions in the kitchen, and fresh linens, waiting on the couch. It spooked me a little at first but after a couple of days, I got used to it. I never saw who left those goods—or smelled them; they always sprayed the cottage with bio-deodorizer before they bailed.

No…I didn't get bored. I had my laptop and guitars and this was my chance to get in some serious practice—which I did.

Finally, on the eighth day, things quieted down, and the next morning I woke up to a message on my laptop, "Olly-olly-ox-in-free." Not in those words, but that was how it felt. I quickly got dressed and was just about to reach for my door when someone knocked, jackhammer-fast and just above the level of my head. Whoa-ho; that could only be Danny Tipperin.

When I opened up…yep, it was Danny all right, but I was surprised to find him there all by himself.

"Hey kid, lookin' good." he said, offering a rare smile. "How ya been?"

"Doin' great, Danny," I grinned. It was good to see that swift fox again. But then, I couldn't help looking past him. "Where's Kieran?"

"Went back to Zoo York with The Mister," he said, "I'll be taking over your training schedule from here on in." Somehow, I managed to hide my disappointment.

Nooo, Danny was an okay fox; it was just that…he was always so darn serious, about as much fun to hang with as your average funeral director. In the time I'd known him, I think I heard him laughing a grand total of five times.

Oh well, at least it wasn't Junior.

There was probably more that I could have learned from Kieran, but Danny taking his place wasn't necessarily a bad thing. He might have been a little too humorless for my tastes, but his teaching abilities were at least as good as that sea-mink's. He was no slouch himself when it came to a fight and he also knew a thing or two about how to use weapons, improvised and otherwise. He was the guy who first taught me how to use a telescoping baton. He also got me started on that obstacle course I mentioned earlier, the one that he'd designed himself. Hoo-boy, what a trip that was. Like I said earlier, it took brains and not just strength to get through that bad boy.

Well, f'rinstance, the overhead bars on the section where you have to swing across a mud-bog were set too far apart for me to reach—even by doing the catapult swing, and they'd been set that way on purpose, AND…I had to totally figure out for myself how to get across that bad boy. Danny straight up refused to give me any advice. "Gotta learn to think for yourself, kid."

Hmmmm, well…with all the rain they get in Bulize, there were umbrellas all over the Beach House. So, what I did was grab a couple and turn 'em into arm extensions…using the handle-crooks to snag the bars as I went across. Worked great—until one of those bad boys popped open on me, right when I thought I had it owned. Heh…That was the sixth time I ever saw Danny Tipperin laughing his tail off. The next day, I tried it again—but this time, I wrapped the umbrellas shut with duct-tape first, and I made it all the way across to the end.

Danny also began instructing me in strategy and tactics; how to tell if you're being followed; how to know if you've got a tracking tag on you, and how to lose it without the guy tailing you knowing you got rid of it; how to slip a message—or anything else—into someone's pocket without them noticing. A hundred-and-one ways to hide contraband on your furson, without it being discovered.

But the most valuable thing I learned from that swift-fox was a skill that only another vulpine could have taught me; how to use my magnetic sense.

Yeah, I'm serious Erin. Us foxes have the ability to navigate and locate other animals using the earth's magnetic field. It's how our wild ancestors scoped for prey under the snow—oh, don't look at me like I'm psycho or something; you know we don't play that anymore. But the thing is, all foxes have that ability. We never lost it, we just kind of forgot about it as we evolved. But it's still there—and with a little training, we can learn to use it again.

Oh yeah, it was easy-peasy for me to get the hang of it; so easy that I honestly had to wonder why I never figured it out for myself. And boy, did that skill come in handy, once I got it dialed in. It's saved me from being grabbed from behind many a time. It's got a major limitation though; only works if you're facing North—or South, if you think someone's sneaking up on your six.

That was the good part. The bad part came when Danny started training me in the use of firearms.

Ahhh, I'd call it an ordeal and a half, Mr. Rodenberg. The first few times he put a gun in my paw, I got the shakes so bad, I couldn't keep from dropping it. And this was just a dinky, little target pistol. Danny was understanding when I explained the problem, but never stopped reminding me that we were both under orders from The Mister. After a while, I lost the shakes, but a lot of times, when we finished up on the firing range, I had to run to the bathroom to hurl. No matter how many times I handled them, I just couldn't stop hating on guns.

But that wasn't the only reason I kept getting sick to my stomach. Something was happening to me, something I didn't like. You've heard me say it—whenever someone threatens me, I always come back with, "Then that's what's gonna happen." I'd had that 'tude ever since the day Kieran wrecked my face, but after my surgery, it had started to go away.

Not anymore; now that sucker was back with a vengeance. With every passing day, I cared less and less about what happened to me—and I knew what was going on. Little by little I was being turned into one of those child soldiers I'd seen in the Nelson Manedela Children's Hospital.

And that was the last place I ever wanted to go.

While all this was happening, I was keeping up on my computer training with Kieran. That was something I could do by remote. What little free time I had, I spent practicing guitar.

Except for…there was this time I found Danny futzing around with a backgammon board. I immediately told him that I played too, and how about a game? I didn't really want one, but we were due out on the firing range shortly. Anything I could do to delay that tribulation was one in the win column as far as I was concerned.

Danny just looked up at me with a bored expression. "Ahhh, I don't think so, kid. Not to toot my own horn, but I'm really good at backgammon; it wouldn't be much of a contest."

That might have put me off, if I'd actually cared about winning. But, since I didn't, I spread my arms and gave him the soulful eyes routine, "Awww, c'mon…just one little game? Who else around here knows how to play, anyway?"

"All right kid," he said, setting up the pieces and motioning for me to sit down, "ONE game, one and done."

For the first few moves, it looked like that swift fox's prediction of an easy victory was going to come true. But then the lessons I'd picked up from that old porcupine, Jasper Komeyaza, began to kick in—and the trend commenced to reverse itself. Danny won that game, but only by a whisker—and then he insisted on a rematch. I won the second match, and then the third; on our fourth go around, I smoked him. I dunno how game five would have ended, though…coz about halfway through, Danny turned the board over and stomped off, gekkering—something about, "…wasting my time on a blankety-blank KID's game!"

And the best part was, he completely forgot about our gunnery lesson for that day.

I began seeing less and less of Danny after that. Not because of that backgammon thing, but coz he was spending more and more time with Natasha. A lot of times, they'd disappear together, and even back then I knew what they were up to. Didn't mind it though, especially when it cut into my firearms training. And—no surprise—the minute she hooked up with Danny, I became the kid who wasn't there. The only time that corsac vixen even spoke to me was either to tell me to get lost, or….

Huh? What do you mean 'Whoo-Hoo?' You're getting really weird on me here, bunny-girl, you know that?

Anyway…eventually my Bulize vacation had to come to an end—and it was not something I was looking forward to. My toughest days at the Beach House were better than my best ones in Zoo York.

The ax finally fell when Danny showed up late for dinner one evening—and plopped himself so hard into his chair, it would have broken if it hadn't been carved out of blackwood. This was not his usual behavior, so I asked him what was wrong.

"We've been ordered back to Zoo York!" he snarled—and then attacked his meal like a wild fox on a lizard.

Awwwww, nuts! I began to slide out of my chair.

"Huh, where you going, kid?" Danny glared at me over a mouthful of food.

"T-To start packing," I answered, totally bewildered.

He swallowed and reached for his glass, still giving me the eye. "Not now, ya little idiot; Saturday. Siddown and finish eating."

Nahhh, how could I blame him for getting his crank on, when I felt exactly the same way? I didn't wanna leave the Beach House either. And for sure, I was in no hurry to hook up with The Mister again.

'Course that swift fox had even more reasons for wanting to stay than me…one in particular, if you follow what I'm bringing out.

Heh, that's what he thought…until he broke the news to Natasha. She was sad but not heartbroken. She told Danny how much she admired his mind, how she was going to miss him, and wished they could have spent more time together. "Call me when you get back to Zoo York, give it a week." she said, "and always remember…whatever else happens we'll always be the best of friends." And then she kissed him on the cheek.

Danny came away from that meeting ready to take the head off of anyone who got too close to him. I had no idea why at the time—but I know now, heh-heh.

We didn't fly directly back to Zoo York. We took a helicopter up to Cozumel Island and flew to Pawston on this charter flight, tagging along with a bunch of college-kids.

Yeah…they were on their way home from Spring Break. Yeesh, what a rowdy bunch, I didn't get a wink of sleep on that flight. When we landed at Logan we had to wait until the kids got off before we disembarked—by way of the luggage compartment in a pair of packing crates. From there, we were taken to a dockyard where we switched over to a limousine for the drive back to Barklyn.

I had no idea what all the secrecy was for. Danny didn't know either and it made him uncharacteristically edgy.

This time, we were driven directly to Finagles. When we exited the limo, I expected to be hustled straight into The Mister's presence, but nope…not this time. I was brought down to my room and told, once again, not to leave the basement for any reason, except mealtimes.

Ah well…at least this time I could eat in the break-room after the club closed down for the night. I had access to The Beast too—but only when Kieran wasn't using it.

Yeah, he was there—but after welcoming me back to Zoo York, I barely saw him. Same thing with Danny; he was always too busy to talk to me; they both were. In fact, so was everybody. All that week, Finagles was like a dang beehive, always something going on. More than a few times, I was confined to my room for an indefinite period, no explanation given. I spent a lot of that week either exercising or practicing on my guitar.

I didn't have to be the sharpest knife in the drawer to be aware that something big was in the works. I was dying to find out what—but if I didn't know by then when to keep my fox-trap shut, I'd never get the drift.

Finally, eight days after my arrival back in Barklyn, Kieran came knocking, to tell me that The Mister wanted to see me in his office.

"Dunno what for, Dylan, but I can say this at least, he's not mad at ye."

"Ah, thanks, Kieran," I said, rolling off my bed. I was trying to sound grateful, but as cold comfort goes, that was stinkin' ARCTIC.

What I saw after we left the basement, did nothing for my peace of mind. Finagles had been as busy as Black Friday all week…but now it was like totally deserted. No kidding; you would have thought there'd been a bomb-scare, the place was so empty.

Outside The Mister's office, the usual line of wiseguys waiting to be called was nowhere to be seen and we entered without knocking. When we got inside, there he was, sitting behind his desk. He was alone, except for his bodyguard, Lefty…who seemed to be trying his darndest to pretend he couldn't see me.

"Hey kid," the boss mink greeted me with a wave, "long time, no see, huh? You're looking good over here."

For a second, I was too stunned to respond. No, WAY would I have said the same for him—the guy was a total wreck. The last time I'd seen him he'd at least been able to stand unassisted. Now, he was confined to a wheelchair and hooked up to an oxygen tank—and he looked something like 50 pounds heavier than the last time I'd seen him. Holy foxtrot…what the heck had he been doing to himself while I'd been down in Bulize?

But then, he spoke the magic words, breaking the spell. "Sit down, fox-kid, I got work for you."

Ouch! I'd suspected something like this was coming, ever since Danny had told me we were heading back to Zoo York. But still, it hit me like a hornet sting.

When The Mister saw my reaction though, he waved a dismissive paw. "Naw, nothing like you were doing before, fox-kid; you'll be making a delivery and a pickup in another city; drop off a package in a prearranged location, and grab another one to bring back here." Without giving me time to digest this, he leaned across his desk. "Think you can handle that?" His eyebrows were halfway to the ceiling

"Sure, no sweat," I told him. I would have said 'yes,' no matter what. But yeah…that sounded like something I could manage.

And I wouldn't have to hurt anyone—even better.

"Fine," he nodded, looking halfway pleased. "You'll get the details later. Right now, nephew, take him back to his room."

And that was that; I had been in his office for maybe a minute, if that long.

The next morning, after breakfast, Kieran had me meet him in one of the downstairs conference rooms for a more detailed rundown of my mission. This didn't surprise me in the slightest. Like many another crime-boss, The Mister never gave orders directly, not for big assignments anyway. It made it that much harder to trace the scheme back to him, if things went south.

Even then, Kieran didn't tell me much more than his uncle had; only that I'd be flying to another city and delivering a backpack to a prearranged drop-site, where I'd be picking up a slightly bigger one to bring back to Finagles. He never told me when I'd be leaving, which city I'd be going to, or what I'd be carrying.

About the first one, I didn't have a clue…but I could guess the third, and that gave me an idea about the second one. Diamonds, I was about 80% sure it was gonna be conflict diamonds.

Well…a lot of it was a hunch, but I knew The Company traded in those bad boys; there isn't a gunrunner on the planet that won't take diamonds as payment for an arms shipment. That also gave me a clue as to my destination. Los Antelopes; the Mister had sent diamonds there in the past…or, that's what I'd heard anyway.

Yeah, I know…why send those stones 3000 miles away when you're sitting on top of the biggest diamond exchange in the country? That was another thing about The Mister; he never did business locally. If you were based in Zoo York and wanted to buy guns from him, you were straight out of luck. "I got enough headaches with that fisher-cop as it is," I heard him say once.

Anyway, I was only half right. Yeah, it was diamonds, but it wasn't LA—although how was I supposed to know? Up until then, the Mister had never done business in Zootopia, at least not that I knew of.

As the days went by, I began to get further details of my assignment, always in bits and pieces, and always from different guys. Only rarely did the Mister even mention that gig, and even then, he never referenced it directly.

He did, however, return to a familiar theme.

"That thing you're doing kid? Just so you know, it's a test to see how well you can handle yourself. Do good…and good things will happen for you." And then he leaned across his desk, scowling, "Mess up…and you know what'll happen, right?"

Yeah, I knew…Granite Point, the first time he'd even alluded to that place since my fight with the Stalinzhkiy.

Ahhh, not really, Erin…I'd been warned, several times—by Kieran and especially by Danny, "Don't be fooled, kid. The Mister's gratitude always comes with an expiration date."

The only other times the boss mink ever mentioned my assignment was to reassure me, "Don't worry; they won't search no kid." Coming from him, that did little to bolster my confidence.

Something that did help was when Kieran dropped by my room with a 'specially modified' cell phone for me to take along—one he'd equipped with several apps to use, 'in case of emergency.' That made me feel better; I had yet to use one of his gadgets that wasn't 100% reliable.

I didn't see him much after that, but I saw a lot of Danny, who constantly drilled me in how to handle my assignment, always ambushing me with questions about what to do in case of…'friction' as he called it. What do I do if someone on the plane starts asking me about my parents? What do I do, if someone tries to snatch my backpack…or what if they try to rob me at gunpoint? How do I handle it if the plane has to make an emergency landing at another airport? What if, when I go to make the exchange, the other package isn't there? He just about drove me bonkers with his nonstop Spanish Inquisition.

Yeah, yeah…nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition, nyuck, nyuck, nyuck. You know, Mr. Rodenberg…I expect that kind of thing from Erin, but not from YOU.

Nope…the one time I asked him, he said, I'd be told where I was headed later—and I knew better than to ask a second time. I was pretty sure, though, that I'd guessed wrong about Los Antelopes. Other than that, I didn't have a clue.

One afternoon, while I was practicing my hacking skills on The Beast, Kieran came rushing in, breathing like he'd just run an ultrathon.

"Oi," he gasped, "Should've looked here fir…never mind…get to your room boy, right now!"

"What…?" I began to slide out of the chair, "What…?"

"Shaddup and MOVE kid! They'll be here any…"

"Who'll be…?" I almost asked, and then dropped to all fours and bolted for my den. Darting inside, I shut the door behind me…and immediately heard something heavy being moved in front of it. Not to keep me in—I'm pretty sure of that now, but to keep my door from being spotted.

The next thing I heard was Kieran's voice from outside, "An' no messin' round on yer guitar, boyo; keep it down in there."

And then he was gone. I spent the rest of the day alone in my room, keeping the noise to a minimum. I didn't hear much from outside, either…It could have been an hour after closing time, it was so darn quiet upstairs.

When I was finally let out the next morning, I was given no explanation for my internal exile, nor did I expect one. I'd never been told why I was being cloistered any of the other times either.

Except…this thing had been different. Nobody had ever blocked off the door like that before, and I'd never felt such an air of urgency either. Not only that, this was the first time, no one had brought me anything to eat or drink. Good thing I kept an ice chest stocked with goodies in my room, for just such an emergency. In any case, I wasn't going to ask why I'd been put in limbo. I did, however, learn something else, later on that evening—when Danny finally revealed the name of my destination.

"Zootopia?" I remember asking, "Where the heck's Zootopia?"

He groaned and proceeded to fill me in on my destination city. It turned out he had lived there once…only briefly, but he knew the place fairly well.

"You gotta watch out for the ZPD, kid. They're sharp…and almost every single one of their officers is as straight as a foxin' flag pole. You try to offer a payoff in that city and you'll wind up behind bars so fast, you'll catch cold from the breeze.

I didn't think…I hoped it wouldn't come to me having to explain things to a ZPD officer, but I nodded just the same. After giving me another 'lightning quiz', Danny left me and let me finish my dinner.

It was typical of the way The Mister rolled that he saved the bombshell for last. The next day Kieran summoned me down to the Beast Room—not for a computer lesson, but because it was the most secure part of the basement. When I got there, he sat me down and opened a cabinet, coming back with a clear plastic tube, about the side of a mini-penlight. Inside were a pair of marble-size translucent pellets, one red, one blue. Setting it down on his worktable, he slipped on a pair of surgical gloves, and twisted it open, shaking them out into his paw.

"Right, Sea…err Dylan; this is somethin' very important." He held up the pellets between his thumb and forefinger, "Ye'll be takin' some o' these with ye on yer 'errand', so pay very close attention."

I did…to him, not the pellets; my red flags were flying everywhere. He sounded about as happy as a guy trying to explain how he lost all his money in a card game—and he had never, ever messed up on my name before. I had no idea what was going on, but it wasn't anything good.

Meanwhile, Kieran went on with his briefing, still wearing that same, mournful expression.

"I won't be givin' em to ye now, boy, but ye need to know what these are and how they work," He leaned in close, lowering his voice to an even more unhappy near-whisper. "If it were up t' me, you wouldn't be getting 'em at all. But ye know how 'tis; orders are orders."

Ohhh, yeah…I knew all right. In fact, I had already guessed it was something like that.

"I getcha," I said; what else could I do?

Kieran nodded back, and then set the pellets back down on his worktable, pointing to each of them in turn.

"That blue one there is what they call Nighthowler, and the red one's Morningmew, both suspended in a solution of Dimethyl Sulfoxide."

I had no idea what any of that meant, but I nodded as if I understood every word. Kieran returned it and pointed to the Morningmew pellet. "If an animal gets hit with one of these red 'uns, it'll send 'em into a full-blown panic attack, they'll run through electrified razor-wire to get away from you."

"And…what's the other one do?" I asked. I didn't really want to know, but I couldn't help it.

Kieran grimaced before answering me. "It…It'll make 'em go berserk, boy," he looked away for a second, "Not unlike what happens t' you when someone grabs yer from be…Whoop, ye all right, Dylan?"

I had shrunk back in my chair so fast that it had gone over backwards. A drug that could do to someone else what being grabbed from behind did to me? I was shaking all over as I got to my feet. It was my worst fear on steroids.

And that wasn't all. Next, I was informed that the effects of Nighthowler—and Morningmew—were permanent.

There was, however, one little piece of good news.

"Either one of these pellets will cancel out the effect of the other, Dylan. Simply put, they're antidotes for each other. Hit someone with Nighthowler, an' they'll come right back to normal if ye give 'em the Morningmew."

Ohhh, that was at least a small relief. But then he said something so weird, I had to ask him to repeat it.

He wasn't thrilled. "Oi, what'd I say about paying attention? One more time, you are not to mention any of what I'm telling ye here to anyone—not even me uncle, or it won't go well for you." He sat back and folded his arms. "Did you hear me that time?"

"Loud and clear," I answered, quickly, nodding like a bobblehead. I had just been threatened with The Point again, something I'd never heard before, from either him or Danny T.

"Good," he said, lightening back up a little. "Needless t'say, you're to use them only in case of an extreme emergency—as a last resort, period."

"How am I supposed to deliver them?" I asked, genuinely puzzled. Okay, I'd follow orders like a good, little child-soldier—but what was I supposed to do with those stupid pellets, throw them at an enemy? And there was another, bigger problem, but I'd get to that in a minute.

Kieran sighed and rubbed his temple with his knuckles, "'Fraid, you'll just have to improvise, boyo. We can't have ye on a commercial flight, carryin' anything that looks like it might be a weapon."

Okay-y-y, that made sense, but still…

"Yeah…all right, but what if I get any of that stuff on me?" It was my worst-case scenario, squared.

For the first time that morning, Kieran actually smiled.

"No worries there, boyo. Neither one of those nasties will have any kind of effect on ye; you're completely immune—to both of 'em."

"Wha…HOW?" I wanted to ask. But before I could get the words out, an epiphany came over me like a tidal wave.

Dr. Winters, The Clinic…what she'd done when I'd seen her again at the Beach House. Somehow, her experiments had rendered me impervious to both of those drugs—but AKER had never found out because she'd been fired before she could check the results.

That is…until she'd gone to work for The Company.

Yes, yes…I understood now, the tests she'd run on me, down in Bulize, the way she'd acted after each of them. It all fit perfectly.

It also explained why Kieran had told me never to talk about it. Once again, The Mister wasn't taking any chances; he absolutely didn't want AKER to discover that Doctor Dormouse's experiments on me had been a success.

And for once, we were both on the same wavelength. If I'd known that to begin with, Kieran's little implied threat would have been totally unnecessary. I didn't want AKER to know I was immune to those bad boys either; who knew what they'd do if they found out?

"Ye know, don't ye?" Kieran's somber voice brought me back down to ground level. "Ye KNOW, it was Dr. Winters, made yer like that."

Yeah," I said, although…as much as I wanted to use that blankety-blank dormouse for stickball practice, I couldn't entirely blame her for my situation. My encounter with Crazy Wez in the Johnstone Campus had left me with more than just a crooked muzzle…a lot more!

And without that, Doc Winters would never have taken an interest in me.

"Right," Kieran slapped his knees and got to his feet, a sign that he had nothing more to say. But, before I could turn to leave, he proved me wrong, "It's the day after tomorrow, Dylan—in the late afternoon. Ye'll get yer final instructions then."

For a second, I was relieved. At last, the other hoof had dropped. Okay…day after tomorrow, Sunday…

That was as far as my train of thought went before it hit a major downgrade, rushing along at breakneck speed. Only now did I understand the gravity of my assignment. This would be my biggest job yet for The Mister—one that would take me to a strange city, about which I knew practically nothing. What if the ZPD caught me…or the MSA? I'd be on the fast-track back to Granite Point if that happen. even faster if I messed up and The Mister found out. The more I tried to suppress my thoughts, the faster they came; it was like I was caught in a game of Bop-a-Bunny…Ow!

What the heck was that for, Snowdrop? I didn't invent that stupid game; I never even played it.

Anyway…somehow, I managed to keep my worries to myself, no mean trick around Kieran McCrodon. He knew me really well by then. "Right…off y'go," he said, waggling his fingers at the doorway, "Back t' yer room."

I got up quickly, thanking God or whoever. I couldn't have held my anxieties back much longer. And what he told me next didn't make it any easier. "Get plenty of rest, tonight and tomorrow; ye'll be needin' it,"

Yeah, yeah… like I was EVEN gonna be able fall asleep after what I'd just heard—tonight or tomorrow. I turned and laid for the door, wanting to get the heck out of there before he could drop any more blockbusters.

He didn't…and as soon as it closed behind me, I bolted back to my room, as fast as my feet would take me.

Notes:

Author's Note:

Kits for Cash was inspired by an actual event, Kids for Cash, which took place in Luzerne County PA in the late 2000's.

From Wiki:

"The Kids for Cash scandal centered on judicial kickbacks to two judges at the Luzerne County Court of Common Pleas in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania.

In 2008, judges Michael Conahan and Mark Ciavarella were convicted of accepting money in return for imposing harsh adjudications on juveniles to increase occupancy at a private prison operated by PA Child Care.

Ciavarella disposed thousands of children to extended stays in youth centers for offenses as trivial as mocking an assistant principal on Myspace or trespassing in a vacant building. After a judge rejected an initial plea agreement in 2009, a federal grand jury returned a 48-count indictment. In 2010, Conahan pleaded guilty to one count of racketeering conspiracy and was sentenced to 17.5 years in federal prison. Ciavarella opted to go to trial the following year. He was convicted on 12 of 39 counts and sentenced to 28 years in federal prison."

---

Like their counterparts in this story, the judges involved in the Kids for Cash grift repeatedly advised defendants to forego being represented by counsel. Since learning of the sandal, I've become a hardcore opponent of privatized prisons. However…

It should be pointed out that, unlike the events described in this story, it was the judges who were instigators of the Kids For Cash scheme, not the private corrections corporation.

You can learn more by Googling 'Kids For Cash Scandal.'

The idea of Conor and the other orphaned kids being used as test subjects for pharmaceuticals is entirely fictitious, and entirely my own. It has its origins in a conversation on the Discord Server, Zootopia Science Discussion—in which the question was posed that if non-sentient mammals don't exist in the Zootopia universe, what do they use for lab animals?

Chapter 68: Conor's Story (Continued...Part 19)

Summary:

Winding up Conor's story so far

Notes:

Author's note:


Conor's backstory has now caught up with the events depicted in The Fire Triangle Prologue. For that reason, they will be covered here only briefly. To see the full text of Escape From Zoo York, go to https://archiveofourown.org/works/12187398/chapters/27669060

---

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

---

The Fire Triangle

---

Part Two:

Oxidizer

---

Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Concluded…Part 18)

♪ "Dirty people take what's mine
I can leave them all behind
They can never cross that line
When I get to the border

Sawbones standing at the door
Waiting till I hit the floor
He won't find me anymore
When I get to the border

Monday morning, Monday morning
Closing in on me
I'm packing up and I'm running away
To where nobody picks on me

If you see a box of pine
With a name that looks like mine
Just say I drowned in a barrel of wine
When I got to the border
When I got to the border." ♫

Richard Thompson - When I Get to the Border

---

Their laughter was hearty…but also wary. Conor had just described the way he'd put one over on Junior McCrodon—secretly recording the spoiled young sea mink while he'd been trash-talking his father… "He's a sucker for anything I tell him."

Mr. Rodenberg had nearly fallen off his chair and Erin was practically rolling on the floor. It was basically the same gag her sister had pulled on Dawn Bellwether, back in the Natural History Museum—on rocket fuel.

And yet…

Suppose that crazy young silver fox had been forced to make good on his threat—to play that recording back for The McCrodon brothers? In that case, The Mister would have been angry with his son, all right…but he'd have been just as mad at Conor. No, scratch that; even angrier. After all that he—and Mr. Rodenberg—had revealed about the sea-mink who ran The Company, she no had no doubt whatsoever in her mind. Charcoal Boy hadn't just been playing with fire; he'd been juggling Nitro.

"Weren't you afraid he might call your bluff?"

It was Vern Rodenberg who answered her. "Naw, not that little yutz; I saw him in action myself while I was in Zoo York and believe me…that kid didn't have the nerve to look crossways at a cockroach."

Erin wasn't so certain; look at the way he'd stood his ground against the Stalinzhkiy. Of course, that had been a totally different situation but even so…

"I can't believe you did that, fox." The words were out before she realized she'd said them.

Conor's answer came straight out of left field…and left both her and the rat-attorney stupefied

"Hey…if I'd known then what I found out later on, Junior would never have left that basement alive."

"What?"

"WHAT!"

"Well, I wouldn't have done him…probably." The young silver fox hastily backtracked, "But Kieran would have—and for sure, Danny T. would." He shrugged. "Heck, so would just about everyone else in The Company."

For a moment, the cabin was enveloped in an electric silence; Erin and Mr. Rodenberg each waiting for the other mammal to ask the million-dollar question.

Predictably, it was the young doe-bunny who broke first.

"All right, but WHY?"

The answer she got was anything but satisfying.

"I'll get to that in a few, but first…

Erin immediately began looking around the room for something else to throw at him.

…and then stopped when he said, "It was right after Junior took a hike that it all hit the fan."

Oh kayyy, if that was where Charcoal-Boy was going, she could wait a few more minutes to bean him…she supposed.

It turned out to be a lot longer than that. For the next few…Erin didn't know how long, she and Mr. Rodenberg sat spellbound while Conor related the story of his escape from Finagles; the triple cordon of police and AKER Security operatives, appearing out of nowhere on the monitors and completely surrounding the club. A split-second later, Finagles had suffered a total loss of web access; no Wi-Fi, no ethernet, no nothing, not even dial up.

And then, last but not least, a maniacal Voice of Doom coming from somewhere overhead, "You…yes, YOU! Stannnnd still Laddie!"

All right, that was too much for any young bunny to take.

"Oh, come ON, Conor! He didn't really…"

At once, his fangs came out of hiding.

"Yes, he did, Snowdrop! And before you ask…yes, that WAS Jack La Peigne. I'd know that big jerk's voice anywhere!"

"I think she means…it couldn't have been him up there in that…I assume it was a helicopter." Once again, Vernon J. Rodenberg was taking on the role of peacemaker. And then turning to Erin, he said, "And probably, it wasn't. If I were a betting rodent, I'd wager he delivered that taunt by remote."

Conor raised his paws defensively. "I never said he was on-site, Mr. Rodenberg. But that was his voice I heard, for sure."

Erin was still not convinced. "All right, but why would he do that?"

Once again, it was the rat who answered first.

"My guess is…to send a message. He wanted The Mister to know just who it was that had beaten him."

"Exactly." Conor nodded and cocked a finger, "He even said so; I heard him say it."

Erin could only look away for a second. She had met Jack La Peigne at the Carrot Days Festival and… sweet cheez n' crackers, he had saved Judy and Little Cotton from her Uncle Terry, when he'd inexplicably gone savage. "And Nick Wilde, too," she reminded herself. She would have to relate that story to Mr. Rodenberg sometime…but not until she and the rat were alone. If she told it in Charcoal Boy's presence, he'd likely go off like a Claymole Mine.

And speaking of Conor, he had returned to the story of his escape from the Finagles.

After Kieran had given him the armored laptop, Danny and he had revealed the entrance to a secret tunnel, leading up to the parking lot, a long disused coal chute. He had almost reached the end of the passage when a vehicle had rolled up. and parked with one of its tires on top of the exit—completely cutting off his escape. When he recalled the 'conversation' between the fake-news couple driving that rig and the police officer who'd ordered them to leave, resistance was useless; Erin dissolved in a fit of giggles. And no sooner had those two idiots pulled out than someone else had taken their place.

Only…this time, the exit hadn't been blocked. The story of what had happened after Conor crawled out into the daylight left the young doe-bunny breathless—and this time not with laughter. He'd immediately been nabbed by a police officer…who'd mistaken him for a thrill-seeker and ordered him back behind the police line.

But then…sweet cheez n' CRACKERS! Someone else had been there behind the barricades, someone the young silver fox knew.

"It was Junior all right…he was upwind from me so not only could I see him; I could smell him too." He left unsaid the fact that mink, like all mustelids, are an odorous species. "For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what the heck he was doing there, just standing around like nothing was happening, when he should have been running for his life."

What Conor had seen and heard next had hit him like a pile-driver. Someone else he'd known had stepped into the picture; a wolverine with a single, dirty-white paw…and the description of his exchange with James McCrodon Jr. left both Erin and Mr. Rodenberg breathless.

"Junior…sold…sold out his own father?" the young doe bunny stammered in disbelief. So THAT was what Conor had 'learned later.' And no, that jerk sea mink probably wouldn't have left that basement alive if Danny and Kieran had known what he was up to; even she knew that much.

"He must have known that his old mink wasn't long for this long for this world," Mr. Rodenberg intoned grimly, already starting to recover. "And I knew, long before Conor told us, that the little schmendrik's uncles hated him with a passion; it was an open secret in The Company."

"Out of the frying pan—and into a stinkin' crematorium." Conor answered, with his jaw set tight as a drum. "You heard what finally happened to him, right?"

"I did," the grey rat nodded, "did a belly-flop off the Ferretzano Narrows Bridge…although after everything you just told me, I would speculate that it wasn't without help."

According to Conor's next words, Rodenberg was 100% correct in his assessment. That, however, was not the biggest issue—not for him. Before sending the Junior on his way, Mr White-Paw had demanded a current picture of Dylan Yeats. "He knew!" the young silver fox all but cried out in amazement. "Maybe the cops weren't aware that I'd survived that fight with the wolfpack and switched identities—but that stinkin' wolverine knew. Holy foxtrot, I thought I was toast for sure."

And so, he might have been, except that…by some minor miracle, the young sea-mink had been unable to comply with the larger mustelid's wishes.

But even without that picture, Conor had still been in a world of hurt. The instant Junior's limo departed, Whitepaugh had passed around a rag to his team of fellow wolverines—a rag presumably infused with the young silver fox's scent. "And somehow, I knew that bad boy was up to date." His tail was frizzed and shivering as he remembered. "It was just pure, stinkin' luck that I was downwind from that thug brigade."

And that wasn't even the worst of it. The wolverine had then informed his operatives that not only was Dylan Yeats a priority target, he was to be taken alive at all costs.

"'Kay," the young silver fox demanded, "Now do you understand why I didn't choose to wait around after I got busted for assaulting a police officer?" He'd become so red-faced with vexation, it was showing through his facial fur.

This was the second time he'd asked the question—and that was probably why he was able to anticipate Mr. Rodenberg's response. "And no, I don't know what they want with me—want, not WANTED. I figure it's gotta be something to do with me being immune to Nighthowler and Morningmew. Other than that, I don't have a clue, except…" The heat had once more returned to his eyes, "I think The Mister may have been planning to sell me out to Jack La Peigne. Why, and for how much, I don't know. All I have is this gut feeling—but it's one of the strongest I've ever had. And it would have been just like that sea-jerk to backstab me; he'd have stuck it to his grandmother if it would've helped boost his 'business'."

"Only he didn't succeed," Erin pointed, speaking with bated breath. "Or you wouldn't be here right now." She left the follow-up question unasked, but Conor answered it anyway—telling her how, moving quickly and quietly, he had threaded his way to the edge of the sidewalk, hoping to hail a taxi.

"Good luck with that." Mr. Rodenberg muttered, having had no small experience of his own with Zoo York City cabdrivers. Fortunately, so had his client—and he'd solved the dilemma by improvising a sign, offering an extra twenty-dollar tip to whoever picked him up. That had finally secured the desperate young silver-fox a ride, and none too soon. By then the wind had shifted and the Whitepaugh gang had caught his scent. He had gotten away by the skin of his teeth—except for one, completely boneheaded mistake.

"Hold it, you left that sign you made behind?" Vern Rodenberg was thoroughly astonished. After all of Conor's clever—and, let's face it—lucky maneuvers, the kid had up and made the mother of all silly blunders.

Or…had he?

"Not the REAL one, Mr. Rodenberg," he hastily amended, "a fake one… saying I was headed to a different location."

"Ohhh…"

Okay, so maybe the kid wasn't such a dumb fox after all. And it was a good thing, too, because after finally making it to Idlewilde airport, he'd come face-to-face with the slow torture of a Migration Safety Administration checkpoint.

And then had come an even longer wait—when his flight turned out to be delayed.

Listening to him talk about it, the rat attorney could only shake his head. What an ordeal that must have been. Every second that Conor had been stuck on the ground had been a boon to his pursuers, giving them that much more time to catch up with him.

And an airport is the easiest place in the world to take someone down. All you have to do is point and yell, 'gun!' and security will be all over your guy. That, in fact, might have happened had the fugitive young silver fox not taken advantage of the interlude. Opening up his laptop, he had implemented a new change of identity—shedding the fursona of Dylan Yeats for a new one; Conor Lewis.

"Good Lord," Vern Rodenberg didn't know whether to be impressed or horrified. "That kid's been through so MANY different aliases. No wonder he can't remember his birth name."

When Conor had finally been allowed to board his plane, it had been both a relief and an anticlimax—except for two things.

"You're…" the grey rat's whiskers were twitching like antennae. "Are you sure that was Judge Schatten who refused to sit next to you?"

"100%," Conor answered without hesitation. "I was close enough to get a good whiff of him, and he was sitting upwind of me in court, too."

"Okay," Rodenberg nodded—with a small measure of bitterness. That information would have been highly useful…before his client had chosen to escape from jail

Or…no wait, no, it wouldn't have. Even if the City of Zootopia had chosen to drop every single charge against Conor S. Lewis, he was still a wanted fugitive in the State of Zoo Jersey—which would have meant a one-way ticket back to Granite Point if the ZPD had become aware of his true identity.

No, not if…WHEN.

All right, that made it official as far as Vernon J. Rodenberg was concerned; he believed the young silver fox's story—wholeheartedly and without reservation.

The other thing that had kept Conor's flight from becoming a total bore turned out to be of greater interest to Erin Hopps than to the rat; the list of promises he'd made to himself, drawn up while enroute to Zootopia.

Although…she wasn't exactly a fountain of support.

"Never make another dishonest DIME?" Her nose was raised and her lip was curling. "What about that loan-shark business, Charcoal Boy?"

"That wasn't dishonest, only illegal," he shot back, causing Rodenberg's eyes to roll upwards. Oy VEY…just try using that one in court. But then the young fox added, "And I only charged extra, so folks wouldn't think it was charity, remember?"

Once again, the rat attorney threw up his paws. Here was something else his client must have shared with Erin but not him.

Conor's description of the loan-scheme left Rodenberg nearly speechless—although this time he had no trouble believing what he'd heard. In his experience, crooked bankers were about as difficult to find as wet water; it was the sheer audacity of the plan that nearly put him on the floor.

But then, as before, he recovered almost immediately

"Honest or not, it WAS illegal," He reminded his young client dryly, "And even if it wasn't, you're still very much guilty of assaulting a peace officer. So, do me a favor, kid and don't try to justify your actions over here, okay?"

"Okay," Conor answered in a soft, contrite voice; the wind seemed to have fled from his sails. Any way you sliced it, he had broken one of the vows he'd made to himself…which meant that technically, he'd broken his word to another fox. Surprisingly, Rodenberg didn't hold that against him.

His reasoning was the same as Erin's. You don't live with the kind of violence this fox kid had experienced—year in, and year out—without SOME of it rubbing off on you. The difference was…unlike the young doe-bunny, Rodenberg could relate to it fursonally. Even now, he still retained some of the aggressive instincts that he had acquired while serving time in prison.

And—let's be honest—he'd been hanging out with some pretty violent types himself since then.

The rest of Conor's flight had been a snoozer—literally. Upon completing the first draft of his promise list, he had fallen into an instant and dreamless sleep. He'd awakened just as the plane was preparing to make its final approach for landing.

"When I raised the window shade, and saw Zootopia for the first time," he said, shivering slightly at the memory, "I felt something I hadn't experienced since…since I could even begin to remember. One look and I knew that this was where I belonged. I'd never been to this city in my life; didn't know a thing about it." He blinked, and Rodenberg could have sworn he saw the hint of a tear in the young fox's amber eye. "But it felt like…like I'd come home."

Home or not, there had still been a mission to accomplish. No worries; when Conor had disembarked from his flight, everything had gone as smooth as Teflon. The police had barely noticed him as he boarded a metro train, bound for Savanna Central. The only dicey moment had come when he'd stepped onto the platform. There, practically right in front of him, had been the big, gold-rimmed, station clock.

"It was only then that I realized how late I was running." He was rolling his eyes upwards and drumming his fingers on the side of the exam table—as if it had been some other dumb fox-kid who'd suffered that lapse of memory. "I was supposed to have made the exchange something like eight hours ago. For all I knew, when I opened up that locker, the money might be long gone."

But no, it had still been there. And after making the swap, Conor had found a quiet corner and activated the special cell-phone Kieran had given him. It had immediately instructed him to board another metro train, and sent him on a circuitous route through the city of Zootopia, presumably to throw off any potential pursuit, either by the ZPD or any possible thieves.

"And that's pretty much all there is to tell you," He concluded with a shrug.

"Ehhh, not quite kid," Vern Rodenberg was regarding him with folded arms and an arched eyebrow. "If I remember correctly, that was all of three years ago…and a lot can happen in that amount of time. Aside from that money lending business—and getting into the Performing Arts Academy—what else have you been up to since you landed in Zootopia?" The brow went up even further. "And how the heck have you been getting by without any adult supervision?"

"And where've you been living?" Erin Hopps chimed in, startling the rat and the young fox both. She'd been so quiet for the last few minutes they'd forgotten she was even in the room.

Conor answered her with a severe expression. "Don't ever ask me that bunny-girl—or you, Mr. Rodenberg—it's the one thing I'm not gonna talk about…ever. If I tell you where I live, and AKER finds out that you know, they'll be all over you to make you give it up. And believe me, these guys have ways of making you talk."

"All right, but what about the rest of it?" Vern Rodenberg queried, jumping in before Erin could press her demand. "Three years on your own, kid. I would think by now at least a couple of animals would be starting to get suspicious about where the heck your parents are."

A long, sly smirk spread its way along Conor's muzzle. And then he raised and waved a finger.

You don't know about this guy, Mr. Rodenberg, but Erin does. He's this fennec fox I hooked up with; Finnick's his name. Whenever I'd get into a situation where I needed to have a parent or guardian present—like say, if I had to go get my rabies shot, or get registered for school, or whatever—he'd step in to play the part. In return, I helped him out with some of his…Ah, enterprises. Nothing illegal, you understand," he hastily raised his paws, "and he had nothing to do with that money-lending thing. But that's why hardly anybody ever asked me where my folks were. And if they did, I'd just give Finnick a buzz, and no problemo. Up until the day I got busted, it worked out fine.

Oh, it was all nice and legal, Mr. Rodenberg—on paper, and in certain databases, if you follow what I'm bringing out, heh-heh. And nobody who saw us together ever thought twice about it. Everyone knows that the only animal who'll adopt an orphan fox is another fox. But just in case, we had a cover story ready; he was my mom's business partner before she passed.

Why didn't I just pay him to play the part of my stepdad? Ahhh, don't get me wrong, Erin. I like Finnick and I enjoy working with him; he'd never try to stick me. But Mr. Tight-Lips, he ain't. That's why I didn't pay him—coz I didn't want him to know how much money I really had. It's also part of the reason I didn't bring him in on that loan-thing.

Well…suppose the word got around that there was this fox kid, living all by himself and sitting on a pile of cash; what do you think would happen?

Right…exactly.

Oh, I had enough to get by for a while when I first got here. Most of the money I picked up was in sequential numbers, but not all of it. At least… I don't know the exact amount, but there was plenty of it in random bills. That cash was safe enough to spend and I also had a prepaid debit card that Kieran had given me. I even had some funds of my own…money I'd saved from the tips and whatnot I'd received while working as The Mister's errand boy. It wasn't much and Kieran had talked me into putting it all in crypto. It was gonna take some effort to get my paws on it, but at least it was there. Between those three things, I had enough to live on until I could figure out how to launder the rest of it.

Anyway, my first few months in Zootopia, I pretty much laid low. I only went out on late afternoons, and on weekends and holidays—lest some cop ask me why I wasn't in school.

Actually, though… I was. One of the first things I did after getting settled in was start taking those online classes again. It was a start, but I knew that pretty soon. I was gonna have to get back into real school. I had a goal in mind; more than anything else in the world, I wanted to get into the Zootopia Academy of the Performing Arts.

Wha…? Excuusse me, Snowdrop, I did not 'throw it all away.' And anyway, look who's talking. What chance do you think YOU have of being readmitted, huh?

Wait…no, Erin, please…I'm sorry. Please don't cry. I…aggggh, grrrrr!

Mr. Rodenberg? Would you do me a favor and call someone to come in here and slap me around? Ohhh, when am I gonna learn to keep my stupid fox-trap shut?

Okay…yeah. It was about a year later that everything changed—and I mean, like the earth shifted under my feet.

It was three things, actually. First, I made contact with the hackers in The Circle again. That didn't have much impact at first, but you better believe that it did later on. The second thing was a lot more serious, the Savage Predator Crisis. Like I said before, I was too scared to go to the ZPD and tell them what I knew but…ummm…

Okay, look…I know this is gonna sound really stupid—heck, it was stupid—but what I DID do was load up a dart gun with Morningmew, and go looking for the perp myself.

I know, I KNOW! You don't have to tell me. I thought if I could catch him in the act, I could hit his victim with the antidote, and then take him down using my new fighting skillZ

Heh…as IF. When Erin's big sis and Nick Wilde nailed What's-Her-Face Bellwether in the Natural History Museum, I was all the way over in the Canyonlands, looking for the dude.

But that's what led to the next big thing in my life. Afterwards, Nick decided to go straight and join the ZPD. The bad news was that he had to say Sayonara to his hustling partner…who just happened to be, guess who? Right…Finnick. I bumped into him one afternoon in the middle of trying to run that Pawpsicle thing all by himself. He wasn't doing too good, so I jumped in to help him out. Took some convincing, but I was finally able to talk him into taking me on as his new partner. Good thing; I had only just started with that money-lending business, and my reserves of spendable stuff were beginning to run low.

And with Finnick to play the part of my stepdad, I was finally able to go to a real school. And what do you know, as soon as I got in, I started to ace all my classes. I mean, without even really trying, I was killing it. I even got bumped up a grade.

Yeahhh…it was hard to fit in at first, but I managed.

Bullies…? Yeah, I had to deal with that a couple of times—I am a fox, after all—but nobody ever tried to pick on me more than once.

Ahhh, let's just say there's other ways of handling dudes like that besides confronting them face to face. The toughest part was trying to avoid being grabbed from behind. Thank God for Danny having taught me how to use my magnetic sense.

And then finally…wait a second.

Erin…will you be all right if I talk about my experiences in ZAPA for a bit? Okay…and I'm sorry again for what I said; you did the right thing back there, when you tried to help out my buds. I never said so, but thanks…thanks for trying.

When I finally got into the Performing Arts Academy, I was surprised to discover that I was the best guitar player in the school. Yeah Erin, I know…and you're right, but that was what I thought. And like I told you before, if I hadn't gotten my attitude adjusted, I probably wouldn't have lasted; I'd have either quit or been kicked out.

What I didn't tell you, bunny girl, was that the animal who set me straight was none other than Gazelle herself. No, I swear…cross my heart, she really did.

It happened on a Friday afternoon, when everyone was getting ready to take off for the weekend. I had a place of my own on campus—it had come with the scholarship—but I almost never spent the night there, preferring to live in my own den. I was waiting to catch the Metro for home when my phone buzzed, telling me I had a text.

It was from Gazelle.

"Meet me in your flat; we need to talk."

Whoah, it was a good thing there wasn't a train coming right then; her message nearly blew me right off the platform. Since the day of my audition, I hadn't seen or heard a word from her. And now, here she was, insisting that I meet her right now. Needless to say, I hurried back as quick as I could.

When I walked into my room, she was sitting on my bed—the only piece of furniture I had that was big enough to accommodate a larger species. But it was the thing in her lap that drew most of my attention. It was a guitar…and not just any guitar, a Hamster Virtuoso.

I know, right Erin? I'd never even seen one of those bad boys before, except on the net.

Oh, it's like one of the rarest guitars in the world, Mr. Rodenberg. Hamster only made 'em for like two years; there's only like 30 Virtuosos in existence.

Coz like the name implies, it's a guitar built strictly for experts; too much for even a mid-level player to handle. It's got 36, count 'em, 36 frets. I know that doesn't mean much to you, but trust me…it's stinkin' brutal.

And, as if that wasn't enough, when Gazelle saw me, she stood up and started playing—the finale from the Direwolf Strays tune, Sultans of Swing. You wouldn't know, to hear it on the radio, but that's one of the toughest guitar solos in the world to get right…right up there with Eddie Van Howlen's Eruption. And Gazelle didn't just play that bad boy, she CRUSHED it.

And then, when she was done, she winked at me and said, "Didn't you know, mi zorrillo plateado? I was a rocker before I became a pop-star." Getting to her feet, she pointed at my Strat, already plugged in for my convenience. "Now you try it."

What, was she kidding? Even with my own guitar I might have been able to get through that solo, but no way, Renee, could I have done it as well as her. And on a Hamster Virtuoso? Forget it, I'd have been totally helpless on that thing.

"I…I…" All I could do was stammer and stare.

"Why, what's the matter?" she said, folding her arms and raising an eyebrow, "Don't tell you can't. Aren't you supposed to be heaven's gift to rock guitar? Or…that's how you've been acting, yes?"

Ohhh, okay…NOW I followed what she was bringing out…and it popped me like a balloon. I wasn't as good as I thought I was.

Yeah, Erin…I did think about quitting. And maybe I would have if Gazelle hadn't seen it coming. Before I could say anything else, she smiled and gestured at my desk chair. "Sit down, Conor," She pronounced it Con-HOAR. And after what I'd just heard, resistance was futile. I took my seat and waited.

"I hope you will forgive me for my little, ahhh, demonstration just now," she said, sitting back down on the bed again, "But, trust me, it was for your own good. I did not do this because I'm angry with you, it was because I like you—and because I didn't award you that scholarship only to see you fail." I remember her leaning towards me, with her elbows on her knees. "Answer me this, mi zorillo, what is the one thing that's ruined more careers in music than any other?"

Well, at least she'd asked an easy one—or, that was what I thought. I rattled off all the obvious answers but nope...every time I did, she shook her head and told me to try again. Finally, after I'd thrown up my paws in defeat, she smiled—the most serious smile I think I've ever seen.

"No mi zorillo plateado. It is not drogas, or drink, or reckless behavior. It is the thing that they all have in common; ego…arrogance, the belief that you can do no wrong as an entertainer, that you are so good at what you do, nothing can ever bring you down." She shook her head, half weary, half frustrated. "Have you ever heard of an aardwolf named Terrence Trent D'Arbeast? No? Well, I remember him. His debut CD, The Hardlion, was the number four album of 1988 and Hardlion's hit single, Wishing Well, went all the way to the top of the Bullboard Hot One Hundred."

Yeah, Wishing Well; I remembered that tune…vaguely. But then Gazelle slapped her hooves against her knees, and made the closest thing to a growl her species is capable of. "He could have been a superstar…but no, he had to go and let his big head run away with him. He stated, publicly, that The Hardlion was the greatest album of the twentieth century, even better than Sergeant Pupper. You can imagine how that went over. Even worse, his arrogance began to find its way into his work; he refused to listen to any voice except that one inside his head. Because of that, he never again made the charts, not the way he did with his debut album. And to this day, he still blames the music industry for the decline of his career—because how could HE have possibly done anything wrong?"

She gave me a minute to digest this, and then got up and came over to me, laying a hoof on my shoulder.

"That's why I'm here, Conor. Because I don't want you to end up that way; angry and bitter over what might have been. And what I just told you is but one example of many that I could mention."

"Wh-What should I do?" I felt as if someone had just pulled me back from the edge of a cliff.

"Oh, I think you're smart enough to figure that out for yourself, mi zorillo." Gazelle winked as she took her hoof away. I think she knew she'd gotten through to me. Without another word, she grabbed her axe and headed for the door. But then, at the threshold, she stopped and turned around, holding it up like Exhibit A. "Just so you know Conor, when I was your age, I wasn't half so good at playing guitar as you."

And then she was gone, leaving an echo of words in my head—something an old porcupine had once said to me. "Just play for sixty years."

Gazelle was right about one thing, though; I knew exactly what to do. Like I said, I'd been living off-campus when she'd asked me to meet with her. Now, I flipped my routine, moving into my flat at school and only going home on weekends, and/ or holidays. It wasn't easy at first—especially trying to run that loan business from my laptop.

Noooo, I never thought for a minute about giving that up. I was helping other mammals with that gig, making up for what I'd done when I was running with The Company.

Ahhhh, actually Erin, I didn't need the money by then. I'd found another, even bigger stash of dinero, hidden inside the den where I was living. The place had been set up by Kieran as a hideout, some years ago. So, needless to say, it came with a bankroll—and that's all I'm gonna say about it. Heck, I prolly said too much already.

But…getting back to the Performing Arts Academy. Once I was able to tone down my 'tude, I finally started to make some friends. The first kid I hooked up with was a member of your species, Mr. Rodenberg, Mike Daehan. Mike plays keyboards and he's stinkin' great at it. I hope you'll get to hear him one of these days. Hanging with him led me to hooking up with some other students, and pretty soon we were jamming together on a regular basis. Before I knew it, I was actually starting to get popular. The other kids liked me, and I was even starting to like myself. I also re-connected with some of the friends I'd made before going to the academy…that was another thing I'd let slide. In the meantime—hey, how about it? My guitar playing was improving by leaps and bounds and so was my singing voice. My academic performance was feeling the effect, too. Though they don't give formal grades at the Academy, I could tell that I was doing better in class.

And I had one animal to thank for it. Her visit to my flat was the best thing that could have happened to me.

No…she went off on tour right afterwards, and I haven't seen her since. But if I ever do, I just hope I'll get the chance to explain things to her, the way I have with you guys. I owe her that much, if nothing else.

And…I guess that IS pretty much all there is to say. Summer came, classes let out, and I got busted for assaulting a police officer. The rest you know.

What? Ohhh, that's right Erin; the Guilford family and the attack on the Carrot Days festival—Mr. Rodenberg wouldn't be aware of the part I played, riiight! You want to tell him?

Yes, Mr. Rodenberg…that's what happened. It went down just like she said.

Why did I want to keep it a secret? Coz Jack La Peigne was there, that's why. I couldn't take the chance that he might recognize me if he spotted me—and if word of what I'd done had gotten out, it would have meant reporters, and questions, and prolly my picture on TV.

And THAT could have been all she wrote as far as Conor Lewis was concerned. I could've helped save the whole stinkin' world, and it wouldn't have mattered to that big jerk-rabbit. He'd have sicced his goons on me without a second thought, and then—back to Granite Point!

You see, by then it was fursonal with him. My escape from The Point had been a major embarrassment for AKER Correctional…and, by extension, the mammal in charge. And, trust me, Jack LaPeigne is NOT a guy who plays well with humiliation.

That's why I begged Erin and Nick Wilde to keep my name out of it—I think Erin's sister Judy may know by now too, but that's all.

Hmmmm, yeah… Now that you mention it Mr. Rodenberg, I suppose there is no reason to keep it a secret any longer. The word's out already that I'm the fox formerly known as Al Murphy. And so what have I got to lose by letting everyone know what really happened at the Carrot Days Festival?

And that really IS everything Mr. Rodenberg, or at least everything I can think of for now.

So…I guess I gotta ask you the same question I asked Gazelle. Where should I go from here?

The rat attorney worked his incisors for a second before answering.

"I'm not going to ask you where your den is, kid. But I need to know…is it really as secure as you say it is?"

Conor lifted his paws, "I'd be in custody right now if it wasn't."

"All right," Rodenberg nodded tersely, "In that case. we need to figure out a way to get you back there without you getting caught—and then you'll need to stay put and keep a low profile until you hear from me again." He lifted another eyebrow. "Think you can do that?"

"No problem." Conor's answer was quick…a little too quick for his attorney, who glared acid in the young silver fox's direction.

"Don't get cocky on me, kid!' he snapped, and then pointed over at Erin. "You thought sneaking in to watch her audition wasn't going to be a problem either. And how did that work out?"

"I never…" Conor started to say, but then instantly caved. "Yeah, okay. I can stay under the radar, Mr. Rodenberg." He sounded determined, if a lot less sure of himself than a moment ago.

"You better," Erin reminded him, a dark warning in her eyes, "Next time, it won't be just YOU that gets hurt, Charcoal Boy."

"What the bunny said," Vern Rodenberg agreed, capping his words with an appreciative nod in her direction—which he swiftly cut short. "Hold it, wait a second…what did she mean by…?"

"All right, all riiiiight…I get it already!" Conor was waving his paws in frustration. And that was apparently enough for his two companions. At once, the rat-attorney's mood went from nettled to thoughtful.

"But first, we need to figure out a way for us to communicate that can't be compromised."

"I got that covered on my end," the young silver fox answered confidently, but then before the rat had time to upbraid him again, he quickly added, "But from your end, I think burner phones are the way to go." He did not bother to explain. As Zootopia's unofficial attorney to the mob, Vernon J. Rodenberg had better know the ins and outs of that particular device.

"Right," he nodded, "When you get home, ping my service with a number where I can reach you. Don't mention my name, though…send it to Obermaus and Company. He didn't bother to explain, and Conor didn't ask for one.

Instead, he offered a sardonic smile, "Gonna verify my story first?"

"As much of it as I can," the rat replied, nodding.

"Gotcha," his young client nodded back. It was a reasonable arrangement on both ends.

That is, until another voice piped up—a shrill, angry, female voice.

"Heyyyy, what about ME?"

Conor gave himself a face-pawlm…dumb fox; he knew what she was talking about, but Mr. Rodenberg wouldn't. And sure enough, the rat was staring bewildered at the young, white-furred bunny—who was standing with her paws on her hips and a fierce expression on her face.

"Wh-What do you mean, 'what about you?'" His eyes were wide and his whiskers were twitching.

Erin responded by pointing in Conor's direction, "I'm going with him, that's what."

At once Rodenberg's confusion vanished. "Like HECK you are!" he squeaked, nearly flying out of his chair.

She refused to give ground. "You can't tell me what to…"

"Oh yes, I can!" he interrupted, "In case you've forgotten young lady, you retained me as your attorney too, remember?"

"I don't care!" Erin's foot began to thump, "Go ahead and drop me; I'm going with Conor and that's final."

Rodenberg closed his eyes and clenched his fists, counting under his breath, trying unsuccessfully to block out the rest of her words.

"And look at him," she said, jabbing finger at the fox laid out on the examination table, "Go ahead, LOOK! How the heck is he supposed to care for himself in that condition?"

Conor sat up fast, looking indignant. "Hey, what do you think, I'm helpless, or…?"

Erin instantly turned on him, "YOU stay out of this!"

"Whatever…." He fell back and rolled his eyes.

It was then that Vern Rodenberg returned to the fray. "All right, fine…but think about something first, if you go with Conor to…to wherever it is he lives, you'll be stuck there. Because what if AKER finds out where you've been and gets their mitts on you…remember what Conor said a minute ago? And he's right, if the AKER mammals want him that badly, how far do you think they'll be willing to go to get you to tell them where he is?"

Good argument—but not good enough for this young doe-bunny. "Then I'll just have to blindfolded or something, so I won't know where we're going."

"That won't matter if they THINK you know where to find him!" the rat's voice had risen nearly to the level of air-horn.

It was then and there that Conor decided he wasn't going to stay out of it any longer. Though his intercession was hardly what Vern Rodenberg would have expected—or welcomed.

"That's WHY she has to come with me, Counselor," he cut in, slapping the side of the bed for emphasis, "the AKER guys already know she's with me." He turned and looked in Erin's direction. "Tell him about the hovercraft, bunny-girl."

"Oh yes…that," She sounded slightly embarrassed, as if the incident had slipped her mind. "One of the boats chasing us the other night was a hovercraft."

"I already know that." The rat replied, half dismissive, half testy.

"Did you know it belonged to AKER Security?" Conor asked him, narrowing his eyes and flattening his ears.

If Rodenberg was taken aback, he didn't show it.

"That…I didn't know," he answered quietly, and then leaned his muzzle in the young silver fox's direction, "But how do YOU know?"

Conor looked over at Erin. "You still got that picture you drew, bunny-girl…the one of the emblem on the side of that hovercraft?"

She looked around for a second and began to thump her foot. "Dangit, where did I…? Oh, wait…" her gaze shifted back in the fox's direction. "I gave it to you; don't you have it?"

Now it was his turn to look uncomfortable. "No…I…"

"Oh wait, there it is on the floor." Erin pointed and then picked up the drawing, laying it on the tray table in front of Vern Rodenberg. The rat stood up on his makeshift chair for a second, studying it minutely.

"That's the AKER logo," Conor told him, "You can look it up for yourself later."

"I will," the rat-attorney assured him, and then turned to Erin again, assuming his most formal manner. "May I suppose then, Ms. Hopps, that the crew of that hovercraft got a decent look at you?"

"You may," she answered, equally formal, "They had me in a spotlight; no way could they have missed me."

"And," Conor added, even more soberly, "they were close enough that she was able to make out the species of one of them—a wolverine."

"Oy!" Rodenberg grimaced and his eyes blinked shut. When he opened them again, Erin was speaking.

"So, whether I go with Conor or not, won't I still be in danger?"

"Yes, you will," the grey rat admitted, appearing very grim. And then, giving both her and the young silver fox a severe look for not having mentioned this earlier, he said. "And if that's the case, much as I hate to admit it, you're right. Your best course of action is to go to ground together."

"Maybe," The young silver fox sighed. "But we're not going anywhere for a while at least." The corners of his mouth were pointing in different directions…while his two companions were both scratching their heads.

"Wha…?"

"What do you mean, kid?"

By way of response, he angled his muzzle in the direction of the nearest porthole. Erin and Mr. Rodenberg immediately followed his gaze…and this time, it was the doe-bunny who got in first.

"Huh, it's…MORNING!"

"'Fraid so," Conor shrugged, leaving the obvious unspoken. They could either wait until dark to leave The Mercy Star—or else risk making a daylight run. And from the tone of the young fox's voice, it was clear that he'd already rejected the second option.

Mr. Rodenberg was somewhat more ambivalent. "I don't need to know exactly where it is, kid, but how far will you need to go to get home?"

The answer he got was both quick and sharp, if a little imprecise.

"Too far; if I was at 100% and travelling on my own, maybe…"

"Hey!" Erin's ears were back and her foot was thumping again. Conor cut her off with a growl.

"Cool yer jets, Snowdrop, I'm not trying to talk you out of it. But facts are facts; if we go now, we'll get nailed before we're even halfway there. Is that what you want?"

Erin waved a paw at the door…as if to say, not this time, Charcoal Boy.

"What I want is for us not to get thrown off this boat…or did you forget how badly the crew wants us out of here?" she thrust out her chin and wrinkled her nose. "And if that happens, then what, huh?"

That was Rodenberg's cue to play referee again.

"She makes a good point there, Conor," he said, and then quickly, before she could respond. "But he's right too. If I were him, I wouldn't try to make it home in broad daylight…and I'm a lot harder to spot and not nursing an injured leg."

She threw her arms wide. "But what about the…?"

"Let me handle the captain and crew," the rat assured her, and then looked over at Conor. "What you need to do is figure out a way to make it home without getting busted. Even after it gets dark, you're not just going to waltz on down to the nearest ZTA station and hop a train to…wherever it is you're going."

"Heck, no!" the young fox barked, in agreement "That's the last route we want to take. What with the riot and all, the ZPD's prolly got every platform in the city under super-heavy surveillance."

"And that's assuming the trains are even running," the rat concurred, nodding. "The last I heard; Savanna Central Station is still closed. And since that's Zootopia's biggest rail hub, you can guess how it's affecting metro service." He stood up and brushed down his coat with his paws, and then straightened it, a sign he was preparing to take his leave. "Right now, I need to get back to my office and have a word with my PI." He flashed a brief, toothy smile. "There's a story I need to have verified." Turning serious again, he cocked a finger in his young client's direction, "In the meantime—I can't say this enough—you need to figure out a way to get your bushy tail safely home again. Call me when you get there, but for God's sake—not UNTIL you get there, not unless it's an absolute emergency."

To his immediate surprise, Conor gave himself a quick facepawlm. "D'ahhh, how did I manage to forget…? I've got a couple of burner phones in there, if that helps." He was pointing at his backpack.

"It does," Rodenberg nodded in tight approval. "And in that case, call me when you're ready to move. I might be able to run some interference for you."

"Got it."

Erin Hopps could only stare with her nose twitching. The grey rat didn't seem to want to know the details of Conor's plan to get home. "IF Charcoal Boy is able to come up with anything," she sourly observed to herself, "But…WHY is Mr. Rodenberg so uninterested?"

The answer came to her even before she finished asking the question, something Conor had said to her earlier. "You can't give up what you don't KNOW." And, if what he'd said was about the AKER mammals was true, they were not likely to observe such niceties as attorney/client privilege.

There were several more such thoughts in her mind, but they were going to have to wait. At the moment, Mr. Rodenberg was in need of her assistance

"All right, can you help me get down to floor level, please—and then get the door for me? Thanks." He was polite but also insistent.

Erin offered to carry him up the stairs to deck-level but the rat waved her off, insisting he could manage by himself. He could; but he was required to drop down on all fours to make the ascent while dragging his briefcase behind him like a slice of pizza.

It was at the top of the steps that his real problems began. There, waiting for him, was Dr. Xian. Standing beside the pangolin, with folded arms and a tapping foot was a muskrat in rumpled blues and a peaked cap. The epaulets on his shoulders told Rodenberg that he was in the presence of the Mercy Star's skipper.

"Well…is your client finally ready to disembark," he demanded, putting special emphasis on the fifth word.

Before Rodenberg could answer, Dr. Xian jumped in. "We're about to get underway again," she said, "and we're going to need that examination room." Her voice was almost a plea.

Vernon J. Rodenberg was a hard-bitten rodent to say the least. Even so, he didn't like it when other mammals begged him—not the decent ones at least. Heaving an inward sigh, he stood up and offered a wan smile.

"I hope to get my young client out of your fur as soon as possible," he said, and then raised a bony finger in his trademark gesture. "However, I think there's something you may not have considered…"

Two hours later, after a shower and a light breakfast, the grey rat was in his Savanna Central office, with his feet up on his desk. The furnishings here were Spartan as opposed to his office in Little Rodentia; the only wall decorations being copies of his law degrees. Rodenberg had never particularly liked this place, but he needed it. Here was where he met with clients larger than himself—and except for Mr. Big, that meant pretty much all of them.

At the moment, a yellow mongoose was seated opposite the rat attorney, larger than him, but not a client.

"So…how did you get the, eh…the Mercy Star's keptain to agree to let my 'son' remain on board?"

Vern Rodenberg eyed his Private Investigator caustically. Ton Ruiter had just reminded him of an earlier ploy, in which the rat had attempted to have the mongoose assigned as Conor Lewis's legal guardian—thus depriving the city of the right of in loco parentiis.

A neat tactic, but when the young silver fox had escaped from the Precinct-1 Youth-Jail, the maneuver had swiftly become an embarrassment.

Before answering him, the grey rat took a quick sip of coffee, his fourth cup this morning, extra strong, no cream, double sugar. The all-nighter he'd just pulled was beginning to catch up with him.

However, he was still sharp enough to come back with a quick rejoinder.

"Not your kid any more, Booby…it seems some fennec-fox beat you to the punch."

"WHAT?" Ruiter fell back in his chair and then leaned forward in anticipation.

But Rodenberg had already switched topics. "As for how I persuaded the Mercy Star's captain to let the Lewis boy remain on board, I simply pointed out that if the ZPD spots him leaving her, he and his crew can be held liable for harboring a known fugitive—in which case his boat can be impounded."

"You better hope thet never happens," the mongoose replied with an ironic smirk, "Misteh Big would hev your head for a Bocce ball, eh?"

Rodenberg flipped his paws upwards. "What can I say, Ton? Facts are facts. Anyway, they agreed to let the kid stay on board until after dark. After that, ready or not, there he goes." He frowned slightly, "They insisted on moving him out of the examination room, though…and I didn't argue. Heck, I'm lucky they're letting him stay aboard at all."

Ruiter rubbed his nose with a finger. "You said the Mercy Star was about to get under wey when you left. Did the keptain tell you where she was off to?"

"Yeah," Rodenberg took another slug of Java, "Next stop's the Marsh Market."

"Ah, yes." The mongoose nodded, and then suddenly leaned forward, a tach-needle revving into redline. "And NOW will you tell me about this fennec fox?"

Rodenberg made a steeple with his fingers. "Serves you right for trying to put me off my stride, Ton. I won't give you his name, but he plays…or rather, used to play the part of Conor's adoptive father when he needed to have his guardian present."

"Ah," Ruiter sat back in his chair, satisfied at last. "Is he really the boy's legal guardian or…?"

"No," the rat attorney interjected, "But there's a lot more I need to tell you."

He spent the next 90 minutes filling in his PI on Conor's story—only the barebones version, but that was enough.

"Let me guess," The mongoose told him when he finished, narrowing his eyes and wrinkling his mouth, "you need to check out this fox-boy's story, end you're hoping I might know this Markus Klopper fella, yeah?"

"The thought did cross my mind," Rodenberg answered, offering a lopsided expression of his own.

"Well," Ruiter scratched at an ear, "I don't know THET name, but I've got a few contects with the merc community in Joburg. Shouldn't be too hard to treck him down, I think."

"Excellent!" Rodenberg clapped his paws. But then he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, and an earnest expression on his face. "But what I really need to know is, was the Lewis kid telling the truth about his experiences in Zoo York and Zoo Jersey. You, uh, wouldn't happen to have any contacts in that neck of the woods, would you?"

To the rat's bewilderment, his PI's mouth zipped open in a big, toothy grin.

"Es a matter of fect, Mister Rodenberg, I hev just the memmal for you."

Notes:

And thus endeth the saga of Conor Lewis. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. In the next installment, we'll be getting back to our irregularly scheduled fanfic with Nick and Judy, and perhaps a surprise or two,

And Conor and Erin will also be back.

Chapter 69: All Together Now (Part 1)

Summary:

Annnnnd we're back with Nick and Judy...though not both at once

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 10
All Together Now...(Part 1)

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Judy Hopps was feeling remarkably better.

The ache in her paw had almost completely subsided, and her injured diaphragm was healing nicely. At last, she was able to breathe again; no assistance required to ascend the concourse up to Chief Bogo's office. Yes-s-s, she did have to stop for a break on the way, but her second wind arrived in less than a half a minute.

Because of all this, the newly minted bunny-detective was in an upbeat mood on this fine, Zootopia morning.

She should have known it wouldn't last.

The first inkling that her best course of action might have been to call in sick came when she was approximately ten feet away from Bogo's door. Sweet cheez n' crackers, what the heck was going on in there? Even for him, this was one monster of a tirade.

"Oh, you didn't, eh?" she heard him thunder. "Then explain THIS!" It was followed by the sound of something impacting against the top of his desk—so hard, it made the doe-bunny wonder if he was going to need a new one. The next thing she heard was a muffled response, followed by an even louder yell.

"Lie to me if you must, but DON'T INSULT MY INTELLIGENCE! D'you think I wouldn't have sent this to forensics before…?"

Ooohhh, Judy had no idea who Bogo had with him in his office—or why they'd been called there—but she couldn't help feeling a little sympathy. She too had known the big cape buffalo's wrath, and on more than on occasion. But never, not even one, single, solitary time, had she found herself facing such a furious harangue as the one she was hearing right now. If it had been her in there, she wasn't sure if she could have stood up to it. Awww, who the heck was she kidding? She knew she couldn't…

These thoughts were cut off as her phone buzzed.

"This is Judy Hopps," she said…and then her ears were reaching for the ceiling. Why would…?

"Hopps," came the gruff, scratchy—and slightly hoarse—voice of Chief Bogo, "Have you arrived at the precinct yet?"

"Y-Yes Chief," she answered, feeling her nose starting to twitch in confusion. "I…was just on my way up to your office to…."

"Good," he snorted, "Come right in when you get here. This concerns you as well."

He disconnected without another word.

All at once, the specter of Judy's injuries came back to haunt her—or that was the impression she gave, taking small hesitant steps in the direction of Chief Bogo's door. As of right now, there was no way she could manage the jump to the handle. But no sooner was she in front of it than it swung open from the other side.

It wasn't the Chief who opened it, but someone only vaguely familiar to the gray-furred doe-bunny; a black panther wearing the dark gray coveralls of the ZPD's Marine Unit…and also an expression that was half confused, and half antagonistic. What was her name again? Cazanova? Casablanca? Something like that.

"Do you need some help, Detective?" the big cat asked her stiffly, indicating the smaller of the two chairs in front of Bogo's desk, still too large for a bunny to ascend without making a leap. Ordinarily, Judy would have declined the offer…but not in her current state. Was the Chief about to let loose on her, too?

"Please," she said, allowing the feline to give her a leg up. Bogo waited until the panther had taken her own seat before he began speaking again.

"In case you're wondering why I've asked Detective Hopps to join us, Officer Cazador, it's because one of the occupants of the boat you were shooting at the other night was her younger sister, Erin."

It seemed to take hours for his words to register with the doe-bunny. But when they did, the effects of her injuries were gone in a flash—along with any sort of sympathy she might have felt for the feline occupying the other chair. Said feline, meanwhile, looked as if she'd just taken a sledgehammer to her midsection.

"You did WHAT?" Judy almost screamed, and leapt to the floor in a high arc, landing in a three-point stance. It hurt like heck, but she barely noticed. "How could you?"

"I…I'm so sorry, Detective Hopps," Olivia Cazador's frostbitten demeanor seemed to have undergone a paradigm shift, wilting ears and a tail curling up beneath her legs. She was studying the floor and her voice had dissolved to a dry near-whisper. "I had no idea that was your sister…"

She was interrupted by the crash of Bogo's hoof against his desktop.

"Hopps's sister or no…you discharged your weapon in anger against not only an unarmed suspect, but an unarmed juvenile—and THEN you tried to cover it up!"

Judy knew that wasn't entirely true, but at the moment, she couldn't have cared less. And besides, no one had fired a tranq-dart at any of the ZPD boats; those projectiles had been reserved strictly for the Privateers.

"Why?" she demanded, paws going straight to her hips, "Why would you do a thing like that? And look at me when I'm talking to you, Officer Cazador!"

The panther-cop was able to comply only by way of a herculean effort. When she spoke, her voice was the mewl of a frightened cub.

"M-Mi socio…Uhm, my partner. He…"

"…Walked away with barely a scorch-mark," Bogo cut her off again, "as I've already told you. Oh, and Officer Blake also says that the crash was an accident—and that it was the young mammals you were shooting at who put out the fire; probably saved his life."

"They…did?" Olivia Cazador's eyes were open wide, and her jaw was halfway to the floor. So were Judy's; this was news to her as well.

"Too right they did!" Bogo half bellowed again, looming over the desktop, "And it's just a good thing for you—and the department—that none of those youngsters were hurt." And then before the panther had time to respond, he was thrusting a hoof in her face, "Badge!"

Even in the present circumstances, Judy couldn't help but feel a twinge of empathy. After all, she'd been here, done this herself, once. But then, that feeling was gone, too. Good Lord, this hotheaded kitty could have killed her little sister!

In the meantime, Olivia Cazador was meekly passing over her badge to Chief Bogo. "D-Don't you want my gun, too?"

"I've already got that, haven't I?" he snorted, pointing to something nestled in a translucent plastic tray on his desktop. "And now that will be all, Cazador. Dismissed."

Upset as she was, Judy couldn't help noticing the lack of the word, 'Officer.'

"Am I…Am I fired, Chief?" the panther asked, wringing her paws. To Judy, it seemed like the silliest question, ever.

Or…maybe not.

"No," the big cape buffalo responded curtly, "You're suspended, pending a weapons-discharge board of enquiry and a disciplinary review." He leaned across his desk again, "But if I were you, I'd start updating my resume. Now, go and clean out your locker, Cazador. Dis-missed!"

When she was gone, Chief Bogo seemed to deflate, plopping down into his office chair with a rumbling sigh.

"Sorry for having to bring you in on that Detective, but if I hadn't done, she'd be running to the Police Union even as we speak. Up until your arrival, I wasn't getting through to her."

"I understand, sir," Judy nodded. She could feel her own anger starting to dissipate as well. "And, to tell the truth, I'd rather have learned about it like this than any other way."

The big cape buffalo didn't seem to hear her.

"Such a waste," he grumbled, picking up a folder from his desktop and slapping it down again, glancing sideways at the bunny-detective. "D'you know that before this incident, her record was exemplary? Not one, but two commendations and now…" He shook his head and sighed. "Such a waste."

Judy felt her teeth come together Oooo…that was unnerving. If an officer with an impeccable service history was capable of such a massive rage-blunder, then NOBODY on the force was immune. She found herself thinking of her own near-fall from grace; that train-wreck of a press conference, three years ago.

And then she shook it off and got down to business.

"Chief? When you called me, I was on my way up here to deliver a report."

"Ah, yes," Bogo reached for his spectacles and affixed them to the bridge of his nose, "About the Guilford boy, I presume. Have you made any progress, then?"

"Some," Judy answered, standing on tiptoes and proffering a Manila folder, "But not as much as we'd like. Two days ago, we had a noise complaint come in about a young coyote who was keeping a retired couple awake with his howling. With everything else that was happening, we didn't have time to respond. On a hunch, I went to go to talk to the woodchucks who called it in. After they finally calmed down, they told me they were certain it had been coming from the other side of a fence, behind their apartment building. I checked it out and found a big sink-hole back there, with a dumpster wedged into it. No one was down inside of it, but someone had been there earlier. I found another, smaller hole. around the other side, where they'd been dug out."

Bogo put his hooves together on the desktop, forming a triangle.

"So, if I'm hearing you correctly, whoever was trapped in that sinkhole, they did not dig themselves out—at least not without some assistance, is that correct?"

"It is, sir." The doe-bunny nodded, briskly. "There were claw-marks all around the edge of that exit hole, and chunks of pavement with more marks. About the only animal I know that's capable of digging through asphalt with bare paws is a member of the badger family. I had the fragments sent over to forensics, but I'm about 80% certain that a badger was our excavator."

"And badgers are known to associate closely with coyotes." The Chief grunted, having guessed where she was going with this.

"An association that goes back to even before we evolved," the doe-bunny reminded him, probably needlessly.

"And," Bogo was leaning over his desk again, "was there evidence of a coyote in that dig?"

"I found two pawprints only inside of the exit hole," she said, "badly smeared, but definitely canine."

"But were they coyote tracks?" The Chief inquired, an edge beginning to creep into his voice.

Judy took a deep breath before answering him, the better to be able to speak quickly. "Couldn't tell, sir…so I called in Officer Howell to give it once over with his nose." She pointed at the folder, "He confirmed that the scent of the animal trapped in that hole was not only from a coyote, it was definitely left by Craig Guilford. He said he's 100% certain."

"Better," Bogo leaned back in his chair again, arching an eyebrow. "But do me a favour in future, will you Detective? Next time you've got a point to make, MAKE it. Don't hold me in suspense while you work your way up to it."

"Yes, Chief," Judy nodded, making a mental note, "I mean, no Chief, I won't."

"And was Officer Howell able to identify our helpful badger, by any chance?" He asked her, moving on.

"I'm afraid not," the doe-bunny sighed, shaking her head and thumping her foot in frustration, "According to what he told me, Craig Guilford's rescuer had at least half a dozen other mammals with him. Between that, the rain, and the 48-hour delay, he wasn't able to get a lock on any those other animals' species."

"Which means that our badger—if it was a badger—wasn't just some well-meaning Good Samaritan," Bogo grunted, speaking to nobody before looking at her again, "But Howell's certain that our coyote was the Guilford boy?"

His burst of sudden skepticism caught Judy by surprise, although it shouldn't have. If the wolf-cop had been unable to identify any of the other mammals who'd been gathered at the sinkhole that night, then how could he have been certain Craig Guilford had been the animal trapped inside of it?

Fortunately, she had a ready answer.

"Yes, Chief. The Guilford kid was the only one there who was actually down inside of that sinkhole. According to Officer Howell, he was there for at least a couple of hours before he was pulled out." She was about to end it there, but then remembered something. "And Howell's a red wolf, don't forget—which means he has a few coyote genes himself."

"Ah yes, forgot about that," Bogo admitted, without the slightest trace of chagrin, and then his eyebrow lifted again, telling Judy that he knew she'd come to the end of the good news.

…Which she had.

"And—sorry Chief—but that's all we were able to get. Howell tried to track the Guilford boy's scent, but it was a hopeless effort after that much rain and that much time."

"Only to be expected, Detective," Bogo waved his hoof as if batting away a fly, "And don't apologize, you did well—as well as could be expected, under the circumstances. Better, in fact."

"Thank you, sir." Judy smiled but she was wary. It wasn't like him to be this magnanimous. Something was coming—something she WASN'T going to like.

It didn't take long for her prediction to come true.

"Right then," Bogo patted his desktop with both hooves. Judy couldn't help noticing that he was having trouble meeting her gaze.

Ohhh carrot-stix; it was worse than she thought.

"I've got some new information regarding young Mr. Lewis," he finally rumbled.

"Good or bad?" Judy asked, unable to stifle the question before it was out.

"Sort of both," was Bogo's answer, delivered in an uncertain tone. "It seems our fugitive young silver fox has once again been able to secure the services of the honourable—and I use the term very loosely—the honourable Vernon J. Rodenberg, attorney at law.

"Oh, sweet cheez n' crackers!" Judy groaned—not so much at what the Cape Buffalo had just said as the knowledge that while the news was bad, it wasn't nearly bad enough to get him this flustered. There had to be more.

And there was…

"And Mr. Rodenberg had also informed us," Bogo was forcing himself to look at her. "That…that your sister Erin Hopps has also retained him to represent her."

"What? NO!" Judy screamed so loudly she again forgot about her injuries again…until a red-hot, invisible lance seemed to thrust into her side. For a moment she thought her lung might have collapsed.

Again, she didn't care. It couldn't be. Her younger sister had been absolutely right to find a lawyer to help her, no fault to be found there. But Vernon J. Rodenberg, the mobsters' attorney of choice? Ohhhhh, no…not HIM! Poor Mom was going to have a coronary when she heard. And did Erin retaining the same attorney as Conor Lewis mean…that she and that malicious young silver fox were together? "Dangit, sis…what's WRONG with you?"

Somehow, she had to get Erin away from that messed-up fox kid. What if she unknowingly grabbed him from behind? It was almost too terrible to contemplate.

It was then that the answer struck her. Judy knew what she had to do…or maybe she'd already known. It wasn't a solution, but maybe it was the beginning of one. She looked up at Bogo, giving him her best, big, soulful bunny-eyes.

"Chief, I know this isn't my case. But with your permission, I want to go talk to Vern Rodenberg."

He made a sound that was either a snort, or a sigh. "He won't tell you anything; you know that don't you?"

Well…that wasn't the response Judy had been expecting; more like a flat 'No', and his fist coming down on the desk again. True, he hadn't in any way consented to her request, but it was an opening and she'd be foolish not to take it.

"Probably not, sir," she said, "but what have we got to lose by trying? And don't forget, Mr. Rodenberg was a lot more forthcoming during the Red Pig business than anyone would have expected."

That, the doe-bunny knew, was the grandest of understatements. If Rodenberg's enemies in the Attorney General's Office ever found out what he'd done…well, there wouldn't be a whole lot they could do about it. The rat attorney had wisely avoided any sort of direct involvement.

But if The Red Pig ever got wind of it…

"Hmmmm," Bogo was stroking his chin, looking thoughtful, "You do make a point there, Detective."

Yes, she did. And now it was time to deliver the clincher.

"But what I really hope to accomplish, Chief, is…I'm hoping he'll agree to deliver a message to Erin for me."

"Mmmmnnn," Bogo rumbled, lost in thought for a moment. And then he sat up with a no-nonsense look in his eye. "Very well, Hopps. Go ahead and talk to him. D'you have his number then?"

Oops, she knew she'd forgotten something.

"Uh, no sir," she admitted, praying hard that it wouldn't be a dealbreaker.

But Bogo only waved a dismissive hoof.

"Right Detective, I'll ring him up meself, then. See Clawhauser when you get downstairs; he'll let you know if Rodenberg's willing to see you."

"Yes, sir," She answered, pleased. Without thinking, she went to the door and tried to jump for the handle—forgetting that she wasn't yet up to it. She missed the mark and landed with a wince; a fact that did not escape her Chief's notice.

"Right, you'd best have a driver. I'll see who's available and have them meet you out front.

Judy felt her foot trying to thump.

"Sir, I already drove myself to…"

"You'll HAVE a driver, Hopps." The big cape buffalo cut her off, using his patented, 'No Argument' voice.

"Yes, sir," she answered quickly, knowing better than to dispute such a minor point, especially in the present circumstances.

"Right then," Bogo got up and opened the door for her. Judy was one step outside, when she stopped and turned to look up at him, "Thanks, Chief."

His right eyebrow arced up so high, it seemed to disappear beneath his horn. "Don't thank me, Detective. The only reason I'm allowing this is because I know you're determined to go and see Mr. Rodenberg, whether or not you're given permission." His expression mellowed slightly, "As would I, if it were my sister in jeopardy. Off you go, then."

Barklyn, Zoo York

Nick paced up and down the sidewalk in front of his rented Hare BNB, occasionally glancing at his watch. It wasn't like Martin Pennanti to be running so late. For every single one of their previous meetings, he'd been as punctual as Old Faithful. What made it doubly frustrating was that there'd been no text, no phone calls, no message left with the ZPD, nothing. And when he'd tried to contact the fisher-detective, the call had gone straight to voicemail.

He growled and looked across the street—to where a ZYPD cruiser was parked against the curb. Leaning on the windowsill was a big white tiger, wearing mirrored sunglasses and a toothy smirk, looking straight in his direction. Holy foxtrot, Zoo York's Finest weren't even trying to pretend they weren't watching him—or maybe that was the general idea.

As if to confirm this, the tiger pointed at his shades with a pair of fingers, and then aimed them at Nick.

The fox immediately donned his own sunglasses—so the big cat wouldn't notice his eyes rolling. "Oh, puh-LEEZE, if I wanted to, I could ditch you sooo easily…"

It was then that Martin Pennanti's big, black, Coltsmobile came angling around the corner.

"About stinking TIME!"

Pulling up to the curb, almost directly in front of Nick, the fisher pushed open the passenger door, motioning to the seat beside him, "Hop in, Nicky!"

"Not a word of apology," the red fox grumbled to himself as he slid inside and closed the door behind him.

Actually, there was, but it didn't come until five minutes later, when they hit the Cowanus Expressway.

"Sorry, I'm late Nick, but I got news." Pennanti turned and flashed a toothy grin, "I am now officially a part of this investigation."

"Wha-What?" Nick reeled back in his seat, too staggered to be angry any longer. How the heck…?

Before he could get even halfway through the thought, the fisher was giving him the answer.

"Seems your silver-fox kid made contact with Vern Rodenberg again." He shook his head, and hissed, "I dunno how he did it, but somehow the little piantagrane managed to talk the rat into taking him back as a client."

"Okay," Nick's ears were pointing at the roof of the car, "But what does that have to do with you becoming part of the Lewis Investigation?"

"I'm getting to that, I'm getting to that," Pennanti assured him, patting the steering wheel with his paw. "What happened is, the Lewis kid told Rodenberg his back-story, and now he needs somebody to check it out. So, he called his PI, and his PI called the Minkertons, and the Minkertons called me, telling me I'd been asked for, specifically."

"Ah," Nick nodded, at last understanding. He had wrongly assumed that it had been the ZPD who'd brought the fisher into the case, "And of course you accepted."

"Well-l-l-l, yes," his host admitted, "But not without haggling over my compensation you understand." His expression became a mixture of the mournful and the crafty, "having to interrupt my vacation and all—after I'd been promised the time off, boo-hoo-hoo. That's why I was late meeting up with you."

Nick felt his own expression becoming sly. If that was the reason for the fisher's tardiness…say no more. "And how'd you make out?"

"Double overtime," Pennanti responded, offering a high four, which the red fox readily returned.

But then things got serious.

"Listen Nicky, now I gotta tell you something you're not gonna like. When I agreed to take this case, it made me technically an employee of Vernon J. Rodenberg, attorney at law…which makes me bound by the same rule of attorney-client privilege as him. What that means is, I can't divulge any of what the Lewis kid said to the rat, or anything I learn on my own, separate from you; not unless Rodenberg gives me the okay."

"Aggggh, grrrr," Nick slapped the windowsill in disgust, looking out at the passing cars.

"I know, right?" the fisher nodded sympathetically, and then slumped in his seat, muttering almost to himself, "Che infame, if anyone had ever told me that one day, I'd be doing work for that guy…" he straightened up and shook it off. "Never mind; it is what it is." The corners of his mouth began to turn upwards, "But the good part is, there's nothing that says I can't continue to work with you—and anything you pick up for yourself while we're together is yours to keep, of course."

"Okay, yes…that's good news," Nick conceded, doing his best to conceal his relief. He'd have learned practically nothing so far, if it wasn't for this fisher.

It was a moment before either one of them spoke again. Glancing sideways at Martin Pennanti, the red fox could see his brows working, as if he was carefully mulling his next words. And then the fisher looked at him again, "I can't give you all the details Nicky, but I was able to confirm, right out of the gate, that nearly everything the Lewis kid said about his time with The Company was true. I don't know the whole story of course, but everything he gave up that I was familiar with was 100% accurate."

Nick felt his own brow furrowing. How should he put his next question? "I'm assuming that doesn't include the time after he was…supposedly killed by that street gang?"

Pennanti nodded over the steering wheel.

"You would be correct in that assumption, Nick. While I always suspected that the whole thing might have been a scam, I never had anything to go on except my instincts." He glanced briefly in the fox's direction. "Suffice it to say, that when you informed me that the McLeod boy—now the Lewis boy—was still alive, it didn't come as all that much of a shock."

He frowned deeply for a second.

"You're gonna hear this from the ZYPD anyway, sooner or later, so I don't think it's a problem if I talk about it now." He rapped with his knuckles on the steering-wheel. "I never tried to recruit your Lewis kid as an informant, Nicky; anyone who tells you that is lying. My interest in that boy was strictly in trying to get him the heck away from The Mister, nothing else."

"I…see," Nick answered, cautiously. He didn't, but he knew better than to sidetrack his host's train of thought at a time like this.

"I knew how that sea-jerk worked," the fisher went on, "And I knew the McLeod boy was an alumnus of Granite Point, though I could never prove it." He rapped the steering wheel again. "Feccia sporca! I always knew McCrodon was a first-class slimeball, but I never thought he'd stoop to blackmailing a kid into doing his dirty-work."

Nick almost missed the latter half of what his host had just told him. The first part had left him thoroughly nonplussed. "But, how did you know the Lewis boy had been locked up in Granite point…if you couldn't prove it?"

Pennanti sighed and almost grimaced. "Because The Mister was always threatening to send the kid back there. I never heard him say it—not on a wire, or any place else—but his guys used to talk about it all the stinkin' time!"

"Ah, I get it," Nick nodded his understanding, "All you had was a rumor." THAT was what he'd meant by having no proof.

"Right," the fisher grumbled, "and that wasn't good enough for my bosses. Plus, when we tried to contact Granite Point about the kid, we got stonewalled; they said they had no records of any silver-fox kid being held there…ever."

It was on the tip of Nick's tongue to ask Pennanti if he thought…Who was it that ran Granite Point again? …if they'd been lying when they told him that. But then he realized it was a silly question, and asked another one instead.

"Was that place really as bad as they say?"

"Worse," his host answered with a grim nod. "Honestly, I wasn't at all surprised that the outfit in charge of that place, AKER Correctional, refused to cooperate with us." To Nick's mild bewilderment, he flashed a toothy smirk, "However, times have changed Nicky…and now I know a guy." The smirk opened into a sardonic grin as he pointed up ahead. "And that's why we're headed to Zoo Jersey."

Nick looked, and saw up ahead in the distance, the looming, teal-green towers of the Ferretzano Narrows Bridge. At once, he experienced the sinking feeling of being about to step into enemy territory—though for the life of him, he couldn't say why.

It came as no surprise that Pennanti made him cover the bridge toll. By now, he was used to it, and anyway…it was the ZPD's money, not his.

They were about a third of the way across, when the fisher pointed through the windshield again.

"There," he said, "That's the place where Junior McCrodon made his big leap of faith." He concluded by crossing himself in what was almost a throwaway gesture.

"Mmmm," Nick responded, not particularly interested. It looked like any other spot on this bridge, and besides…James McCrodon Jr. was someone he knew only by way of anecdotes—something for which he was sincerely grateful. "So, where, exactly, are we headed?" he asked.

"Tom's River," Pennanti replied, as if his guest should know exactly where that was and why it was their destination. "We'll stop to get some gas first, and then it's about an hour and a half drive."

Nick felt a sour smile unwinding across his face

"Don't tell me, let me guess; you're going to let ME take care of the fuel costs, right?"

Pennanti winked and raised a thumb, "You're learning, Nicky, you're learning."

Zootopia—ZPD. Precinct One

"You're back already, Detective Hopps?" Chief Bogo looked as if he'd been caught playing with the Gazelle app again.

"Yes, Chief," she answered breathily. Crawling up into her chair again, she patted her knees and pursed her lips, "Like you said, there wasn't much that Mr. Rodenberg was willing to tell me, and…" she looked away for a second, "And honestly, I had to get out of there before I did something I'd be sorry for later."

"Vernon J. Rodenberg does have that effect on our officers," Bogo answered with a knowing nod, "Can't begin to count the number of times I've wanted to pound that rat into the floor." His look became semi-sympathetic. "Was he at least willing to deliver a message to your sister then?"

Judy let out another sigh, "He promised to try—but said he has no way to reach her at the present time."

Bogo folded his arms and scowled.

"And, of course, he wouldn't tell you where she is."

"I think that goes without saying, sir." The doe bunny answered with her jaw tightening, "As a matter of fact, I didn't even ask." Her foot began to thump; she didn't try to stop it. "Just the same, he made me write out my message in his presence and insisted on reading it before he'd agree to take it." She looked away with her ears laid back. "But at least he didn't insist that I make any changes."

"Well," the Chief replied, trying to offer an upbeat note—a rarity for him, "Let us hope then, that he's able to get that note to your sister…and that she'll pay attention to what you've got to tell her."

He let out a grunt and then it was back down to business, "But were you able to learn anything of value, Detective?"

Judy looked uncomfortable for a second. She was going to have to present this very carefully.

"Rodenberg did say one thing, sir—in fact, he insisted. He said that Erin only broke out of jail with those other kids because Craig Guilford was after her and it was the only way to get away from him."

"What, then?" Bogo's ears were up and so were his eyebrows, "Why the Devil would HE have been chasing her?"

Judy had known the answer to that question even before he asked it. "Well Chief, as I'm sure you're already aware, that coyote kid's had it in for me ever since I arrested him—and he also knows that Erin's my younger sister."

"Huh?" the big cape buffalo's brows seemed locked in an elevated position, "How could he possibly…?" He winced and snapped his fingers; it sounded like a pistol shot. "Ohhh, right…you're all from Bunnyburrow, aren't you?"

"Where everyone knows everyone," the doe-bunny nodded, "that's exactly right, sir." The scowl returned to her face, even deeper than before, "And if Craig is anything like his father, it'd be perfectly in character for him to try to get to me through my little sister. It's exactly how that family rolls."

She had more to say, but abruptly stopped herself. Bogo was stroking his chin with one hoof, and drumming fingers on his desk with the other. Ohhhh, sweet cheez n' crackers, she had let herself get carried away after all.

Looking up at the ZPD Chief, she knew what he was thinking. If Craig Guilford had a grudge that big against Erin—and if her sister was in company with Conor Lewis—it meant the Guilford and Lewis cases overlapped. Finding one fugitive might very well lead to apprehending the other.

And that meant Judy would be perfectly within her rights to join in the search for her missing sister.

UNLESS Bogo pulled her off the Craig Guilford investigation—and that was far from an unlikely scenario. He was known to be a stickler when it came to officers becoming fursonally involved in a case.

Finally, after a short, sharp moment, he looked her way again, clearing his throat with a sound not unlike a wood chipper.

"Detective Hopps, can you honestly say that you won't let your feelings for your sister interfere with your investigation? As a matter of fact," he grunted, looking her square in the eye, "I need you to promise that it won't happen."

"It won't, Chief," Judy answered him, her gaze never wavering for an instant. "I didn't let my emotions get the better of me when I interviewed Vern Rodenberg—and I won't let them get in the way going forward." She raised a paw as if being sworn in on the witness stand. "You have my word, sir."

"Very well, Detective," Bogo was nodding gravely, "You'll stay where you are…for the moment." He lifted a thick finger, then lowered it in her direction. "But listen to me now, I'm going to hold you to your word. Go off script, even one time, and you'll be right off the Guilford investigation. I mean it." He sat back, laying his hooves on the desktop. "Much as I value your contributions thus far, I can't afford anything less."

"I understand, sir," the bunny-detective answered, swallowing hard, and hoping he wouldn't notice. Could she stick to that promise? Could she honestly keep her own feelings out of it? It was easy enough to say so, sitting here in Bogo's office—but what about when she was out there in the trenches?

Well…there was only one way to find out…

Chapter 70: All Together Now (Cont'd...Part 2)

Summary:

Nick visits Zoo Jersey while Judy visits at St. Bart's Hospit

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 10
All Together Now - Cont'd…Part 2

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Zoo Jersey State Police Barracks, Toms River, Zoo Jersey

"Where's my hundred, you chiselin' tree-weasel?"

To Martin Pennanti's credit, he didn't so much as flinch at the rejoinder; only looked up calmly at the rhino towering over him, his musteline face suffused with a mixture of innocence and insouciance.

"For crying out loud, Spike," he said, spreading his arms, "We haven't seen each other in what, eight months, and those are the first words outta your mouth?"

Ronald, Spike' Bush, former Zoo York City Police Detective first grade, only laced up his arms and snorted.

"Cry me a river an' drown in it…and it's NINE months, Pennanti!"

Watching from the sidelines, Nick Wilde was more amused than discouraged. For all his bluster, Spike Bush wasn't about to turn them away. If that had been the case, he'd have slammed the door on the fisher and his guest the moment they'd shown up on his doorstep.

However, that didn't mean he was prepared to welcome them with open arms.

"You waltz in here, unannounced, no phone call, no warnin', no nothin'…and just expect me to drop everything and make time for you. I gotta say homes, you got you some serious…"

It was at this point that Nick's detective side came into play. Two things were obvious here, and there was something else at least worthy of conjecture.

In the first two places, Nick had no doubt that Martin Pennanti and Spike Bush went back a long way—and that the rhino's current position was several steps down from where he'd been back when they'd worked together. For instance, he was clad in the black pants and sky-blue shirt of the Zoo Jersey State PD—and you don't go from plainclothes to a uniform as part of a promotion. It was then he spotted something else worthy of note—a shield-shaped patch on the rhino's right sleeve, the emblem of the Zoo Jersey Juvenile Justice Commission.

Ohhh-kay, at least now he knew what he and his guide were doing here.

The thing he wasn't so sure about was…Spike was genuinely angry at Martin Pennanti, no doubt about it. And yet somehow, Nick doubted that it had anything to do with a piddly, little hundred-dollar bet—or even the rhino's reduced status. Noooo, the big mammal's fury sprang for another, deeper source—a source he wasn't going to talk about in front of any stranger; that was another thing of which Nick was 100% certain.

Pennanti, meanwhile, had adopted the wheedling tone of a high-school kid, pleading to be allowed to go to a party.

"Come on Spike, we drove all the way from Zoo York to see you. And you know me; I'd never do that unless it was important. Don't you at least want to know what we're here for?"

The rhino's shoulder rose and fell and he let out a grumbling snort.

"You got five minutes, bubba….and you already used up four of 'em." His finger shot out in the direction of the door, "That leaves 60 seconds…an' then you clear your tail outta here."

Nick expected a sigh of resignation from Pennanti, but instead his face split open in a feral grin.

"Nah, I only need five seconds," he said, and then his face turned icy-hard. "The McCleod kid's still alive, Spike…and he's wanted in Zootopia for assaulting a cop and starting a riot."

The effect of his words was as if a plug of hurricane wind had blown suddenly through the police station. Spike Bush was bowled back a few steps, and when he came to rest, his lower jaw was on his knees and hid ire had given way to astonishment.

"What…seriously?"

"Yep," the fisher nodded gravely and looked at his watch. "But…I can see our times up, so…take care, paisan." He turned to go, beckoning for Nick to follow.

He only managed about three steps, before the rhino grabbed him by the shoulder.

"All right, all riiiight!" He rumbled and then lowered his voice to a murmur, "But not here."

A half hour later, they were standing at the end of a long unvarnished pier in Cattus Island County Park, overlooking a maze of emerald wetlands. It reminded Nick of the Marsh Market back in Zootopia, but with one crucial difference. The water here was completely deserted and a nearby sign explained the reason why:

NO SWIMMING
NO FIRES
NO ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES

ALL WATERCRAFT PROHIBITED

Hm, no wonder they had the place all to themselves—which wasn't a bad thing, when you considered that this was supposed to be a private meeting. Not only that, they'd be able to see anyone else coming long before they came within earshot—and also smell them; they were downwind from the pier entrance and a light offshore breeze was blowing.

All in all, Nick had to admit, this Spike Bush had some smarts to go with his size.

And now, finally, Martin Pennanti got around to making a proper introduction.

"Spike, this is Detective Nick Wilde of the Zootopia Police Department, one of the animals charged with bringing in the McLeod kid."

"Nice to meet you," the fox said, offering a paw, and then a minor correction, "But I actually came to Zoo York on the trail of a diamond smuggler—whom we only just found out is also the Lewis kid…." Oops, he'd forgotten to mention something. "Er, that's what the McLeod boy calls himself now, Conor Lewis. But they're the same animal; we have the DNA test results to prove it."

He went on to tell the rhino the full story, beginning with the Rafaj Brothers jewelry sting—although he wisely left out the part where he kissed Judy. The rest of the tale, however, came as no surprise to Spike Bush.

"So…The Mister finally found him a place to unload those lavender diamonds."

It was only when Nick got to the part about the Amphitheater uproar and Conor's fight with Judy that the rhino showed anything more than a passing interest.

"Rotten little punk," he snorted, "we should've busted him when we had the chance."

"We thought he was dead, remember?" Pennanti reminded him sardonically.

"YOU didn't," the rhino rejoined, with an oddly uncomfortable expression. Nick had to wonder why, but Spike had already shifted gears. "Anyway, that telescoping baton you described? Sounds to me like your boy must have picked up some of his fightin' skills from the Danaconda."

"And also from Kieran McCrodon," Pennanti added, making a slashing motion with one paw. "Going after Detective Hopps every time she tried to talk to him? That's something straight outta that sea-mink's playbook."

"I heard that," the rhino agreed, and then grunted. "Ohhh-kay…I get why you're here. Martin." It was the first time he'd called Pennanti by his first name. "But what do you want from me?"

The fisher leaned in close and lowered his voice.

"We need access to Granite Point."

When he straightened up again, his shoulders were braced, as if he was expecting a flat-out refusal.

But Spike only shrugged. "That's all you want? Yeah, I can manage dat, no problem." And now his voice dropped a meter. "Only…don't expect to learn much. The Point ain't what it used to be."

The fisher's muzzle rippled in irritation.

"Noooo kidding. Tell me something I don't know, why don't cha?"

"All right," the rhino folded his arms again, this time looking almost smug. "What ya'll don't know is how much that place has changed since the bad, old days. In a speech last month, the governor called it 'a model for youth corrections.' And it is. Not one escape since the McLeod…uh, the Lewis Kid broke outta there, practically no fights, and the lowest recidivism rate of any comparable juvenile jail in the country. They got it crushed so good, officials from other states keep comin' in to see how they get it done." He snorted and bobbed his head, "That answer your question, huh?"

"Wait a minute." Nick was raising his paw like a kit in class, "Sorry to interrupt," He wasn't sorry, but… "But there's something I just can't wrap my head around. If Granite Point was really such an awful place, back in the day…why the heck didn't the state order it closed down?"

Pennanti started to answer, but seemed to think better of it, deferring instead to his former subordinate. "You want to tell him, Spike? Jersey's your turf, not mine."

The rhino let out a sound that could have meant anything,

"You know who AKER Correctional is, right? Yeah, they're the outfit that runs the Jersey juvenile facilities—and the adult prisons too, by the way. Anyway, they came to us with the news about the conditions at Granite Point; told us it was the result of an internal investigation, done strictly on their own. We might never have found out anything, if they hadn't come clean with what they discovered." He let out a puff of air through his nostrils, looking out towards the wetlands for a second, "And I do mean clean, they held NOTHIN' back."

"Allll right," Nick huffed, "but even admitting to their responsibility, why were they allowed to remain in business?"

Spike shut his eyes and pinched at his horn; the air around seemed to be darkening a little.

And then he opened them again.

"Nobody knows for sure, uh…Detective Wilde, is it? But the grapevine says a few paws got greased, and a few other animals got levered. The Mister wasn't the only animal, knew how to play dat game." He said this while looking hard at Martin Pennanti. The fisher didn't so much as bat an eye.

"I hear what you're saying, paisan…but we still wanna pay them a visit."

"Suit yourself," the rhino said, shrugging and stretching his arms. "We'll go back to the barracks; I have to file the request from there."

To Nick that seemed like an odd condition, but he wasn't going to say anything. They were going to get access to Granite Point and that was all that mattered.

Once they were back at the Toms River police barracks, it took all of twenty minutes to process the request, and even less time for the approval to come back. Detective Nicholas Wilde and Detective Martin Pennanti were welcome to pay a visit to The Granite Point Youth Correctional Facility at any time, either today or tomorrow.

Okay, that did it, as far as a certain red fox was concerned.

"Why the heck did we have to come back here to do this?" he demanded, unable to stifle his annoyance.

In response Spike Bush's dark eyes seemed to frost over. He clearly wasn't any happier with this situation than his visitor.

"Coz that's how AKER wants it, Detective…an' what they say goes, and goes big." He waved a hoof in a sweeping arc. "We—by which I mean the Juvenile Justice Commission—we got all the power in the world when it comes to enforcing the laws of this state, where kids are concerned. But when it comes to the incarceration side of things, the words of the day are 'back' and 'off'. That's strictly AKER's turf…and you won't find nobody over in Trenton that has a problem with it. not with a record like they got."

"Ah, I see," Nick said, and he did. This was yet another veiled warning—directed more at Martin Pennanti than at him—do not step on any toes during your visit to Granite Point. It seemed to irritate the fisher to no end, and he waved a paw in the direction of the door.

"Nicky, can you do me a favor and go wait in the car? I got a little private business to discuss over here."

"Sure Martin, no problem." The fox replied, more than happy not to have to bear witness to the argument he knew was coming.

But the moment he was gone, Pennanti lowered his voice, beckoning his former subordinate closer.

"Power, or no power—you still got access to the Juvie incarceration records, right?"

Spike's ears went up in surprise. "Yeah, that's right…you want me to look up the McLeod kid—the Lewis kid—the Whatever kid's Juvie records?"

"No," the fisher shook his head, "not him." He reached into his jacket and drew out a pair of photographs which he passed over to his former subordinate. "The first one, the leopard kid, is Derek Cuthbert, originally from Jamaica. Used to go by the name of Cutty while he was locked up in the Point. The grasshopper mice are gonna be tougher. All I have on them is an alias, Ben and Bob Mearns; no idea about their real names. I know that they're brothers, but that's about it."

"Awww, Martin," Spike snorted and his shoulders snagged, "Yeah, I can get their Juvie records—but they won't tell you nothin' you don't already know. Every record 'bout what went down inside The Point in the bad, old days is either lost or 'redacted', mostly the first one."

But Pennanti would not be put off.

"I don't want to know what happened to those kids while they were locked up; I want to know what happened to them after they got out." His gaze sharpened to a fine point, "And THAT information is something I know you have access to."

"Okay, yeah, that I can get," the rhino admitted, ears working in confusion, "But what do you want to track down those kids for, anyway?"

Pennanti barely stopped himself from biting his tongue. That, in fact, was exactly what he was planning to do…and he shouldn't have been surprised that Spike had figured it out. He had once been a member of the fisher's elite detective squad after all.

Allllll right…in for a penny, in for pound, as the saying goes.

"Coz they were members of the Lewis kid's crew while he was inside…and we hope that they can verify the story he gave his lawyer. That's right," he added quickly, before the rhino could react, "I'm not just in this for fits and giggles, I'm working on behalf of the Minkerton's. They've been retained by the fox-kid's lawyer to check out his story."

"Whoa!" Spike Bush had pulled himself up to his full height and his eyes were twice their normal size. "So THAT'S why you didn't want to bring this up while Detective Wilde was in here." D'ahhh he had figured that out, too.

But at least he wasn't asking about how the Lewis kid had managed to find an attorney to represent him or, more importantly, who that attorney was.

…Yet!

"That's about the size of it," the fisher nodded tightly and then looked at his watch again, "Okay, gotta go."

He turned and laid for the door, trying hard not to look like he was hurrying.

It was only when he reached his car that he finally let his breath go.

Somehow, he'd gotten out of there without having to mention Vern Rodenberg's name...and thank God for that.

If Spike Bush ever learned that his former boss was doing investigative work for 'The Rat', he'd be outraged beyond belief.

…or, even worse, razz the fisher unmercifully from now until forever.

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St. Bartholomeow's Hospital, Savanna Central, Zootopia

"Ohhhh, sweet cheez n' crackers…why didn't I THINK?"

Judy Hopps could have kicked herself right through the nearest window.

The call from Precinct-1 had come in while she'd been picking up a few groceries at the Riverside Farmer's Market. The produce here was always head and shoulders above store bought, and for a country girl like Judy, it always felt like a little slice of home. She had just finished picking out a lovely bundle of asparagus, when her cell phone buzzed. And the instant she connected, Chief Bogo's face had appeared on the screen.

"Detective Hopps? Sorry to bring you back to work on such short notice, but we've just had a call from Dr. Walters at St. Barts Hospital. Deputy Cannon's awake and he's asking to see you ASAP."

"Right, sir," the doe-bunny answered at once. As much as she wanted to get home and slip into a nice, hot bath, no way was she going to ask this bobcat to take a rain-check…not after the injuries he'd suffered in the line of duty.

Even so…

"Did he say what he wanted to talk about, Chief?"

"No," the big cape buffalo had answered, tugging on an ear, "But I think we can reasonably determine that it's got something to do with Craig Guilford."

"Yes sir," Judy had replied, almost snapping to attention, "I'll head over there right away. If that was why Mac wanted to see her, she couldn't get to Saint Bart's fast enough.

That is, except for one, very small delay…on the way out, she had passed by a flower stall, and stopped to buy a 'get-well' bouquet, thinking it would be a nice gesture,

Now, the flowers she'd bought seemed to be wilting in her paw. The door to Mac Cannon's room was open…and he wasn't alone. Seated next to his bed were the unmistakable outlines of Judy's mom and her sister Violet.

Ohhhh dangit…she was in no way ready to break the news about Erin to her mother—-especially not if Violet was with her. But it was already too late to duck out of sight. Vi had spotted her, and was tapping their mother on the shoulder.

Making a mental note to herself—to not keep her cell-phone charged at all times—Judy sighed, and then smiled and waved.

"There she is," Bonnie greeted her daughter with a hug and a kiss, which Judy somehow managed to return, and then accepted the same from Violet. Ohhhh, this was going to put the 'awk' in awkward.

But then…God bless Mac Cannon.

"Hi Judy," he said, offering a feeble wave, and rolled over slightly to focus on the other two bunnies in the room, "Bonnie? Violet? Could you excuse Detective Hopps and me for just a bit? I have something important to discuss with her in private—police business," His voice was rough but surprisingly strong, "And we need to get it done before visiting hours are over."

"Of course, Mac," Bonnie answered with a brisk nod, ushering Violet out the door and closing it behind them.

As soon as they were gone, Judy felt her chest loosen.

"Thanks Mac," she said, though she wasn't quite certain what for.

He responded with something that might have passed for a shrug. "I know how these things are, Judy. My wife and daughter were here earlier. When I said hello to Susie, she ran out of the room crying, and Meg couldn't get her to come back." He looked like he was ready to burst into tears himself.

But then, as if swept away by a windshield wiper, the bobcat's wretchedness was gone, replaced by a rockbound determination. Judy couldn't help but be impressed.

"I asked you to come here, Detective…"

"'Judy' is fine, Mac." The doe bunny interrupted. She wasn't merely being friendly; she sensed he'd be more open with her if they dropped the formality.

"All right, Judy then," he said, and there was that semi-shrug again, after which he met her gaze as best he could. "I hear-tell that you've been put in charge of recapturing Craig Guilford." He spit out the name like a bad taste. "Is that so?"

"Yes, that's right," she informed the bobcat, looking properly solemn. "I'm the one who arrested him the first time, after all."

At once, she felt her ears go up. Now why had she felt the need to justify her new assignment?

It was Mac who provided the answer.

"By jumping off a barn roof onto an airplane." he reminded her, attempting a shake of his head. "Sweet cheez' n' crackers, bunny. I hope that was only a fluke."

"It was, Mac," she answered, raising a paw and putting the other one over her heart, "My Chief already gave me a good talking to, and I'm also seeing a counselor." Wait, had she already mentioned that to him? Well...perhaps, but who could blame him for forgetting, after all he'd been through.

"Good to hear," the bobcat answered, with what might have been a nod. "But the reason I asked you to come here is…uh, did you bring a recorder with you? You'll want to save this."

"Ummm, lemme see," Judy rummaged in a pocket and felt her fingers touch hard plastic. When she pulled it out, yes, it was a voice recorder. She didn't remember putting it there, but was glad she had it, just the same. Setting it on the bedside table, she hit the 'record' button, "Go ahead Mac."

At once, his lips pulled back, revealing not just his fangs but every single one of his teeth. "That dirt-bag coyote-punk's the one who put me here, Judy. HE sicced those other kids on me."

Judy gasped and almost said something. The ZPD had long suspected that Craig Guilford had been involved in the attack on Mac Cannon—but never once had anyone imagined that he'd been the one behind it.

And the bobcat wasn't finished with his tirade—not even close. "He told 'em I was the one who threw that poor sand-cat kid over the balcony—me, ME! And of course they believed him, because he was a kid and I was a sheriff's deputy!"

"Mac, take it easy." Judy cautioned, nearly able to taste the bitterness in his voice. She hastily reached to grab his paw, but the bobcat was ignoring her.

"As if I'd ever do a thing like that to another feli…!"

That was as far as he got before his words were cut off by a cicada buzz, coming from the bedside monitor array. Judy quickly hit the pause button on her recorder…just as the door slapped open and a wallaby-nurse came bounding into the room.

"Mr. Cannon, is everything all right?"

"Fine, leave us be," he snapped, glaring daggers in her direction, "And that's DEPUTY Cannon to you."

The wallaby did not leave him alone, but proceeded to check his vitals, pausing once to give Judy a nasty look—as if the whole thing were entirely her fault.

And indeed, as soon as she was finished, she turned to the bunny with her paws on her hips. "All right…but if you get him worked up like that again, Officer Hopps…"

"She's DETECTIVE Hopps, nursie; can't you get anything right?"

"…Then I'm going to have to ask you to leave," she concluded, ignoring the voice from the bed behind her.

…A voice that would not be denied, "She stays until I say otherwise…I have things she needs to hear, and she's going to hear them, whether you like it, or…"

"Mac? Let me." Judy spoke up quickly, figuring she'd better move fast before the nurse decided to expel her, simply out of spite. "Deputy Cannon was just telling me that he knows who was behind the attack that put him here. It's a dangerous individual, who needs to be apprehended as soon as possible…before he hurts someone else." She was laying it on a little thick, she knew, but anything went, if it was to make sure she'd be allowed to finish her interview. Not only had she been unaware, until now, that Craig Guilford was the animal most responsible for Mac's condition—neither had anyone else knew,.

"All right then," the nurse answered with a reluctant nod, before angling her gaze in the direction of the monitor, "But that alarm goes off a second time Detective, you'll have to be on your way, is that clear?"

"Perfectly," Judy answered, hurriedly, before Mac could toss off another snide one.

It was only after the wallaby was gone that Judy was able to take full register of the bobcat's condition; something she should have done when she'd first come in here.

Not to put too fine a point on it, Mac Cannon was a feline train-wreck. His right leg was encased in plaster and held aloft by something that looked like a…a skewer through his ankle! His left arm was similarly immobilized and, somewhere beneath the sheets, Judy thought she could see the outline of something resembling body armor…indicating the presence of either bruised or broken ribs. Most of the bobcat's head was swathed in bandages, and although the swelling in his face had largely subsided, enough of it still remained to tell you that this cat had taken some serious hits. About the only thing that seemed to have emerged unscathed from the beating was—remarkably enough—his teeth. The sight was so unnerving to Judy that she nearly forgot to start the voice recorder again.

In the meantime, Mac seemed to be working very hard to calm himself down again. After perhaps another two or three minutes, his breathing returned to normal and he looked in her direction.

"Sorry, I can't help thinking about that coyote kid, without my motor starting to crank." He cleared his throat and took a sip of water from a hose beside his head. "Feel like a dang-dong hamster, having to drink like that." he muttered, and then turned and looked again at the bunny sitting next to him. "Tell me, Detec…I-I mean Judy. How well do you know Craig Guilford…I mean really know him?"

"About as well as anyone, I suppose," the doe bunny answered, trying not to sound put off. What, was he serious? "Like I already said, I'm the one who busted him that first time."

"No Judy," Mac corrected her. He looked like he was trying to shake his head again. "Not the first time…or the second or third time either; that was me." He tapped at his chest with his good paw. "Craig Guilford and me go back a ways…to long before his old 'yote tried to dump that load of defoliant on the Carrot Days Festival. That's why the Burrow County Sheriff's office sent me here to interview him. And we've had several interesting, if not particularly pleasant, conversations since then."

"Mmm, I see," Judy nodded, wanting to give herself another kick. She'd completely forgotten the reason for Mac's presence in Zootopia.

"And between all of that," the bobcat went on, "I think I may have some insights to offer in regards to apprehending that coyote-kid, things you may not know."

"Yes, I see what you mean," Judy conceded. She was in no way too proud to accept some outside help; something she retained from her first adventure with Nick Wilde. She was about to encourage Mac to go ahead, when another thought crossed her mind. "But before we get into that, perhaps I should fill you in on where the investigation stands at the present time."

"Oh yes, good thought," Mac agreed, settling back as much as his injuries would allow.

For the next few minutes, he just sat quietly, offering only the occasional murr as Judy described the sinkhole and what she'd found there. Since her debriefing with Chief Bogo, however, she'd had a little time to think about it and had come to a few more conclusions.

"My feelings now are that Craig didn't fall into that hole by accident. Someone pushed him and then rolled that dumpster over the top to trap him inside. Then, later on, someone else came along and dug him out." She paused to rub a finger across her nose. "Or maybe—I doubt this happened, but I can't rule it out—maybe he talked whoever put him down there into helping him escape."

"I'd say you CAN rule that out, Judy." What was left of Mac's whiskers were bobbing up and down. "Craig Guilford is just about the opposite of your wily coyote stereotype. And believe me, he's nobody's sweet-talker."

"What if he pretended to be injured?" Judy countered. Faking injuries was a standard tactic among coyotes. "That would explain all the howling."

"Well, yes," the bobcat admitted, "But that doesn't necessarily mean the animals who pulled him out of that hole are the ones who put him in there. And honestly…I can't see a badger having pushed him into that thing. You know how tight their species are."

"True enough," Judy answered, nodding. And then, deciding that their conversation was getting a little too far off track, she decided to turn back the clock a little. "Did Craig have any badger-friends back in Bunnyburrow?"

Mac's ear turned backwards, as far as was possible under the circumstances

"He doesn't have any friends in the Burrow, period. Maybe once, but not anymore…except for Amanda Hill, and she was more of a tool than a girlfriend. Nope, Craig's strictly a loner these days."

"What, seriously?" Judy's own ears were standing rigidly. That was unusual for any young mammal—but especially for a social species like a coyote.

"Well, keep in mind," the bobcat said, pausing briefly for another sip of water, "He's a member of the Guilford Clan…a family most folks in the Burrow want their kids to steer clear of. Sheriff Sauer tells me that Amanda Hill's folks are threatening to send her off to boarding school for having run with that little jerk. They probably won't but you get the idea. That's only part of why Craig doesn't have any friends, but it's a big part." He took another sip and then added. "And that's why I believe he most likely ditched those kids who rescued him, the first chance he got."

Judy's foot tried to thump, but she stopped it after only a single beat.

"That's, uh… As much as I hope you're right, Mac, I'm afraid I have to disagree." She swept a paw around the room, "If we were back in Bunnyburrow, yes, but this is Zootopia. Before Craig Guilford landed here, he'd never been to the big city in his life, much less this one. Without somebody to show him the ropes, he'll be completely lost in this environment." She patted the base of her neck, "Believe me, I know what I'm talking about; been there, done that. If I hadn't had someone to help me get acclimated, when I first moved here, I'd probably still be on parking duty." The face of Nick Wilde appeared in her mind; she hurriedly brushed it aside. "And also, from what I hear, Craig didn't keep to himself all that much while he was locked up in the Precinct-1 jail. He was seen, hanging out with some of the other kids not once, but several times."

Mac screwed his eyes shut, as if he was giving himself an invisible face-pawlm.

"Me-yurrr…riiiight. I saw that for myself a few times. Ahhh, you're probably right Judy, but I can tell you this much, anyway. You won't find Craig Guilford running with any other coyotes."

This time Judy's ears stayed where they were. For some reason, that didn't surprise her. Nonetheless, she had to ask, "How so?"

"Because," the bobcat answered, his expression a curious mixture of pity and loathing, "the only other 'yotes he's ever associated with are the members of his family. And as practically anyone back in The Burrow will tell you, it wasn't a happy relationship…especially with his dad. Jerry used to ride him so hard, I almost felt sorry for the kid…almost. And it wasn't much better with his uncles. They used to call him the idiot nephew behind his back—and sometimes to his face."

"I see," Judy nodded. All right, that made sense; Craig Guilford had never been noted for his intelligence. In fact, most of why he wasn't still locked up could be put down to sheer, dumb luck. He'd had nothing to do with the cyberattack that had allowed him to escape from the Precinct-1 Youth Jail; he'd simply been in the right place at the right time.

Or, in the case of her younger sister, the wrong place at the wrong time. And that brought up something else she needed to address…and right now.

"Mac? There's something else that I only just learned today. I don't know if you're aware, but my kid sister Erin was also one of the kids that escaped from Precinct-1 during the cyberattack."

"What, now?" His ears were trying to swivel forward, "Now what'd she want to go and do a fool thing like that for?"

"Because Craig Guilford was after her," Judy was trying not to grit her teeth, "And it was the only way to get away from him. Or…that's what the message I got from her said."

At once her inner voice rose up to contradict her.

"No, Jude…You KNOW that's what happened. Remember what Max March told you?"

Yes…she'd forgotten about that young buck-rabbit. But now, sitting in the hospital where she'd interviewed him. it was all coming back to her. Craig had mistakenly thought Max had snitched on him, not over his role in his father's crop-dusting attack, but over an earlier incident…and he'd been out for payback ever since. But during the riot, after throwing Max against the wall, he'd been jumped by the young sand-cat, Saad al-Zaqir. And then, after…afterwards, when he'd come upon the helpless young bunny a second time…

"When Craig finally showed up, he just kind of looked at me and then booked it on down the catwalk, the same way Erin went."

Ohhh…at the time Judy had assumed the young coyote had simply decided that escape was more important than revenge. The route he'd taken had eventually led him to the loading dock—and the freight door, let open by the cyberattack. Now, she knew different, but it led to an even bigger puzzle. Why would Craig have left the bunny who's snitched on him to pursue another that was only related to the rabbit who'd busted him?

"Ah, I see." Mac's ears had eased back to their normal position. "Don't tell me, let me guess; he went after your sister to try and get back at you for arresting him, am I right?

"Yes, exactly," Judy answered, feeling her own ears trying to stand up. Truth be told, she wasn't so sure about that any more. A dark suspicion was beginning to unfold in the back of her mind…

"Uh-huh, thought so," the bobcat replied, attempting a nod, "That's one thing he has in common with his old 'yote." He looked straight at her, offering a wry smile, "Where they're not the same is that unlike his dad, Craig's no schemer, strictly an opportunist. If he happens across your sister again by accident, there'll be trouble, all right. In fact, I'd hazard a guess, it's how he ended up chasing her in the first place. But he won't try to hunt her down; that's not in his nature, not one little bit. And he's nothing if not impulsive, that boy. If I know him, he's already got something new to hate."

"Thanks Mac." Something heavy seemed to lift off Judy's shoulders. In fact, that had been her biggest worry—that Craig Guilford might decide to finish what he'd started back in Precinct-1. Now, she could put that concern aside.

UNLESS… there was that suspicion again

"And that's only your SECOND-biggest worry," the doe-bunny's inner voice reminded her, "The biggest is Conor Lewis. Craig Guilford's only a possibility. That silver fox kid is a REALITY!"

Maybe so, but he had nothing to do with Mac Cannon, and so somehow, she made herself drop the thought—for now—and move on to something else.

"Mac, did you know that we lost the CCTV system during the cyberattack?"

"No…I didn't," He admitted, aghast but not surprised. "Was that because of the hackers or the rioters?"

"A little of both," Judy answered him, "but mostly because of the cyberattack. And so far, we haven't been able to recover any of the video footage—and it doesn't look like we're going to. Because of that, we have no idea who killed that poor sand-cat, Saad al-Zaqir." She took in a breath through her nose and exhaled by way of her mouth. "By…By any chance did you see what happened to him?"

Mac's mouth became a thin, flat line.

"No Judy…I didn't. I was too busy trying to grab that kid to see who tossed him over the railing…and honestly, my head's still fuzzy about a lot of what went on during the riot." He opened his mouth and let out an angry hiss. "But…from what I said so far, I think you can get a fair idea about who probably did it."

Ouch! Yes, she would, and it hit her like a smack to the solar plexus. Craig Guilford's attempt to blame the incident on Mac made him the prime suspect in the young sand-cat's death. And when you put that together with the part he'd played in the plot to spray-bomb the Carrot Days Festival, it meant he was looking straight down the barrel of life without parole—even without any further charges.

No one, she knew, is more dangerous than a perp with nothing left to lose, and if what she suspected might have happened…HAD happened…

"Oh, please…let Erin get my message." She silently beseeched whoever might be listening.

It was then that someone knocked on the door, and before either Judy or Mac could respond, it swung open on its own, and Nurse Wallaby came barging into the room.

"I'm sorry, but visiting hours are over," she said, sounding triumphant rather than apologetic.

At once, Mac started to bristle, but this time, Judy got there first.

"It's all right, I think we're done here anyway," she said, plucking her voice-recorder from the side table and switching it off.

"Are you sure?" the bobcat asked, but she waved a dismissive paw.

"Nooooo, we're good." She got up from her chair and stashed the recorder. "I think I got everything I need…for now, at least." Yes…and also and a lot more than she wanted to hear, although she was keeping that info under wraps.

When she exited the room, she saw Violet and her mother seated in the waiting area. And now, they were getting to their feet.

"Oh-kayyyy, now here comes the HARD part."

She turned to speak to the mammal in charge of the nurses' station.

"Is there somewhere we can talk privately?"

The impala consulted a chart.

"Room…uh, 627 is empty. You can talk there; it's just down the right-side hallway."

Judy's desire for privacy was not lost on her mother and sister, when she closed the door, both of their noses were twitching so hard, it looked like they were trying not to sneeze.

It didn't help when the first thing her mother said was, "Is this about Erin?" She was clasping her paws as if in prayer.

That told Judy there was only one thing to do—just come right out with it, no hemming and no hawing.

"Yes, Mom it is," she said, before adding quickly, "And she's all right. We haven't gotten her back yet…but she's all right."

"D-Do you know where she is?" It was Violet this time.

"And…how do you know she's okay?' her mother was asking.

Judy sighed, trying hard not to thump her own foot. As knotty problems went, this one was almost Gordian.

"If we knew where she was, Vi, I'd be on my way to bring her back right now. But we know she's okay because." She paused for a second, sucking air between her teeth, "No one knows how she pulled it off…but somehow, she managed to secure the services of a lawyer. He's the one who told us that she's safe." She had already decided not to mention which lawyer her kid sis had retained. Mom had worries enough, without learning the animal in question was Vernon J. Rodenberg, attorney to the mob.

"Wha…?" Her mother's ears were going every which way, "And he didn't bring her back? Why?"

"Yes, why?" Violet agreed.

That was good for a silent groan from Judy. "Ohhhh, I am SO not ready for this,"

"I spoke to him earlier today, Mom," She said, "He says he tried to talk Erin into turning herself in, but she refused,"—technically true—"And no, I don't know why she won't come in, but…" Here, she mentally crossed her fingers, "her attorney DID agree to relay a message to her for me." Whether or not Mr. Rodenberg would be able to pass it along was another thing she was keeping to herself.

"You did?" her mother's ears were up. "What did it say?"

Judy felt her own ears starting to relax. At last, an easy question.

"That we all love her and miss her…and to please come and turn herself in; she won't be in any more trouble if she gives herself up. We understand why she escaped with the other…kids…"

Ohhhh, no!

"D'ohhh, did I just say that was an EASY question? Dumb bunny…what if THEY want to know why Erin did what she did?"

She could just imagine Mom and Violet's reaction if she told them about Craig Guilford's role in her sister's escape. Thinking fast, she quickly added, "Oh, and I also said that if she doesn't want to come in, to please…please, at least tell us why."

She braced herself, waiting. That was hardly a strong deflection.

No…but good enough.

"Um, do you…think that…" Her mother was speaking as if negotiating a floor strewn with Lego pieces, "this lawyer might be…willing to…deliver a message to her from me?"

"Maybe," Judy replied, although she actually had no idea at all, "go ahead and write it out and I'll see what I can."

"Why does she need to do that?" Violet was frowning deeply.

"It's the only way Erin's lawyer will agree to pass it on to her." Judy answered, laying back her ears to show that she didn't like it any more than her older sibling.

Meanwhile her mother was rooting in her pocketbook, "Ohhhh, I don't have a pen."

They ended up having to borrow one from the nurses' station. And it was only after Judy finally took leave of her mother and that she was able to let go of her anxiety. Somehow, she'd managed to avoid having to mention Craig Guilford or Vernon Rodenberg.

…Or—worst of all—Conor Lewis.

But sometime soon, she knew she was going to have to come clean about those three…before Mom and Vi found out for themselves.

Chapter 71: All Together Now (Cont'd...Part 3)

Summary:

A visit to the new Granite Point

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 10
All Together Now - Cont'd…Part 3

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It was a good thing Nick wasn't driving. Otherwise, he might have put the brake pedal clear through the floor.

He was on the road with Martin Pennanti at the wheel, the two of them cruising north on the Garden State Parkway and listening to a selection from the fisher's playlist. In a rather eccentric homage to his roots, he was a connoisseur of Italian prog rock.

♪ "Now all the seasons run together
And the middle days are gone…" ♫

"Who's that?" Nick asked, pointing at the car deck.

"Band out of Milan," Pennanti's eyes stayed glued to the road as he spoke. It was a drizzly day with crummy visibility. "They're called Premiata Forneria Marconi."

♪ "Had my bicycle risin'
Fast-wheelin' and climbin'…" ♫

Nick's ears went in several different directions, "Uhhhhh…."

"Means the Famous Marconi Bakery," The fisher explained helpfully. And then almost as an afterthought, he added, "By the way Nicky, Vern Rodenberg didn't get the Mister off on that RICO charge. The government sabotaged its own case."

"WHAT?!"

Nick's fox-scream would have drowned out a thunderclap if one had come along at that particular moment. He spent the next few minutes fumbling for words and sounding not unlike channel surfing.

"Wha…are you…I…why…give me…" Eventually, he managed to get it out. "All right, but WHY?"

Pennant offered him a humorless smirk. "The only reason the Feds even prosecuted him in the first place is because both the Governor and the Mayor were leaning on them. It was an election year, y'see. Rodenberg was basically brought in as a fig leaf, so The Feds could say, 'Hey, we tried our best.' He rapped the steering wheel with the heel of his paw, a familiar gesture to Nick by this time. "But they were never gonna let The Mister—or his brothers—get put away; he was too darn valuable for that."

And now it became a good thing Pennanti's car had a relatively high roof. Otherwise, Nick's ears would have punched right through it. "Valuable…h-how?"

"A little something McCrodon picked up from his mentor, Whitey Bullgoar." The fisher kept his eyes on the highway as he explained. "If you're 'in the life' and you want to keep The Feds off your back, there's only one way to make it happen…become an informer."

"Uh-huh," Nick nodded, trying not to sound skeptical. He had heard the Bullgoar story from Mr. Big and there was a lot more to it than what Pennanti was telling him. Bullgoar had corrupted his federal handler and ended up in the slam anyway, doing life without parole.

"But the Mister was smart; he took it one step further," Pennanti seemed to have read his mind. "He never informed on his fellow wiseguys; only terrorist groups—and being an arms merchant, he had plenty of information on those jerks."

"Ohhhh," Nick fell back in his seat; it seemed to half swallow him up. Okay…now he got it.

And his host had even more information to impart.

"I gotta give it to the guy Nick," he was grudgingly shaking his head. "Much as I despised him, it was stinkin' brilliant. Most of what Bullgoar gave to The Feds was useless—but not The Mister. All of it was good, and some of it was pure gold. And no other boss was gonna call him a snitch for informing on a terrorist cartel. Their only problem was, 'Hey, how come we never thought of that?' He sniffed and narrowed his eyes a little. "Wanna know why The Company guys were forbidden to deal dope or even have it in their possession? Because that's the one thing The Feds wouldn't have tolerated—no matter what kind of juicy intel McCrodon was giving them."

"I see," the red fox nodded. Privately, he had to wonder where this was going—and what it had to do with Conor Lewis. Still, it was interesting to hear.

"No doubt you're curious how the Company got taken down, even with the government having their back." Pennanti was saying.

"I was kind of curious," Nick admitted, glancing sideways out the window for a second. In truth, the thought had never once crossed his mind, but now that the fisher mentioned it…

"To be perfectly honest, I don't know myself." His companion's jaw became fixed as he spoke. "The prevailing theories are that either The Feds decided he was more trouble than he was worth, or else he was becoming too erratic to be trusted any longer." His eyes narrowed and shifted in Nick's direction for a second. "Or—if you wanna put on your tin-foil hat… There's some say that McCrodon picked up some dirt on The Feds—serious stuff—and they took him out before he could make use of it."

Nick's ears went up again, but at the same time a frown was stretching along his muzzle. Given The Mister's penchant for blackmail that wasn't as far-fetched as it sounded. Still…he couldn't imagine the government signing off on anything that draconian.

And yet…

Facts were facts. Only two of The Company's many members had emerged from Finagles still breathing—and they were little more than vegetables now, if what he'd heard was accurate. If the real reason for the raid on the Mister's stronghold had been to ensure his silence, then it had more than accomplished its purpose.

And on that subject, Nick had the very strong and sudden feeling that his host had finally gotten to the point. What that point was, he had no idea. But it was there, a walnut, still in its shell, waiting to be cracked open.

"Okayyy, here's our exit." Pennanti angled his car to the right and the spell was broken,

…for now.

They knew they were starting to get close when a sign appeared on an approaching overpass.

JUVENILE DETENTION FACILITY
DO NOT STOP FOR HITCHHIKERS

The text was faded, and barely legible.

About a quarter mile later they were passing along a chain-link fence of somewhat eccentric design. Curving inward, away from the road, it gave the impression of a baseball diamond backstop. Nick had to admit…it would be tough to climb that thing from the inside, even for an arboreal species. Even so, there was something off about it.

After perhaps another half mile, they came to the main gate, a sand-colored trapezoidal concrete arch with a guard station set into the left side wall. As they pulled up beside it, a bighorn-sheep with a clipboard exited, indicating for Pennanti to roll down his window. The fisher complied at once, at the same time proffering his badge.

That gave Nick the opportunity to give the ram a quick once-over.

His uniform was simple to the point of minimalism; a dark-blue, billed cap, khaki shirt and slacks, perfectly matched, and a dark blue web-belt. Nick thought that it gave him the appearance of wearing a jump-suit. The only indication of his status was a single stripe on his sleeve with a patch just above it, the emblem of the Zoo Jersey Youth Authority. He had a name tag on his chest, but the lettering was too small for the fox to make out…

"Your badge sir?"

Whoops, the officer was holding out a hoof in his direction and Pennanti was giving him a look that said, 'For crying out loud, wake UP already!'

Nick passed his badge over with an embarrassed expression. The sheep examined it quickly and then gave it back.

"Are either of you carrying weapons…or are there any in your vehicle?" the ram's eyebrow was arched as he posed the question.

It was Pennanti who answered him.

"No, sir," he responded smartly, "nothing on us…or in the car either."

"All right then," the sheep replied, indicating the road ahead with his clipboard, "You'll want to report to reception and intake at the top of the hill; you'll see it."

"Thank you, officer," the fisher nodded with a bright smile. A half-moment later, it was gone—replaced by a sour expression —and he was muttering to no one in particular. "Jerk! He was hoping that we were packing."

"I noticed," Nick concurred, although he hadn't. He had simply assumed that the sheep was rude by nature.

Well, at the end of the day, it probably didn't matter.

For the next few minutes, they found themselves on a satin-smooth, ruler-straight road, fringed by small, neatly-trimmed shrubs, and with a pair of well-manicured lawns on either side.

"Sheesh Nicky, Pennanti observed at one point, "What the heck is this—a juvie hall, or a stinkin' country club?" This time, he and the fox were on the same wavelength. Nick thought it was…the only word that came to mind was weird.

At the top of a hill, they came to a sentry-line of poplar trees with the road, bisecting them through the center. On the other side, it split off in two different directions; one leading to the service dock, and the other towards the main entrance.

But it was an area abutting the road, about the size of a basketball-court, that drew the bulk of the fox and fisher's attention.

It was a garden—and not just a garden-variety garden—a riot of brightly colored flowers interspersed with koi ponds, and a trickling waterfall. That in itself, was odd. Wouldn't a vegetable garden have been more practical? As they drew closer, Nick could see in one of the pools, roils and flashes of color as the occupants vied for whatever tidbit had fallen into the water. "How the heck have those things not been eaten?" Pennanti asked rhetorically, turning to stare for just a second. Nick knew exactly what he was talking about. There had to be at least a few piscivorous young offenders incarcerated here—and having served a little time himself, he knew that in the graybar hotel, pilferage is the name of the game.

"Maybe," he ventured, "they don't let…any of the fish-eating kids near those pools?"

Nick immediately wished that he'd kept that conjecture to himself, because the garden also contained four topiaries in various geometric shapes, a cube, a sphere, a pyramid, and one trimmed into the shape of 'plus' sign. The latter was currently being worked on by a pair of young animals with hedge-clippers, both of whom were clad in Day-Glo orange coveralls with the letters ZJYA stenciled on the back. One of them was a young deer-buck—but the other was a juvenile grizzly bear. Ohhh-kay, so much for his theory about the fish-ponds. One swipe of that kid's paws would empty any one of them onto the lawn…and everyone knew that grizzlies adored fresh fish.

"And…where the heck are the officers?" The red fox wondered to himself. "There should be…Oh. wait there's one."

Yes, there was…but only one.

He was a cougar, seated in a folding quad-chair. His uniform was a carbon copy of the one worn by the bighorn sheep at the gate, except his belt and the baseball-cap were red, rather than blue. And…was that a magazine laying in his lap? Well, if it was, it hardly mattered, because at the moment he was giving his undivided attention to the two young mammals under his watch.

Unsurprisingly, it was the deer who seemed to be enjoying his task, working along at a merry clip, no pun intended. The grizzly, on the other paw appeared to be suffering from lockjaw, his mouth pulled back in what appeared to be a permanent toothy grimace. Even so, he was keeping his eyes on his task…mostly. Every so often, his attention would shift sideways to the big cat watching over him, but only for a hint of a second, and then it was back to clipping again–hurriedly. Nick had seen the look he was wearing before, but couldn't quite remember where.

And then there was that cougar; there was something peculiar about him, too. But what…?

Never mind, they were already past the garden.

But still…

In another moment, they came to a high, ivy-covered wall. Directly in front of them was a two-lane gap in the edifice. It was topped by a wrought iron arch, bearing a message in stylized letters, 'FOR THE WELFARE OF THE CHILD.' There was no gate and Pennanti drove straight through without stopping.

And now, at last, they could see Granite Point's central structure.

It was a three-story affair, with a sloping, tiled roof, and a stucco exterior, the color of dark mustard. It reminded Nick a little of the Met Cloisters, the Renaissance-flavored building where he'd met the elk, Ed Bewgel. Had he been here to see The Point before the renovations, he would have noted the absence of the central tower, replaced by a squat guard-station mounted just above the main entrance.

And on the subject of that entrance, could anything have looked more out of place here than that…thing? It was a glass-fronted, ultramodern hexagon, that would have been perfectly appropriate as the front foyer of a hi-tech firm. Here, it stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb, and Nick said as much to his companion.

"Well, ya gotta remember Nicky," Pennanti observed, as he pulled into a visitor space and set the brake, "This place wasn't built as a tourist attraction."

"True enough," the fox agreed, and then opened his door and got out.

Entering through a double set of sliding doors they were greeted by another bighorn sheep, who gave them a quick once-over with a paddle-shaped wand. Neither Nick, nor the fisher objected. This was standard procedure in any correctional facility.

The decor of Intake and Reception area was another matter entirely. The place could almost have passed for the lobby of a 60's vintage, 'futuristic' motel. The front desk was shaped like an artist's palette, and a forest of cylindrical lights dropped down from the ceiling on long, metal poles of varying lengths. The clock set into the wall had no numbers, only metal 'ticks.' And how about those stairs? The staircase at the back of the enclosure went swirling along the paneling as it ascended to the upper floor, offering only a thin, metal railing for support.

Sweet cheeze n' crackers, as the fox's former partner would have said—and as his present partner had observed on the way in—what kind of a crazy juvenile correctional facility was this?

At the front desk, they were obliged to trade in their cell-phones and credentials for a pair of visitor badges—to yet another bighorn sheep, who directed them to a pair of elevator doors on the far-right side of the lobby.

"Dr. Lampley will see you first," he informed the pair tonelessly, pointing at the first door, "Third floor, at the end of the hallway on your left."

Nick wisely chose to wait until the door closed before turning to speak to Pennanti.

"Holy foxtrot. Does this place seem like something out of The Twilight Zone or what?"

Pennanti only looked at him curiously.

"Dunno what you're talking about, fox," he said, and then resumed his forward gaze.

"Wha-WHAT?" Nick's ears shot upwards while his lower jaw crash-dived. He couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "Hello-o-o? What about those kids…"

The fisher instantly wheeled on him, "For the tenth time Nicky, don't bug me, okay?"

"Huh?" If Nick had been only confused a second ago, now he was totally flabbergasted.

Until…he noticed that his companion's eyes were canted upwards at the ceiling.

Oh, riiiiight…better get into character and quickly.

"You said that exactly twice…fisher," he snarled, half baring a fang. "And just because we came in your car, it doesn't mean…."

"Yeah, yeah…yadda, yadda," Pennanti waved him off as the door opened, and they continued with their bickering as they made their way down the hall.

At the end of the corridor, they came to a plain double door, painted in dark varnish; plain—and yet not so plain. Nick studied it closely while Pennanti knocked. After perhaps half a second, a deep but nonetheless reedy voice answered from the other side.

"Yes, come in." The tone was congenial, almost friendly.

There were knobs at three different levels. Nick grabbed the one at the correct height for small mammals and pushed…and pushed again, the door refused to budge. It might be a plain-Jane design, but it had been hewn out of some seriously exotic wood.

Pennanti was just about to lend a shoulder when they heard a buzz and a hum, and the door swung open on its own.

On the other side was a birchwood-paneled office with a bay window and vintage photographs decorating the walls. At the center of it all was an oak schoolmaster's desk, currently occupied by an animal of indeterminate species. The large horns, curling around the side of his cheeks, proclaimed him to be a sheep, but the thatch of whisker protruding from beneath his chin, said 'goat' in big, capital letters.

"Good afternoon, gentlemammals. In answer to your question, I'm a urial sheep.

It was no use, Nick and Martin Pennanti were unable to keep from exchanging glances. Either this animal was highly perceptive, or they were far from the only visitors to have pondered that question.

And there was yet another surprise in store for the fox and fisher. When the sheep came out from behind his desk, he came not under his own power, but by way of a high-tech wheelchair—very high-tech. He had only to look in the direction he wanted to go, and it obeyed. Hmmm, well that explained the automatic door anyway. But then, from beside him, Nick heard Martin Pennanti stifling a low whistle. He would ask about that later but for now, their host was wheeling towards him and offering a hoof.

"Detective…Nicholas Wilde, is that right? I'm Dr. Edward Lampley, superintendent of the Granite Point Youth Correctional Facility." He turned his head and the chair turned with him, now facing towards the fisher on his left. "And you would be Detective Martin Pennanti…of the Minkerton Detective Agency."

There was an air of condescension in his final words, but Pennanti appeared to take no notice, instead taking the urial's hoof in a firm, dry grip. "Yes, that's right. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Likewise, I'm sure," Dr. Lampley smiled. And though he couldn't say why, Nick would later remember this as the moment when he first began to dislike the good doctor.

And now, the sheep turned again, gesturing towards an overstuffed couch. "Would you like to sit down…and can I get you some coffee?"

Nick answered thanks, but no thanks as he took his seat in the section reserved for small mammals. Pennanti, however, replied in the affirmative, "Yes, please…black, no cream, no sugar."

"I'll have some sent up right away," Their host thumbed a button on his chair, "Lieutenant Terrence, this is Dr. Lampley, could you send up a pot of coffee to my office please? Two cups."

"Right away, sir." A tinny voice replied from an unseen location.

Nick felt his ears trying to rise. Why didn't Dr. Lampley simply have a coffee machine installed in his office? There was plenty of space for one.

Oh, well…to each his own.

"So, Detectives," The urial sheep had pulled his chair up to a low table fronting the couch. "What can I do for you today?"

It was an entirely diplomatic inquiry and everyone in the office knew it. Dr. Lampley knew exactly why his visitors were here—else they'd never have been allowed past the entrance gate.

Meanwhile, a discreet nod from the fisher was telling Nick to take the lead.

"It's in regards to a young silver fox who was once an inmate at this…"

The sheep cut him off with a raised hoof. "We don't use the term 'inmate' here, Detective Wilde…even among our staff. The young mammals held here are either detainees, or sometimes prisoners. I hope you understand."

"Yes of course," the fox replied, dipping his muzzle. He did understand…though not completely. This wasn't the first time he'd heard that rule, but back then it had been a law of the prisoners, by the prisoners and for the prisoners. The correctional officers could use whatever the heck term they wanted. Oh, well…. "May I continue?"

"Certainly."

Nick cleared his throat before returning to his explanation.

"As I was saying, we've come here in regards to a young silver fox who was held here some years ago." He decided to lay it on a little, allowing his ears to fall back and assuming the same meek deportment he'd employed when he'd begged Jerry Jumbeaux to sell him a Jumbo-Pop. "I must tell you right up front, Dr. Lamprey…"

"Uh, that's Lampley."

"Oh, yes sorry," the fox corrected, looking properly chastised. Beside him, Martin Pennanti had turned away, clutching his muzzle, with his shoulders quivering. "Anyway, as I was about to say, this boy was incarcerated here in the days before the AKER corporation instituted their reforms—a courageous and commendable action I must say, given the circumstances."

"Yes, thank you." The sheep responded, sounding appropriately grateful…and beginning to look impatient. Nick caught it and quickly adjusted.

"But I digress, Doctor. The young silver fox in question was held here under the nammmme…" He pretended to rack his brain for second, "Alan Murphy."

He expected Dr. Lampley to respond with a frown and a scratch at his horn, but instead the sheep just nodded grimly. "Ah-ha, yes…When I heard you say 'silver fox,' I thought that it might be him."

"So, you're familiar with the boy?" Martin Pennanti asked, joining the discussion.

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Dr. Lampley angled his chair in the direction, at the same time thumbing a control knob on his chair.

"Come in."

The door swung open with the speed of a crypt in a 30's horror movie and a young Siberian Tiger entered, pushing a four wheeled cart bearing a coffee service. There was nothing fancy here. Nick recognized the cart as the same type used to move AV equipment during his grade-school years, and the mugs and coffee-pot might have come straight from a truck-stop. Just the same, the level of service seemed a little excessive.

The young feline, meanwhile, was setting the pot and the cups on the table, along with a sheaf of napkins. When he reached for the coffee-pot again, Pennanti politely waved him off, taking it upon himself to do the honors.

"Allow me," he said, speaking to Dr. Lampley. "How do you take yours, Doctor?"

"One sugar, half cream." The sheep replied.

Pennanti poured for the sheep and then for himself. And then he did something rather strange. Raising his mug in the young tiger's direction, he smirked sardonically, "Nice to see you with an honest job, tovaritsch. Za zdorovei." He slammed the Java in a single gulp, and winked conspiratorially. "Vashi brat'ya-khuligany budut ochen' vpechatleny, da?"

If the fisher's actions appeared odd, the young tiger's reaction was even odder. For perhaps half a second, ears seemed to be trying to lay sideways, but then fell limply backwards. Taking a half step backwards, he turned quickly to Dr. Lampley. "W-Will that be all sir?" His voice was soft and Slavic, with just a hint of a mewl thrown in.

"You can go," the urial replied, nodding at the door. When the young feline was gone, he turned a pained expression on Martin Pennanti. "Really, Detective!"

"Sorry," Pennanti shrugged, looking not at all ashamed. "I had a lot of dealings with the Russian mob, back when I was with the ZYPD. And believe me…I know a mafiya wannabe when I see one. For instance, notice that he…"

"Uh, can we talk about that some other time?" Nick was asking. He was in no mood for a forensics lesson…and what the heck had his companion done that for anyway?

"I agree." Dr. Lampley nodded tersely at the fox, and then pulled at his chin duster. "Now, then, where were we before the coffee arrived?"

"Detective Pennanti had just asked how it was that you were familiar with Alan Murphy." Nick offered helpfully.

Ah, yes." the Urial answered, cocking an eyebrow and swiveling his chair in the fisher's direction, "Hard not to know that boy—no matter how far back his story goes to before my time; the only inmate ever to escape from Granite Point." He took a small sip of his coffee. "Oh yes, there isn't a correctional officer in this entire facility who isn't familiar with him."

"Yes, of course," Nick pretended to ignore the urial's hypocrisy, instead filing it away for later reference. Here was the opening he'd been waiting for. "And I agree with you, Doctor. Conor Lewis—that's the alias he uses now—is quite the escape artist. He not only managed to break out of the Precinct 1 youth jail; he was later able to evade a trap set for him at the Zootopia Academy for the Performing Arts. Even with an entire SWAT-team assigned to the take-down, he was able to get away." He pointedly left out the young silver fox's recent escape-run through the Canal District; he hadn't been fully briefed on that incident, and besides—he didn't want to make the ZPD look too bad. "At the present time, he's wanted for, among other things, assaulting a police officer…not once but twice. And I should know." He lifted his forearm for Dr. Lampley to see, even though any visible marks had long since disappeared. "The first time it happened; I was the officer in question. And, needless to say, those charges are just for starters."

"Not at all surprising," the urial looked almost sympathetic, "As I said, Alan Murphy's escape happened long before my arrival. But from what little I've heard of his time here; it was a real horror-show."

…As Nick had already known when he had arrived here—and as his host had no doubt known that he knew. The ZPD had learned it from no less a fursonage than the CEO of AKER Correctional Management. However, that wasn't the real purpose of his visit today, and he suspected that Dr. Lampley knew this as well.

And, on that note…

"So, I've heard," he admitted, "and you might as well know Doctor, my presence here today is something of a fluke. I was originally sent to Zoo York in pursuit of a diamond smuggler…who, much to everyone's surprise, turned out to be the Lewis kid." He looked away for a second, growling under his breath, "Just when I was beginning to think that little…" He bit off the rest, and a few seconds of silence followed.

"But what I really hope to accomplish here," he finally said, allowing himself an awkward tug at his collar," is to uncover any clues that might help lead to his current whereabouts. At the present time, the trail in Zootopia has gone cold, and so we're casting about for any possible leads…and that includes taking a closer look at his history before he came to Zootopia."

Dr. Lampley slapped lightly at the arm of his chair.

"Well, of course, AKER Correctional Management would be happy to cooperate in apprehending the Murph…excuse me, the Lewis boy in any way we can." His face assumed the doleful expression of a loan officer about to deliver bad news, "But I'm afraid there's not much we can tell you, Detective. Conor…er, Lewis didn't try to break out alone; he had a partner." He snorted and wrinkled his nose. "Or…should I say 'patsy', The fact that he got away and his accomplice didn't was by no means a matter of blind luck. Since he made his breakout, it's become more and more clear to us that sacrificing his partner like that was his plan all along." Another snort, "And, I might add, he had some substantial assistance from the outside."

Nick studied the urial for a second. Was he trying to deter the fox-detective's inquiry, or was he simply trying to minimize AKER's culpability in allowing Conor Lewis to escape? In the end it hardly mattered, because his words had the effect of bringing Martin Pennanti back into the exchange.

…with both feet!

"And that's what brings me here, Doctor. May I presume you're aware that the 'substantial assistance' you speak of came from the criminal gang known as The Company?"

"You may," the urial answered, offering a nod more impatient than deferential.

"All right then," Pennanti got to his feet, and came out from behind the table, pacing back and forth, with his paws behind his back.

"You see…the Company was MY beat, back when I was with the ZYPD. And that's only one of several connections between them and our young silver fox."

"Yes, I know." Dr. Lampley sounded even more irritated than a second, "His partner in the escape was Wesley McCrodon, aka 'Crazy Wez, who was captain of his crew and a close compatriot…and also the nephew of James 'The Mister' McCrodon, The Company boss. I'm aware of all that, Detective." He waved a hoof as if batting away smoke.

"But are you aware of this?" Pennanti spun on his heel, pinning the urial in his gaze, like a beetle to a collection-board. "The Murphy kid was fursonally given the job of transporting those diamonds to Zootopia by none other than the Mister himself."

For a moment, the sheep remained dumbstruck. The abrupt change of topic had caught him by the blindside.

"That I didn't know, " he finally conceded. He was trying to affect a steely gaze, but his eyes kept darting sideways.

Watching this Nick didn't know whether to feel amused or awed. "And I thought I was laying it on," he sniggered to himself. Pennanti meanwhile, was gesturing with a paw.

"Furthermore, that was by no means the closest shave our young silver fox had while running from the law. Did you know that he escaped from Finagles mere moments before the raid went down?"

"What the…?" Nick's ears shot up and his eyes felt as if they were going to drop right out of his head. Why the heck was this crazy fisher revealing that fact now…and to this animal?

"Mmmm…No." Dr. Lampley replied. Now he was almost stuttering.

"Well, it's true," Pennanti folded his arms, once more fixing the sheep in that piercing gaze. Whoa, Nick decided, he must have been a holy terror, grilling suspects, back in the day. "And there's something else I'm sure you're not aware of. No way would the Mister have given an assignment of such importance to an associate or an outside contractor. It would have had to be an actual member of The Company or, at the very least, an animal being groomed as one."

He turned without warning and nodded at Nick, passing him the baton—passing him the buck, in the fox's opinion. Oh well…he was supposed to be the lead investigator anyway. Only, where the heck should he go with this?

Nothing to do, but play it by ear, he finally decided.

"By himself, the Lewis boy isn't that much of a threat," he said, "Except he ended up in Zootopia with something like a quarter of a million smackers in his possession. And we—the ZPD, I mean—have good reason to believe he's hooked up with an unsub who may have been one of The Company's former associates."

A bit wordy, but not bad on the whole.

Dr. Lampley, however, seemed to think otherwise.

"I was under the impression that all of The Company mammals were either killed or captured in the Finagles raid," his tone was frank, but with a scornful undercurrent.

Nick was ready for that one…but Martin Pennanti was even more well prepared.

"All of their soldiers and crew captains, yes," he pointed out, cocking a finger, "but as I just mentioned, The Company had a large number of associates who weren't actual members of the gang." He offered a half shrug. "Every crime family has them; they couldn't do business otherwise. Look at The Mister; after all his good service on behalf of Whitey Bullgoar, Bullgoar never brought him into the Winter Hill gang. To be made into that crew, you had to be South Pawston, born and bred—and McCrodon was from Zoo Bedford, so no dice." he scratched at his muzzle and then switched gears. "But the important thing is, not one of those Company associates was inside Finagles when the raid went down. It was members only, period. Some of 'em were later taken into custody, but not all of them. At least a few managed to slip the net—and in the case of the Company's cybercrime crew; as far as I know, they've never even been identified."

Nick saw where the fisher was going with this, and this time, he knew exactly where to take it.

"When he died, The Mister was the head of a crime family that made the Winter Hill gang look like the Lollipop Guild. It's not the Lewis boy that the ZPD wants so much as his senior partner, whoever they may be. The last thing Zootopia needs is The Company reborn in our city—especially with two of our biggest crime families already on the brink of an all-out war."

This last tidbit earned him a sharp look from both Dr. Lampley and Martin Pennanti. Nick had to wonder—was the fisher putting on an act, or was he genuinely unaware that Mr. Big and Red Pig were at loggerheads? Well, in the end who cared? The important thing was that his story was having the desired effect. Right then, an invisible light-bulb seemed to switch on above Dr. Lampley's head.

"So, if I understand you correctly…your main concern is that if you can manage to recapture the, er, Lewis boy, he can lead you to that unknown partner of his."

"Yes…and no," Nick answered quickly. "There's another issue. Since his escape from the Precinct-1 Youth Jail—and even more since the Academy Incident—Conor Lewis has become something of a role model to the juvenile delinquent class in Zootopia. Everywhere you look, you'll see graffiti saying, 'He Fought the Law and HE won,' usually with a modified V-for-Vendetta design underneath it."

"Hmmmm," the urial was stroking his goatee again, "Could he have been behind the recent rioting in Savanna Central, then?"

Nick almost smiled. As if he hadn't been expecting that line of questioning.

"Do you mean the Lewis boy, or his partner?" he inquired coyly—and then proceeded to brush the question aside. "In both cases the answer is 'no'. The Lewis kid got more than he bargained for in his fight with Detect…with my former partner. He was in no shape to incite anything afterwards, even if he'd wanted to. As for his as-yet-unidentified partner, there was nothing in it for him. We're also certain that he had nothing to do with the cyberattack on Precinct-1; he'd already sprung his protege from jail, so why antagonize the ZPD even further?"

"Yes, I see," Dr. Lampley drummed hooflets on the arm of his chair; a sign of reflection rather than impatience. And then his eyes sharpened on the fox seated in front of him. "But from what you're told me so far, I gather that the popular view, among many of the young mammals in Zootopia, is that the Lewis boy WAS responsible for both the riot and the cyberattack." He lifted a wry brow, "As the saying goes, 'Perception is everything,'"

Nick tightened his jaw, a fang pinching into his lip. It was the only way to keep from grinning. The good Doctor was taking the conversation in exactly the direction he wanted it to go.

"And that," he said, "Is the other reason we're here. There are many skills the Lewis boy acquired during his time with The Company, his abilities as a computer hacker for example. But while he was here in Granite Point, as you correctly pointed out, he was a member of the crew headed by Wesley McCrodon—aka 'The Bearfoot Bandit."

"Oh, yes…him again." Dr. Lampley's eyes tilted upwards at the ceiling, while his hooves clasped and unclasped—as if something was coming that he wasn't going to like.

He wasn't…

"Right," Martin Pennanti nodded, having taken his seat once more. "And I don't think I need to tell you how good that young sea-mink was at dodging the cops. Conor Lewis may have been the only detainee, ever to successfully escape from here, but he was only the junior partner in that break. It was Wez McCrodon who actually planned it."

"Wha-a-a-t?" Dr. Lampley bleated in surprise. For a moment it looked like he was going to rise up out of his wheelchair. But then he settled back down with narrowing eyes. "How do you know this, Detective?"

"Like I told you before," the fisher shrugged, "The Company was my beat, back in the day. We heard their guys talking about it on the wire a couple of times, and The Mister was seriously unhappy about the way that the breakout went down. 'The wrong kid got away.'" He seemed almost amused by the memory.

While all this was going on, Nick was looking from Pennanti to Dr. Lampley and back again. Two things were obvious—well, one thing anyway. The urial had been caught completely off guard…but why? He'd known from the beginning that Conor Lewis had been a ranking member of the 'Crazy Wez' McCrodon crew. For him to have been the mastermind of their jailbreak was hardly a long stretch. So…why had the revelation nearly sent the sheep in the wheelchair opposite into a tail-spin?

And…Nick had no idea where the feeling was coming from, but he couldn't shake it to save his life. The last part of Pennanti's explanation had been an out-and-out whopper.

Well…that was something else he could bring up later. Right now, he had other business to attend to. Assuming his 'meek fox' attitude once again, he spoke directly to Dr. Lampley.

"The point is Doctor, it's becoming more and more clear to us—to the ZPD, I mean—that the Lewis boy picked up his skills at evading capture from Wez McCrodon. Except for the fight with my former partner, a completely unexpected fluke, his escape from the Performing Arts Academy dragnet was almost textbook Bearfoot Bandit; setting up some other kids to take the fall, for instance, while he made good his escape."

This was Nick's fib, of course…but he was willing to bet the good doctor wouldn't know it.

"I see," Dr. Lampley replied, running a pair of fingers along the curve of his right-side horn. "So, correct me if I'm wrong; it's Wesley McCrodon that's your primary interest in coming here, rather than the Murph…the Lewis boy."

"Exactly," It was Martin Pennanti, "Even I have to admit that sea-mink kid was Houdini-junior on hi-test when it came to evading arrest."

Nick could have hugged the fisher; he had just been given another perfect opening.

"And so, the more we learn about Wez McCrodon's modus operandi, the better our chances will be of nabbing Conor Lewis," his shoulders lifted and fell again, "Or that's the thinking, back in Zootopia. I've talked to several law enforcement agencies that had…er, dealings with the Bearfoot Bandit, but all they've been able to tell me is what I already knew, that he sometimes used other kids as decoys to cover his own escape."

"But the real secret of his success was always seeming to know when the heat was on." Martin Pennanti added. "When the Zoo Jersey State PD finally busted him, it was only the third time out of a hundred that he was ever caught by surprise. More often than not when the cops moved in, he was long gone. Sometimes, he'd leave a note, 'Tuff Luck, Suckers!' that sort of thing. But there was never a clue as to where he was headed next." He had more to say, but Dr. Lampley already had a hoof raised.

"Before you go any further, Detectives, you should know that the mental breakdown Wesley McCrodon suffered in the wake of his failed escape attempt was a lot more serious than most mammals realize. To this day, he remains a borderline catatonic; completely uncommunicative. There's nothing he could tell you I'm afraid, even if you were granted access to him." There was an undertone to his final words, dark and thorny. Nick pretended to ignore him, but here was something else to sock away in his mental file cabinet.

"We're aware of that," he said, "But is there anyone available who knew him, back when he was held here?"

Dr. Lampley's head moved slowly from side to side.

"I'm afraid not, Detective. In the wake of the Lewis boy's escape, a fair number of staff members were let go, and that was before the scandal broke. As of more than a year ago, there's no one from that time still here."

"What about one of the other detainees?" Martin Pennanti was asking. He was answered with another head-shake.

"Either transferred to other facilities or set free by the courts." Doctor Lampley seemed to be living up to his species; he looked genuinely sheepish.

Pennanti glanced in Nick's direction as if to say, "Gimme a break already!" It was a feeling the red fox shared. Every single one of the kids who'd been held here, at the same time as Conor Lewis was gone? He didn't think so.

But he also knew there was no point in pushing it—and so he switched to a lower gear.

"Can you at least let us have a copy of his incarceration records."

"Don't you already have those?" Dr. Lampley lifted a quizzical eyebrow.

"No, no…I mean Wesley McCrodon's records." Nick didn't know whether to groan or wring their host's neck. He'd known who the fox had been talking about; he was just being obstinate.

"Oh, I'll have one printed out, right away," the urial replied, deciding to be ingratiating. That told Nick, whatever records he was going to receive, they'd be thoroughly scrubbed. "Or…would you prefer to have them on disc?" Now his expression was almost smarmy.

"On paper," Nick answered evenly, "and can you e-mail a copy to the ZPD?" Even redacted, those records might yield something of interest.

"Certainly," Dr. Lampley responded with a beaming smile. "They'll be waiting for you at the intake desk downstairs." He seemed to have sensed that his stonewall was holding firm. To prove it, he glanced quickly at his watch and frowned. "But…I'm afraid my time is short, Detectives. Before you go, is there anything else I can help you with?" His words seemed to imply that it was time for them to leave…not just his office, but the Granite Point Youth Correctional Facility.

Nick's first instinct was to decline, but he wavered, unsure of himself. Was there anything he'd forgotten?

And so, it was Martin Pennanti who answered the urial's question. "Well, if it's not too much of an inconvenience, could we have a quick tour of your facility?" His voice was deferential to the point of flattery. "I've heard so many good stories about it, I'd like to see for myself."

"Oh yes, no trouble at all." Dr. Lampley replied and then pressed the call button on his chair arm.

"Captain's Office," came the toneless reply.

"Hello, this is Superintendent Lampley. Our visitors have requested a tour. Can you send someone to escort them?"

"Right away, Doctor," the deep, rough-cut voice responded, "I'll take care of it myself."

While this was going on, Nick was shooting a quizzical glance in Martin Pennanti's direction. The fisher responded by making a discreet, patting motion with his paw; trust me.

After five, or perhaps seven minutes, another knock came on the urial sheep's office door, not hard, but clearly from a set of ginormous knuckles—whoever was on the other side of the partition, they were a large mammal, very large.

A half-second later, the door swung open—this time without any mechanical assistance—and a towering polar bear came lumbering into the office. He was almost as big as Koslov, if not quite as broad shouldered.

"Detectives?" Dr. Lampley said, waving a greeting to the newcomer, "This is Captain Daniel Williams. He'll be the guide for your tour this afternoon."

Chapter 72: All Together Now (Cont'd...Part 4)

Summary:

Touring Granite Point

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 10
All Together Now - Cont'd…Part 4

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It wasn't what you would call four-star cuisine…but it wasn't dumpster-dive fare either. The veggies were fresh, the potatoes showed no signs of mold, and if the insect-based protein had been prepared from frozen, it had at least been prepared correctly. Yes, the menu was simple and bland; the only condiments available were salt and pepper—but then, what else would you expect in a juvenile jail?

These were the conclusions of Nicholas P. Wilde as he followed their guide through the Granite Point mess hall, with Martin Pennanti bringing up the rear. In fact, loathe as he was to admit it, the food here beat the grub served in the Lemmingworth pen by a country mile.

As he passed by one of the long tables, he noticed a young maned wolf, tucking into his food with that ubiquitous prison utensil, a spork…the lame-brained hybrid of a spoon and a fork which serves as an effective substitute for neither. Normally, such a thing wouldn't have piqued his interest in the slightest—except it brought back a memory or two that the fox would rather not have revisited, especially here, in…

"Captain Williams, Captain…sir?"

The voice came from behind Nick. When he turned, he saw the young maned wolf holding his spork aloft like an auction-bid card.

"What is it, Eduardo?" the polar bear queried, slipping deftly past the confused vulpine. For such a large animal, he was surprisingly nimble.

By way of response, the young detainee snapped his eating utensil apart…revealing it to be two sporks, rather than one.

"These must of got stuck together in the dishwasher or somethin'," he said, speaking in a light Latino accent and holding out the extra implement to the polar-bear.

"Thank you, Eduardo." Williams' voice was flat as drywall. He took the offering and put it in his pocket, and then pulled out a notepad, scribbling a quick memo. And then, without another word, he spun on his heel and returned to his spot at the head of the line, beckoning for Nick and Martin Pennanti to follow.

The fox did as he was told, but it was all he could do to keep his ears from going every which way but nowhere.

Pennanti seemed to have no such issues—but then mustelid ears aren't mobile to begin with.

Their next stop was the arts and crafts center. It was currently empty, but there were any number of incomplete works on display, standing at parade-rest and awaiting their creators' return. There were sculptures-in-progress, unfinished paintings, and wood-working projects of all shapes and sizes…mostly shelves and bookcases. This didn't surprise Nick in the slightest. Those items could be put to good use inside the detainee's cells. The next most popular item was birdhouses which, for some reason, drew a wry smirk from Martin Pennanti.

For his part, Nick felt a frown trying to scroll across his muzzle. Once again, he was missing something—something that felt like it was staring him right in the face.

They were halfway to the exit, when a nearly finished painting caught his eye.

He froze as if a perp had just drawn down on him. "Holy…!"

The picture was of a raccoon, reverently kneeling in a bright, sunlit meadow, surrounded by a cloud of butterflies. Rising from his back was an angelic spirit with a beaming face, reaching out towards the viewer with a benevolent paw. The entire image was crisscrossed by hash-marks and topped by a message in flowing, if somewhat blocky script.

"Sitting…Silently…Praying. Repenting 4 Freedom From This Constant Insanity of Offending."

Nick's head tilted sideway and his ears shot to attention,

"What is this…some kind of a sick joke?"

"Detective Wilde?" Captain Williams was regarding him curiously. Nuh-uh, not again. He caught himself with time to spare.

"Oh sorry, I was just admiring this artwork here," His voice was bright as a newly minted dime, "Is there any chance I could meet the artist who painted it?" Once again, he was playing the meek, submissive fox.

"Mmmm, maybe," the polar bear rumbled, in the most noncommittal voice Nick had ever heard. "We'll see what we can do." He turned towards the door, and as he did, the fox saw that Martin Pennanti was also regarding him with a raised eyebrow. He pursed his lips and made a discreet pushing motion. The fisher nodded tightly and turned away.

From there, they moved on to the yard, arriving just in time to see two sets of doors fly open and a crowd of young mammals spill out onto the lawn.

The…lawn; perfectly trimmed, almost as neat as a golf fairway. Glancing in Martin Pennanti's direction, Nick saw that they were once again of the same mind.

In the meantime, a group of large-mammal kids had split off from the others, heading in the direction of a baseball diamond—a real one, with actual bags for bases, an honest-to-gosh pitcher's mound, and even a backstop of sorts.

Taking their seats on a set of concrete bleachers, Nick and the others watched the young mammals choose up sides under the attentive eye of yet another bighorn ram. Hmmm, Nick wondered to himself. It seemed as if a great many of the officers working here were members of that species. Was this intentional…and if so, why?

While the guard put on a chest protector, the issue of which team would bat first was decided by the flip of a coin. And then, assuming the umpire's position, the sheep tossed a hardball to a young eland, standing on the pitcher's mound.

The game that followed could best be described as a snoozer; pop flies, slow grounders and easy strike-outs. By the end of the fourth inning, the game was tied at one all, and both runs had come by way of errors. It could have been a much different game if either side was playing with more passion—but not once did anyone swing for the fences, not even on an easy pitch. Nick started to wonder what the heck he and Martin Pennanti were doing here…and then immediately chided himself. Of course, he knew; Little Koslov, as he had come to think of Captain Williams, was deliberately wasting their time.

That all changed in bottom of the fifth, when the other team's pitcher, a young timber wolf, threw a wild one that struck the snow-leopard at the plate an inch below his left ear. Nick would later swear that he heard the impact from all the way up where he was sitting.

What he saw was the big cat spin on his right foot and fall into a decaying circle, landing on the grass face first. For several breathless seconds, he appeared to be out cold. But then his paws pressed into the ground, and he raised himself into a push-up position, shaking his head to clear it, and then attempting to stand up again.

Wait, no…he wasn't trying to stand, he had only pulled up into a four-point position—with his shoulders bunched, and his fur spiking into hedgehog quills, frosty eyes skewering the kid who had beaned him.

But the young wolf wasn't backing down. He too had dropped down on all fours, with his ears turning sideways like airplane wings. And then his fangs and all the rest of his teeth came out to play.

One snarled…the other hissed, and Nick and Martin Pennanti were instantly on their feet, the fox reaching instinctively for a tranq-dart gun that wasn't there. As for the bighorn ram playing umpire, he didn't appear to be even a little bit concerned, much less alarmed; he was just…standing there.

So were the wolf and snow leopard. Though they continued to growl and hiss at each other, they seemed paralyzed, unable to move. It was as if each of them was being held in place by an invisible anchor-chain. And look at their…

"Excuse me, coming through."

It was the polar-bear, Captain Williams. Pushing roughly past Nick and Martin Pennanti, he too dropped on all fours and then went barreling down the concrete steps in the direction of the ball field. And then vaulting the low fence, he threw himself between the two young antagonists.

And that was all she wrote; they immediately cooled their jets…backing away from the bear—and each other—with their eyes cast downwards.

"That guy must have a serious rep around here," Martin Pennanti observed under his breath. Nick was almost inclined to agree with him. Almost…because that wasn't how it felt. Something else was going on here.

And now he saw Captain Williams beckoning to the bighorn sheep. He was unable to make out what the two of them were saying—he was too far upwind—but there was no mistaking the polar bear's gestures. He was NOT in a congenial mood.

Maybe so, but the sheep didn't appear to be taking his tongue-lashing submissively; gesturing back at the bear, and looking mildly bewildered. As their voices began to rise, here and there a snippet of conversation managed to find its way to Nick's ears.

"Nothing was…"

"…know that, you…"

"Then wha…oblem?"

Captain William's reply wasn't quite audible, but Nick was surprised to see the polar bear stab a finger in his and Martin Pennanti's direction. What the heck was that for? Well, whatever the reason, it worked. The sheep immediately ceased his gesticulating and then his gaze turned earthward as well.

Nothing more was said that Nick was able to hear, until Williams dismissed the ram with a wave of his paw, and then cupped them both around his muzzle, addressing the ball-players.

"All right, game's over. Everyone, back to your cells."

Nick expected this proclamation to be greeted with a chorus of protest, but to his considerable surprise, every single one of the detainees hastened to obey.

But the good Captain wasn't quite finished yet. As the snow-leopard boy started to pass him by, the big bear caught him by the arm.

"Not you; you get yourself to the infirmary;" Spoken with all the sympathy of an impatient drillmaster.

"Yes sir," the young feline replied, changing course in a different direction.

Nick turned to say something to Martin Pennanti, but his companion was already on the move and descending the bleacher steps. Hurrying to follow, he caught up with the fisher just as he caught up with Captain Williams.

"Pardon me Captain, but is it really a good idea to send that kid to the infirmary unassisted?" He gestured at the departing snow-leopard, "I mean…look at that boy lurch."

It was here that Nick stopped counting the number of times his ears had pricked up today. What, now? The kid was a little wobbly on his feet, but it didn't look that serious.

"I'm not," the big bear answered without a trace of annoyance—or any other emotion. "We're going with him; the infirmary was our next stop anyway." And without another word, he moved to follow the young feline. Trailing behind him, Nick caught a quick glimpse of Martin Pennanti's face. The fisher looked like someone who had just rolled the dice and come up snake eyes.

Stranger and stranger…

The infirmary turned out to be the biggest surprise yet. It was not only light years ahead of the Lemmingworth sick-bay—where the standard treatment was to give you a couple of aspirin and tell you to get lost—it even beat out the Precinct-1 clinic.

At the moment none of the beds were occupied, but the sheets on every single one of them were as pure as a new-fallen snow drift. There were exam tables, an overhead rack of fluorescent lights and even an autoclave. The shelves were all fully stocked, the floor was so clean you could have served a four-star meal on it, and the walls were painted a cheerful pastel yellow.

And yet…and yet…

There was something off about this place too, an itch in the back of Nick Wilde's mind that he couldn't quite scratch.

As they entered the sick-bay, a marmot in a lab coat came scurrying over. "Yes, captain?" He had his paws clasped tightly together and an obsequious look on his face; a Matre'd, greeting a wealthy regular.

"This young snow-leopard," the polar bear responded in a monotone, ushering his young charge forward. "He was hit in the side of the face by a baseball just now."

"Ohhh, dear," the big rodent replied, making a tut-tut gesture with his finger, "I don't suppose that now Dr. Lampley will take my suggestion that we stop letting the detainees play hardball and switch to softballs instead?"

For the first time since Nick and Martin's arrival, something that could almost have passed for a smile flitted across Captain Williams' face—an icy smile to be sure, but there it was. "What do you think?"

"I think," the marmot answered, with a wry expression of his own, "That we'd better have a look at this boy's face. Up on the table with you."

Without a word, the young snow-leopard did as he was told. Come to think of it, Nick realized, he hadn't said more than two words since leaving the ballfield.

The marmot, meanwhile, was calling through a cupped paw. "Giorgio? You're needed out here."

At the back of the infirmary, a door opened, revealing a curious, deep-blue light, and then a goggled ibex entered the room, looking more than a little irritated behind his eye covering.

"What is it? I'm right in the middle of…"

He pulled up short when he noticed the polar-bear…and the fox and fisher accompanying him.

"Oh, sorry Captain." He said, hastily removing his goggles and blinking as if staring into the sun. To the marmot he said, "What is it, Dr. Charleston?"

"That young snow leopard," the doctor responded evenly. "He took a baseball to the side of his head. Could you take a look at him, please?" It was not phrased as a request.

While the ibex looked over the young feline, Nick was trying hard to keep his confusion under wraps. It made perfect sense, wanting a large mammal to be checked out by another large mammal, but still…

…a jailhouse infirmary with TWO regulars on duty…and one of them an actual doctor? "Knock me over with a feather, why don't you?"

And then there was the light he'd seen when the door opened; it was making the itch in the back of his mind become almost unbearable. What the heck was in that room? Somehow, intuitively, he knew better than to ask; it would get their tour cut short, and right NOW.

The examination the ibex performed on the young snow-leopard was anything but thorough, but it hardly perfunctory either. He took the cat's vitals, gave his face a quick inspection, and shone a penlight into his eyes. And then, turning to Dr. Charleston, he pronounced his verdict.

"He's lucky…"

"I don't feel lucky," his patient interrupted, rubbing his cheek and laying his ears back.

"Well, you are," Giorgio rejoined, glancing quickly over his shoulder. "If that ball had struck you even an inch or two higher, you'd be looking at a possible skull fracture." He turned and looked at Captain Williams, "Nonetheless, I believe this boy should go to Newton and be X-rayed. Will you…?"

"Yes, I'll authorize," the polar bear answered before he could finish. "Go ahead and make the call."

The next stop on the tour was a gym that could have been imported wholesale from almost any high-school in the country; climbing ropes, pull-up bars, floor-mats, basketball hoops, one or two weight machines and a collection of free weights. They only stayed for a minute: no one was using it at present. From there, they went to the laundry room, a place that was about as interesting as the average laundry room.

Except…Martin Pennanti spent nearly their entire time there staring at a blank wall—as if there were something attached to it that only he could see.

Again, that was a subject for later—or maybe never. Unlike some of the other things Nick had seen here, this wasn't particularly urgent.

Taking leave of the laundry, they went next to the library, the place that the red fox most wanted to visit—for a reason known only to him.

It was a large, airy space, with a skylight window and fluorescent lighting. The tables were round with chairs of varying heights, including a few tiny seats equipped with ladders, for use by The Point's rodent population.

And those bookshelves! All of them were fully stocked and none of the volumes looked like cast offs. Some of the shelves were so tightly packed, it was a wonder that any of the books could be extracted without bringing the entire row down.

"Mind if I have a look?" the fox asked, receiving a low grunt from their escort in reply.

Moving casually along the shelves—very casually—he let his fingers brush along the spines of the various books, occasionally pulling one out to give it a quick perusal, and then putting it back again. Most of the volumes he took were from the middle shelves, shoulder height for a fox. But then, he stopped…and with a surprised look, bent down on one knee to remove a book from a bottom shelf. As he began to leaf through it, Martin Pennanti came over. The break in Nick's routine had not escaped his notice.

"What's going on, Nicky?"

"I'm just surprised they'd have this here," he answered, holding up the book for his companion to see. The title read, 'The Greenhouse – Life Inside Lemmingworth Prison.' The author was a mammal named Pete Ermine.

"Mmm-yeah, that is kind of strange," the fisher agreed, peering closely at the cover. He was about to say more, when a deep voice spoke from behind.

"We feel that it's good for our detainees to have a look at what awaits them, if they end up in an adult prison."

"Ah, I get it," Pennanti nodded, "it's a 'scared straight' kinda thing." Meanwhile, Nick continued to leaf through the pages, a little more hurriedly now.

"Exactly," Captain Williams agreed and pointed at the volume with an inch thick finger. "And there's nothing in that book anyone could find useful in, say, planning an escape, or a resistance."

"I see what you mean," Nick Wilde concurred. He had stopped turning pages and was studying one of them closely. Before either of his companions took notice, he closed the book and returned it to the shelf. "Shall we move on?"

Williams shrugged and raised an eyebrow.

"Ah, that's pretty much all there is, actually."

"Uhhh, not quite," Martin Pennanti corrected, scratching behind an ear. "We still haven't seen the isolation unit."

It was hard to say who was more surprised by this request, the fox or the polar bear.

"What? There's nothing to see down there," Captain Williams raised his paws in protest, "They're all empty right now."

"Just the same," the fisher replied, "I'd like to have a quick look, if you don't mind." The tone of his voice suggested that he didn't care one bit whether anyone minded or not.

"All right, if you say so," the bear replied with a grumbling sigh…and then turned and led the way out of the library.

On their way downstairs, they passed by a cone labeled 'Caution – Wet Floor'. Now there was something you didn't see in jail much. "Trying to pre-empt a lawsuit, I bet," Pennanti groused from up in front of Nick. The fox wasn't taken aback. It was the kind of sentiment he'd heard many a time from Chief Bogo—the cynicism of the hardened peace officer.

But then they came upon the reason for the sign, a young tapir in an orange jumpsuit, currently in the process of squeezing the excess water from his mop with a long-handled compression-wringer.

Nick had to force himself not to stare as they went by.

When the party reached the Isolation Block, Captain Williams turned out to be exactly right; there was nothing to see in here. That was because all the lights were out and the inside of the corridor was pitch-black; so dark that Nick wasn't sure if his night-vision would be sufficient to compensate.

This was not, however, a disciplinary measure, as their guide hastened to explain.

"We keep the lights off down here when none of the detainees are in residence," he said, fumbling for, and at last locating a light-switch. "It saves power." The hallway stuttered into visibility, revealing an unhappily familiar sight to Nick Wilde—a row of heavy, sliding doors, with tiny armored glass windows, inch-thick latches and fist-side padlocks. It was a curiously low-tech arrangement for a facility that had, up to now, shown itself to be just short of a modern marvel.

"Mind if I have a look inside there?" Martin was pointing towards one of the doors with his head tilted ever so slightly to the left. It caused Nick's head to tilt even further askew. What, was he serious? The answer would certainly be in the oh-so-regretful negative; Captain Williams hadn't wanted to bring them down here at all. At the very least, he'd beg off, saying he didn't have a…

"All right, but there's nothing to see," the polar bear shrugged, pulling out a key that Nick had been certain he wouldn't have. A moment later, the cell door slid open with a noise like grindstone. Just as the captain had said, there was nothing to see inside; a large-mammal shelf-bed and a toilet, both of which were molded from a single sheet of metal and bolted to the wall. Other than that, there was nothing in the cell except a caged, overhead light and a drainage hole in the floor. Just the same, Pennanti insisted on going inside.

Even though the cell was well lighted, the fisher entered it as if he were a blind mammal, feeling his way along the wall, and using the edge of the bed to steady himself, although his gait never wavered. All the while, his gaze shifted about the cell, looking at…apparently nothing. It gave him the appearance of a B-movie mad scientist.

…until, all at once he turned on his heel, slapping his pawlms against one another, as if to indicate, 'That's that.'

"Okay, I've seen enough."

And thus ended the tour.

Nick and Martin barely spoke to one another before they reached the exit gate, in fact only one, single time.

"You never did get to talk to the kid who made that painting, Nicky."

"No…but now I don't need to."

Even after they were back on the road, their conversation was confined to small talk. But the fox's mind was hard at work. Presenting his case wasn't going to be easy. He was still only a rookie detective, while the fisher behind the wheel had been at it possibly longer than he had been alive.

But ahhh, he realized with a sudden, crystalline clarity, there was one card in his deck that his host did not possess; a singular area where he had the advantage over Martin J. Pennanti, former Detective Captain, ZYPD.

All right, that would be his foot in the door.

It was not as if the fisher was unaware of the coming discussion—as he demonstrated when they stopped for a bite to eat at a diner near Butler. He insisted on ordering to-go, even though the rain was teaming down.

Oh well, at least this time, he was willing to foot the bill.

They ate in Pennanti's car, and he refused to utter a word until they were done. Even then, the first thing he did was to produce a trash bag from under the seat.

"Put your garbage in here, Nicky. We'll toss it when the storm clears." The fox did as he said, doing his best to hide his annoyance. After stowing the bag in the back, Pennanti laid an elbow across the back of his seat. "Okay, what is it you wanted to say?"

All right, that was it, Nick couldn't keep it under wraps any longer. He pointed at the diner with a quivering finger.

"Why couldn't we eat in there, if we weren't going to talk until after we were done?" He could feel his carefully rehearsed pitch beginning to unravel.

The fisher just shrugged. "Why not? Now, go ahead…spill."

Nick sucked it up and pushed ahead. The heck with his prepared remarks. If this was how Pennanti wanted to play it, he'd lay down his ace right at the start.

"Look, Martin…I'd be a fool to try and pretend my detective skills are anywhere close to yours. But let me ask you this; have you ever done time?"

"They wouldn't have let me be a cop if I had," the fisher replied, rolling his paw in the air, "So…the answer is no."

"Well, I have," Nick replied, thumping his chest in what was almost a prideful gesture. Something occurred to him and he quickly added, "as I'm sure you already know—and that it was also for a crime I didn't commit."

"Yeah, I know all about that," the fisher nodded tightly, "And you were completely exonerated when the real perps were caught." He scratched at an ear, and cocked his head, "And your point is, Nicky…?"

"That you may know the streets Martin, but I'm the one that knows prison," he leaned forward on his elbows, "And I'm telling you, there's something completely off about Granite Point. If it were a minimum-security jail, I wouldn't give it a second thought." His paws slapped against his thighs, "Only it's not; it's supposed to be the end of the line, the place where they send the kids the other juvenile jails can't handle. And yet…" He hesitated, unsure of what to say next.

"Go on," the fisher prompted, helpfully, "Tell me what you saw."

Nick took a short breath, and dove in.

"For starters, those two kids we saw working in that garden on the way in. They were trimming that bush with hedge-clippers, the manual kind, and there was only a single guard watching over them…and I swear he didn't look like he was carrying any kind of deterrent." He paused, waiting for a reaction. None came, and he continued.

"In Lemmingworth—another place that was a dumping ground for convicts the other prisons couldn't deal with—we'd never have been allowed anywhere near a set of tools like that. Unscrew one bolt, and you have not one but two shanks; the heavy kind. That's the thing about being locked up, Martin. After a while you begin to see EVERYTHING as a potential weapon. And that brings me to what happened in the mess hall, that kid with the extra spork." Again, he paused, and again there was no reaction.

"When I was on the inside, the first thing issued to me, along with my bedding and uniform, was one of those things. And that spork quickly turned into my most prized possession—because if I lost it, I'd have had to eat with my fingers until the guards were sure I hadn't made it into a shank."

"Hey, a lot of guys in the slam PREFER to eat with their paws," Pennanti observed with a caustic smile.

Nick Wilde was not amused.

"You're missing the point, Martin!"

"Hey, hey…tone it down; I'm not deaf over here, paisan."

"Sorry, but listen…that kid had an extra spork that The Mammal didn't know about. He could have easily turned into a weapon without anyone finding out or, at the very least, kept it as a spare in case he lost the first one. Instead, he turned it in; why did he do that?"

"Maybe he got a reward for it," the fisher replied, playing the devil's advocate, "a few extra bucks in his canteen fund. You saw Captain Williams make that note."

"Maybe," Nick conceded, grudgingly, "But that never would have happened when I was doing time. And that isn't all. Remember that kid we saw mopping the floor? They stopped using compression wringers like that in Lemmingworth back in the 50's…or that's what I was told, anyway. They're the easiest thing in the world to turn into a weapon. Grab the handle, give it a kick to break it off, and you've got yourself an instant Billy-club."

"I see what you mean." Pennanti rubbed at his nose with a finger, seeming to give ground a little. It wasn't much, but the fox went with it.

"Another thing you learn very quickly in prison is how to read body language—not just the other convicts, but the guards; which one's in the mood to cut you some slack, which one's ready to toss you in the hole if you look at him crossways."

"And…?" The fisher's left eyebrow was crooked up into a question mark.

Nick was all too ready to answer it

"And that bear-kid was giving the guard watching him a look that I saw many times when I was in the slam; the prisoner who's had just about enough, the guy that's ready to tear an officer a new one at any second, except…" His cheeks puffed as he let out a slow breath. Whoa, this was getting a little too close to flashback country. "What I've never seen before is the way it kept coming and going; here one second, gone the next, as if someone was flicking a light-switch on and off. And I know that cougar saw it, but he acted like he couldn't have cared less."

"Maybe he knew the kid," Pennanti suggested, again playing the foil. But this time, the fox shook his head.

"I don't think so. Any Lemmingworth officer would have had his bat out and been on the horn for backup, whether he knew the convict or not…but like I said, that guard wasn't even armed. And, like I also said, that grizz-kid was. Even without being taken apart, those clippers could have done some damage. And by the way, did you notice that the bear-boy's claws were fully intact?"

"Yes," the fisher was nodding grimly. "That, I did notice…and the deer kid's antler spikes weren't blunted either."

Nick grimaced as a wave of abashment washed over him; not quite the observant fox he'd thought he was. Still…at least, he was starting to get through to his companion. It wasn't a lot but it was better than nothing.

"And then, there was that snow leopard kid, the one who got hit by that baseball. You saw how that guard just stood there, while he and the wolf-kid were facing off?"

"Yeah, and then Cap'n Williams had to get between them." Pennanti's head was tilted sideways again. "Kinda hard to miss that, Nicky."

'"Okay-y-y," Nick thought to himself, "as long as we're discussing a baseball game, let's try throwing a curve."

"No, Martin, he didn't need to get between those kids. That sheep was right; they were never going to go after each other."

THAT caught the fisher off guard; he jumped in his seat. "Say what, fox?"

Nick jumped too…jumped in with both feet.

"Their tails, Martin…they were curled up between their legs even before that polar bear got in the way. And their legs were tensed up like they were preparing to leap backwards. They were mad at each other…but they were even more afraid. And I don't think the thing they were afraid of was being sent to the hole."

To his immense surprise, Pennanti laid back in his seat, folded his arms, and…smirked?

"Oh, I know they weren't scared of being put in solitary, Nicky. None of the kids in Granite Point have to worry about that—ever."

Now it was the fox's turn to jump out of his seat…so hard that his head nearly hit the car roof. "Huh, whaaat?"

The fisher's smirk widened by two inches.

"Did you notice the way I was feeling the walls and the bed when I went inside that isolation cell to check it out. There's a reason I did that. Those walls—and the bed—were covered with a thin layer of dust, and the sink had no scale around the drain hole either." His right eyebrow cocked higher than the other. "But you know what I didn't find in that cell?"

Nick hoped he would answer the question himself…but no such luck. "What?"

Pennanti's paws locked together and his face became etched in flint. "No fur…not even one, single solitary strand. That told me there hasn't been anyone locked up in that cell for months, maybe years." His face pulled even more taut. "Maybe…not ever."

For a moment, Nick was unable to respond, unsure whether to be impressed or get out and kick himself around the parking lot. All along he'd been making a pitch to a mammal who'd already bought what he was selling.

But then, an epiphany hit him like an aluminum baseball bat.

"THAT explains all the old-school doors!"

"Bingo!" Pennanti cocked a finger. "And what does that tell us, Nicky?"

"Uhmmm…" For a moment, the fox was unable to grasp it…but only for a moment. "Son of a…they knew! They knew from the start that those cells weren't going to be needed."

"And that," the fisher said, looking grimmer than ever, "explains a whole lot of what else we saw in that joint, the single unarmed officer watching those kids trimming that shrub-sculpture, the scene on the ballfield—and did you notice that except for the rodent seats, the chairs in the library were loose instead of being bolted to the tables? And they were made of wood, not that molded plastic stuff."

"Aggggh, grrrr…no I didn't," Nick half groaned, half growled, giving himself a smack upside the head. Even he knew that chairs are a favorite rioter's weapon.

"Right," Pennanti nodded again. "And forget about prison, think middle-school, or high school. Where was the running and jumping in the hallways, the trash-talk, the joking, the backslapping, the high fives? This wasn't the first time I've been to a juvenile jail, paisan…but it was the first such visit where I didn't see so much as a single gang-sign, not from anyone. And then there was the tiger kid who brought in the coffee."

Nick cocked his head, knowingly

"Yes, I was just going to bring him up." He had actually forgotten all about the young feline. "What was it you said to him…in Russian I mean?"

The fisher chewed his lip for a second.

"Ahhh, this is gonna take a little explaining, Nicky. You've been around Mr. Big, so you know how it is with Cosa Nostra, always aspiring to go legit someday, am I right?"

"Yes, that's true," Nick responded, trying to hide his unease. Just how much did Martin Pennanti know about his having 'been around' the Tundratown mob boss? "As a matter of fact, the word on the street is that he's planning to quit the rackets altogether."

"Huh, didn't know that," Pennanti answered, beetling his brows for a second, "But anyways, with the Russian mob, it's exactly the opposite. In order to get made into the Mafiya, you have to swear not to earn another honest dime as long as you live…and it helps a lot if you've never done any honest work."

Nick was about to disagree. Koslov, Mr. Big's underboss and bodyguard, owned several legitimate businesses. But then he remembered; while the big polar bear was full-blooded Russian, he wasn't a member of the Russian mob. Even so, Pennati's revelation was both fascinating and a little frightening

"Okay but why are you telling me this?"

The fisher leaned forward on his elbows again. "Because what that means is, the worst thing you can call a Russian mobster—or a Mafiya wannabe—is honest." He paused, shaking his head as if in disbelief, "Which I did, and then I reminded the tiger kid that it was going to seriously hurt his chances of ever being made. He should have at least laid back his ears at me…but nooooo, he couldn't wait to get the heck out of that office. That was my first inkling that something wasn't kosher in this place."

"Wha…?" Nick's ears were reaching for the ceiling again, "But what if he'd gone for you, Martin?"

The fisher flipped a paw back and forth, "Nah, that wasn't gonna happen Nicky."

"And you know that…how?" the fox challenged, folding his arms.

Pennanti leaned back in his seat, grinning wickedly. "Hey, you think you're the only guy around here, knows how to read body language?" He sat up straight again. "But there's one thing I DON'T understand, Nicky. So, help me out over here." His face had turned devilishly coy, "What the heck was that thing in the library?"

"Hm," Nick nodded, "I was wondering when you were going to get around to that." Another white lie; if the fisher hadn't brought it up, he wouldn't have either. "I was checking that book to see if a certain page was missing—and it was."

"And why was that?" Pennanti queried, unmoved by the fox's revelation.

"Goes back to something I saw in the arts and crafts room," Nick answered, leaning earnestly forward, "that painting I was asking about. You know the one."

"Yeah, so?" Pennanti replied, with the familiar gesture of rolling his paw in the air.

Nick puffed out his cheeks for a second. "So, I've seen that artwork before…or a version of it." He lifted an ear. "Tell me, does the name Tom Silversteed mean anything to you?"

Now it was Pennanti who was puffing out his cheeks. He knew that name, alright

"Only the most dangerous convict in the Federal Prison System. Guys who didn't know him always assumed he was a prey species because of his name."

"Except he wasn't, he was a leopard," Nick couldn't help interjecting. "The biggest dang leopard you ever saw…and also the meanest."

"You got that right," the fisher grimaced at the thought. "Killed three guys for the Predator Brotherhood while he was locked up, earning himself three, count 'em, three life sentences. And THEN he offed a guard—while they had him caged in Supermax."

"Which got him sent back to Lemmingworth, and put in 'No Mammal Contact' status," the fox added, setting his jaw. "Locked down in the basement, in total isolation. No windows, no getting let out for exercise, all meals delivered through a slot in the door, and only two phone-calls per month, both of which were allowed to last for a total of five minutes. The only animals he saw were the officers and they refused to speak to him or even look at him, because of what he did to that other guard."

"You seem to know a lot about this guy," Pennanti observed. He was polishing his knuckles with a paw."

Nick waved his paw dismissively. "Everybody in Lemmingworth knew about 'Terrible Tom' Silversteed, Martin. He was a legend—and not in a good way. The administration liked to hold him up as an example of happens to prisoners who gets violent with an officer." Noting that the fisher was beginning to look impatient, he decided to cut to the chase. "The only thing he was allowed to have was drawing materials; HE'S the one who did the original of that picture I saw in arts and crafts. That's why I found it so interesting."

It wasn't very often that you saw Martin Pennanti's drop earthward, but Nick was seeing it now. "Wha…seriously?"

Nick almost grinned; finally, he had gotten under the fisher's skin.

"Yep, I'll show you." He took out his cell phone and fiddled for a moment, then turned and presented it to his astonished companion,

On the screen was an image that was indeed eerily similar to the drawing they'd seen in the arts and crafts center—only without the sunshine and butterflies. It looked more like the interior of a dungeon, and the figure in the foreground was bent over in despair rather than kneeling in prayer. The thing rising out of him was no angel but a taloned monster that seemed to be reaching to tear out the viewer's soul. The accompanying text read, "SITTING SILENTLY, THINKING & SCREAMING 4 FREEDOM. FROM THIS CONSTANT INSANITY! & ENDLESS SOLITARY CONFINEMENT…."

"And that's why I was so interested in that book, Martin." Nick pointed with a finger at his cell-phone, "The page containing the picture you're looking at was missing…just as I suspected."

The fisher would later deny that Nick had seen him shudder while studying the sketch. But even if he had, it took him all of three seconds to recover.

"Is that why you decided you didn't need to talk to the kid who painted that picture?" He was tilting his head sideways.

"Exactly," Nick nodded, "He would have denied everything and our conversation would have been monitored for sure. The last thing I wanted was for the Granite Point admins to know I'd made the connection."

"Wise decision, Nicky," Pennanti replied, handing back his phone with an approving nod. "And that was some first-class detective work, too. You did good, fox."

Had the compliment come from, say, Chief Bogo, Nick might have grinned slyly and offered something sardonic. But this wasn't his chief, and so he just sat quietly, waiting for the fisher to lower the boom.

It wasn't long in coming down—and with a thud.

"But there's something that's gotta be said, paisan…and I don't think you're gonna like it."

Nick didn't want to ask the question, but knew he had no choice. "What's that?"

Pennanti slapped his knees and let out a grumbling sigh. "We didn't go to Granite Point to find out if that place was on the up-and-up. We went there to try and pick a lead on the Lewis kid."

Not quite, as the red fox promptly reminded him. "I did…you were there to try and verify his story."

"Yeah, that's true." Pennanti looked out the window for a second. When he turned back again, his face was as gloomy as a pea-soup fogbank, "And neither one of us did very good, Nicky. In fact, it would not be pushing things to say we both struck out. You're no closer to finding the Lewis kid than you were yesterday…and I've got nothing to give the rat about what went on with him while he was locked up in the Point."

Nick said nothing to this. The only sound to be heard was that of his pawlm making contact with his face; something he would have done with a brick if one had been handy. Dang that fisher, he was right again!

And…he had to wonder, had they been played? Had everything they'd witnessed been nothing more than a distraction to deflect them from their real mission?

No, the red fox swiftly decided. Things wouldn't have turned out any differently, even if everything they'd seen in Granite Point had been hunky dory. Martin and he hadn't picked up any information about Conor Lewis for one, simple reason. There'd been nothing there for them to find.

Had that been by happenstance or by design? Again, the answer came quickly. No, it hadn't been deliberate. Everything he and Martin had seen, everything they'd heard—even before their visit to The Point—had said AKER Correctional wanted that silver-fox kid back in custody almost as badly as the ZPD. If Dr. Lampley had known anything that could have helped make that happen, he would have come right out and said so the moment they'd entered his office.

Still…there was no denying that they'd hit a dead end. Nick let out a long, slow breath, feeling like a punctured beach ball. "Oh-kayyy, so…where do we go from here?"

Pennanti glanced at his watch.

"We need to talk to Spike again, but…" He aimed his nose through the windshield at the gathering darkness. Whoo, their visit to Granite Point had taken longer than the fox had expected. "He'll have clocked out by now," the fisher was saying, "and believe me, you don't wanna bother that rhino at home. We're gonna have to find a motel I'm afraid."

Nick's eyes narrowed and his mouth crinkled as if he'd just bitten into an unripe persimmon. "Let me guess. I'm paying, right?"

Pennanti's paw slapped into his chest.

"Niiiick!" he protested, looking mortally offended, "Don't tell me you bought into that stereotype about all weasels being conniving…"

"You're a fisher!" the fox reminded him in mild exasperation.

"Same family," His companion reminded him back, "and anyway, I wouldn't make you pay for anything unexpected." He shrugged. "Besides, now that I'm officially assigned to this case, I got an expense account of my own, thank you Minkertons."

Nick laughed so hard his car door almost fell open. It lasted only for a few seconds, but that was enough.

"So, you're paying?"

"We'll flip for it."

"All right, but I do the flipping."

"Fair enough."

For the next few moments, Nick sat silently, watching the traffic go by. When he spoke again, he might have been talking to himself, to Martin Pennanti…or possibly no one at all.

"Where is that Lewis kid right now?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Nicky." Pennanti answered from behind the wheel, sounding every bit as frustrated as his companion.

Chapter 73: All Together Now (Cont'd...Part 5)

Summary:

Yes...what IS Conor up to right now?

And don't forget Erin.

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 10
All Together Now - Cont'd…Part 5

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"Come on Snowdrop, put it in gear. When this tub leaves the dock, we're not supposed to be on board."

"Hey-y-y, don't you talk to me that way, Charcoal Boy." Erin's foot began to thump against the deck. "I'm not your slave." She'd performed many such percussion solos this morning.

"Fine," Conor, eyed her moodily over his shoulder, "But when the crew casts off, and we're stuck here at the Marsh Market—with no tools and this bad boy still in pieces—don't come crying to me."

"All right, all riiiight," the young doe-bunny huffed, "But what do we need this thing for anyway?"

"It's part of our cover," the young silver fox replied, returning to his task, "and besides, we'll never get home without it."

Erin had to admit that it made sense…that is, if what he was saying was true.

But still…we'll never get home—as if it was THEIR home.

"I don't THINK so!"

"Okay," She said, hunkering down beside him in a mixture of irritation and confusion, foot still hammering on the floor, "but why couldn't you have just done this down on the dock instead of up here…and why the heck did you have to order it unassembled?"

Conor answered with a shrug and a sigh before looking over his shoulder again. "Number one, we'd be too exposed down there. Number two…we're allowed to take any tools off the boat; we're lucky they're even letting us use them. And number three…it was the only way I could get this bad boy delivered before next Thurs…" Without warning, his ears spiked upwards. "Don't crush that dwarf hamster, hand me the pliers."

Erin ceased her foot-thumping just in time. The little rodent gave her an icy look, and scurried away down the cargo ramp.

Conor, meanwhile, was holding out a set of snapping fingers in her direction, "Pliii-yerrrrs!"

"I'll give you your stupid pliers," the young doe bunny hissed to herself, snatching up a pair of needle-nose from the tool box beside her, "right between your fox-jerk eyes!"

She didn't of course; she laid them in his paw. He spent a minute or two fiddling with something, and then sat back with a semi-satisfied expression. "Okay, that's the battery hooked up. Now where's that extension cord? Oh, yeah…Erin, can you go plug it into that outlet over there?"

"Sure, no problem," she replied, getting to her feet—and bringing a look of instant surprise to the young silver fox's face.

"What, no argument this time?"

The young doe-bunny only smiled sweet venom and struck a pose with a paw on her hip. "That's what happens when you ask, instead of giving orders, Charcoal Boy."

She turned and strolled away before he had time to respond.

They were working in the Mercy Star's cargo hold…and loathe as Erin was to admit it, Conor was right about one thing. When this boat cast off, it would be leaving without them…one way or another. That was the deal Mr. Rodenberg had brokered.

The 'items' the young silver fox had ordered had been waiting on the quay when their ship pulled in. None of the dockworkers milling about had given them so much as a second glance. The larger one was labeled, Styger Medical, instantly branding it as something a floating clinic could put to good use.

The smaller box had contained no markings at all

That was the good news. The bad news was that when the Mercy Star's crew had disembarked, they'd proceeded to ignore Conor's items as they'd been invisible.

Ordinarily, that wouldn't have been an issue; with Erin's help he could have easily handled them.

Except…this wasn't an ordinary situation; he'd just had an abscess drained, and then there was the small matter of the injury to his knee. And there was no way the young doe-bunny could have handled those cartons all by herself, at least not the bigger one.

…as she'd promptly informed him.

"How are we going to get those things all the way up here…and what the heck's in those boxes, anyway."

"Well, let's see," Conor had answered, ignoring the second question and pushing himself up off the crate where he'd been sitting. He took two steps, nearly stumbled, and then limped off in the direction of where the crew was bringing up the rest of the Mercy Star's supplies. Erin had been tempted to assist him—but not to the point of actually offering any help.

"Hey…guys?" he'd asked, hobbling up to a pair of fur seals, two of the larger members of the crew, "Any chance of getting our swag upstairs?" He was pointing to his delivery, still waiting on the dock.

"We'll need them if we're going to get out of here on time," Erin had chimed in, almost immediately wondering why. Ah, what the heck, it was probably true.

Immediately, the smaller seal, a female, had pinned Conor in an icy glare. "Yeah, fox," she'd sneered, "You have two chances, slim…and none."

"Mmm, you sure about that?" he'd replied, lifting a pair of fingers. At once the seal had become interested…not so much in the fingers as the bill he was holding between them. She'd been just about to reply when her partner, a larger male, had joined the discussion.

"Fifty," was all he'd said.

"Forty," Conor had countered, but the big dude had been in no mood to haggle.

"Fifty, kid…or you can go do your own thing."

"All right, fifty." Conor had shrugged, producing another pair of folded bills. The smaller fur seal had taken them, and then her partner had grinned—actually more of a nasty smirk.

"Thanks, Landee…have a nice day."

He'd turned and proceeded to galumph away, with his partner following closely behind, completely ignoring the young silver fox's delivery items.

"Heyyyy!" Erin had protested, foot thumping in outrage. "Give that back or…" Conor had quickly put an arm in front of her.

"Chill Snowdrop, I got this." And then to the seals he'd said, "Ehhh, you might wanna check those bills before you take off, 'quatic."

The big male had promptly ignored him—but luckily his partner hadn't.

"Hey, hey, heyyyy," she'd barked, spinning a 180 as fast as was possible for her species, "There's only half bills here."

While the male had angrily checked to see if she was right, Conor had folded his arms and raised his chin.

"Bingo, lady. I've hung with enough marine species to know how things work around the docks." An obvious reference to the McCrodon clan…or that was what Erin had thought. Meanwhile, the young silver fox had an eyebrow raised. "You get the other halves when my swag is up here in the hold and not a second before. You follow what I'm bringing out?"

They'd followed…and a moment later, Erin had observed with wonder, "Woah, how the heck do they carry all that weight on their noses?"

Conor had only flipped a paw back and forth, "It's what they do, bunny girl." But when the delivery was finally on board, he'd given over not just the second halves of the bills he'd promised, but also an extra twenty. "I got enough enemies as it is," he'd explained, after the two pinnipeds were gone.

Now, as he continued to work on the contents of the larger carton, Erin felt her foot trying to thump again.

"Okay, give me that wrench," he said, holding out a paw and not looking at her.

Instead of doing as he requested—excuse me, ordered—she took the wrench and brushed past him. "Here, let me; you're going to take forever, trying to put that thing together all by yourself."

Conor was having none of that. "Back off, Snowdrop, I…"

Okay, that was it…the final straw. Erin straightened up with her paws on her hips and her ears plastered against the back of her neck.

"For your information Charcoal-Boy, this isn't a guitar, it's a wheelchair—yes, I figured that out—and, in case you forgot, I'm a farm girl. Which means I know a thing or two about fixing machinery and/or putting it together. You remember that windmill on our property? I helped put it up. So quit treating me like a dumb bunny, and let me really help you. And another thing." She waved the wrench under his muzzle. "Call me Snowdrop again today, and the NEXT time you need this, you're going to have to pull it out of your nose." She threw it to the deck and got right in his face. "Do you follow what I'M bringing out?"

Typical for Conor; his reaction was the last thing she would have expected.

"Yeah…I'm sorry Erin," he said, turning away and raising his paws as if to ward off something. After two long seconds, he looked at her again. "Please forgive me, that was the pain talking. It's coming back hard right now."

She stepped back and folded her paws. "Then ask a nurse to give you some pain killers or something." She wasn't unmoved…but she wasn't about to let him know that.

"Can't," he answered, shaking his head with what seemed like infinite weariness, "If I take too many of those things I'll get hooked again." His mouth twisted into a wry smirk. "And what I'm feeling right now ain't zippity compared to how it feels when you're trying to kick those bad boys. Now, please…can you come help me out over here?"

When he put it like that, how could she refuse?

It was another ten minutes before the delivery finally began to take shape. Yep, it was a wheelchair all right; electric and complete with a controller that looked like nothing so much as a video-game pad. Only—very curiously—Conor didn't attach it to the chair arm, but left it lying in the middle of the seat. It brought up a question to go with the others waiting in Erin's 'in' basket.

"Okay…but why? And what are you planning to do with this thing, ride it all the way home?"

Conor answered her questions in reverse order—with replies that were even more puzzling.

Blankety-blank, aggravating, silver-fox jerk!

"I'm not going to be riding in it, Erin; you are. Didn't you see how low it's set?"

No, she hadn't…and now she didn't know what to do with the screwdriver she was holding; throw it to the ground or throw it at him.

Luckily for them both, this time he sensed what was coming and hastened to explain.

"By now, the ZPD has to know I'm on the injured-reserve list. They'll be looking for a fox-kid on crutches or in a wheelchair or whatever. But they WON'T be looking for a rabbit in a wheelchair being pushed by a fox…get it?"

She did, but not all of it.

"Yeah, okay…but how are you supposed to push me with your messed-up leg and all."

Conor pointed to the wheelchair's underside. "It's electrically powered, remember? I won't be pushing you; you'll be pulling me."

Erin's nose began to twitch, but then it stopped and she snapped her fingers.

"THAT'S why you didn't attach the control pod to the chair…so I can hide it where no one can see."

"Not…exactly," the young silver fox responded tentatively. "I'll be carrying it. But the idea is that this chair will act like a walker from my end…but nobody's gonna notice."

'I hope,' his eyes seemed to add. Even so, Erin had to admit that it was a good plan.

There was, however, just one more little thing…

"I know you can't tell me where we're going yet…but how far do we have to go to make it home…to your home," she added, wondering why she had.

"It's a ways from here," Conor informed her, again refusing to give up anything specific. "But don't worry I've got it dialed."

A moment ago, a bland non-answer like that one would have sent the young, white-furred bunny into a Category-7 rage. Now, however, she was a bit more inclined to trust her erstwhile companion.

"I assume we're not taking the ZTA?"

"You assume correct-a-mundo," Conor nodded, offering an upturned thumb, "That's the first place the police are gonna be looking for me…and Zuber's out too. I've gone to that well a few too many times already."

"Oh-kay-y-y. Conor," the still confused young doe-bunny conceded, "But then what's your…?"

"Something I need to check on." He pulled out his cell and began to thumb the screen. "Can you hold that thought for just a second?" Erin felt her temper trying to return, but this time she managed to keep it in check.

"Allll right!" he finally said, stashing the cell, "We're good to go."

And with a wink and a thumbs up, the fugitive young silver fox proceeded to outline his plan. When he was done, Erin was staring in amazement—but in a good way this time.

"Sweet cheez n' crackers, th-that's genius," she breathed.

"I dunno 'bout THAT," Conor replied, hunkering down and dropping onto his knees. Erin could have sworn she heard his joints creak. But then she saw the grimace on his face; he really was in some kind of pain. "But it won't do us any good if we can't get this bad boy put together in time."

No need to be encouraged any further; the young doe-bunny dropped down beside him and resumed helping out once more. They got the job done in plenty of time—or so it seemed—but there was still one more task to accomplish. Even before the last bolt was tightened, Conor was stripping the packing tape from the second, smaller box. When he opened it, Erin didn't bother to check the contents; he had already told her.

"Hmmmm, 'kay," he said, giving the second box a quick survey. "Looks like everything's here. You go get changed in that restroom over there…"

"The head," she corrected. Some things were just too good to resist.

"The whatever…" he rejoined, trying not to look irritated, "and then I'll get changed when you're done."

There are times when you say things without realizing the full meaning of your words—as a certain young doe bunny did right then. "Will you need any help?"

Conor regarded her drily. "Yeah, I'm gonna need help with my underwear. Now get cracking, willya?"

Erin sniffed, turned, and stalked away. Her ears felt sunburnt and so did her cheeks. She'd only made the offer because of his injuries; of course she had. It absolutely hadn't been because… "All right Charcoal Boy, the next time you need help, you can just take care of it YOURSELF!"

When she came out of the head a few moments later, she was dressed in banana-colored pajamas topped with a white linen robe and a surgical mask, all of it at least two sizes too big for her. She had her head wrapped in a scarf decorated with little pine trees—which was also keeping her ears hidden. For good measure she had them pinned behind her neck. Oooo, this was uncomfortable. She hoped she wouldn't have to keep them like this for very much longer.

"So, uhhh, what species am I supposed to be, again?"

"A pika," Conor told her, heading off to get changed himself. It took him almost no time to get the job done. But then, his ensemble was a lot more basic than hers: a set of surgical scrubs and lab coat, also topped by a surgical mask and by a bonnet that concealed all but the tips of his ears. As he came closer, Erin saw that the shirt was more than a little tight around the midsection, while the pants were baggy enough to carry two loads of groceries.

"And what are you supposed to be?" she asked, wincing as the ear she was trying to raise remained stubbornly pinned in place.

"A sable," he answered without preamble or explanation, speaking with a semi-Slavic accent. "Now, go ahead and get in the chair."

Erin had to jump to make it into the seat; it was still a mite too high for her. No problem, this was intentional, she knew; it would give her the appearance of being smaller than she actually was. But oh, Lord…her legs; she practically had to pull up into a fetal position to reach the footpads. Yes, a pikas legs were shorter than a bunny's but still… As soon as she was settled in, Conor gave her a pair of extra dark sunglasses, but told her not to put them on yet.

"All right, but…Hey, what the heck are you doing, Charcoal-Boy?"

What he was doing was fixing a perforated aluminum patch over her left eye and securing it with bandage-tape.

"It'll be better if you can't see where I'm taking you," he explained, nipping off the end of the tape with his teeth.

Erin swiveled in her seat, her one uncovered eye widening with alarm.

"But…you said that not knowing where to find you won't stop those…won't stop them from trying to MAKE me tell…"

"Then we'll just have to make sure those jerks don't get their paws on you." The young silver fox answered breezily, cutting her off at the pass. "Now, hold still and let me get the other eye covered."

Erin did as she was instructed and sat motionless…but not quietly. "You never told me…"

Conor ignored her, setting the glasses in place on her nose when he was finished. The sensation of being sightless was uncomfortable to the young white-furred bunny, but it could have been worse. "At least I still have my hearing."

As if to refute this thought, Conor's whispering voice came close to her cheek.

"I'm going to put a couple of airbuds in your ears, but I won't turn on the music until it's time for us to bounce."

"Wha…Why?" Erin started to ask, and then quickly waved it off. "Never mind, skip it." She knew what was going on and why. Unless he preempted her sense of sound, she might still be able to trace the path to their destination. "Good thing I don't cue off my sense of smell, like you do," she said, attempting to lighten the mood.

"Oh, I got a way to handle that, too," the young silver fox assured her—and she wisely chose not to ask what that method was.

Unable to check her watch, Erin quickly lost all sense of time. When what sounded like a van pulled up on the dock, she had no idea how long she'd been waiting. At once, she felt the chair begin to move in a downward tilt, and then the sound of music filled her ears.

♪ "Doctors have come from distant cities, just to see me…" ♫

Natalie Meerkat; well, at least Conor had picked a decent playlist. She felt the wheelchair stop, turn around, and roll backwards for a second. When it stopped again, a whirring buzz went through her feet, coupled with the sensation of rising upwards.

All right they were finally getting out of here. Nothing for her to do now except sit back and enjoy the ride as best as she could. From here on in, it was all up to Charcoal Boy.

In the meantime, the young silver fox was steadying himself on the rail of the liftgate as it rose up to a level equal to the back of the Sprinter van. Above him, printed in white text were the words, Zaidi Medical Transport.

So far, so good; the driver, a grinning dik-dik antelope, seemed to find nothing odd about either his fares or their intended destination.

Conor hadn't been entirely honest with Erin about not taking the ZTA. Their next stop was Savanna Central Station, although they wouldn't be boarding any of the trains. It wasn't nearly as close to home as he would have liked it, but was as near as they could get without arousing any suspicion. And if the passage to his den from there wasn't exactly short, at least most of it would be away from prying eyes. The tricky part would be getting inside the entrance tunnel without being spotted. Most of the trains were back in operation by now, but there was still a fairly large police presence around the railway terminal. The only good news was that they'd be focusing the bulk of their attention on the metro trains, not the action on the floor. Also on the plus side, there'd be plenty of other animals around as well, repair crews and passengers jockeying for seats on the trains that were finally running again. And Conor Lewis was more than a little familiar with the tactic of losing yourself in a crowd.

The drive from the Marsh Market turned out to be as circuitous as a corn maze. It took the pair of young mammals on a route through the canal district, a course punctuated by numerous detours and drawbridge crossings. Despite his cheerful manner the driver was not talkative by nature, spending most of the journey listening to Afro-Pop music on Sirius…some of which was actually pretty darn good.

The downside was that he wasn't going especially fast; this was a medical transport, not an ambulance—or even a taxicab. True, he wasn't exactly dawdling, but compared to Conor's last journey through the Canal District, it felt like he was moving at a snail's pace.

But when they finally got to Savanna Central Square, the fugitive young silver fox found himself envying Erin for her blindfold. He had seen the damage caused by the riot numerous times already, but that had been on TV and the net…while this was up close and fursonal. Even with most of the debris cleaned up, the place was almost unrecognizable: boarded up windows, benches destroyed, kiosks gone, shrubs and plants torn up by the roots, and concrete barriers encircling City Hall and ZPD Precinct-1 Had he been capable of it, Conor would have cried. He had loved Zootopia from the moment he'd caught his first glimpse of it—and look at it now.

"Did I do this?" He couldn't help wondering, "Is this on me?"

He slammed the thought back in its box, and shoved it into a dark corner of his mind. He knew it wouldn't stay there forever…but hopefully it would keep quiet until he was ready to face it.

Oops, they were coming up on Savanna Central Station. Okay, here was the tricky part…

There was a disabled mammals parking area around the side of the terminal; three spaces, one of them occupied by a giraffe-sized sedan with no handicapped plates—but with a citation flapping from beneath a windshield wiper. Conor wondered for a moment if the owner of that rig would have had the nerve to park it there before…

"Don't even THINK about that, dangit!"

Pulling into the next space over, the driver killed the engine and came around the back of the van.

He'd been perfectly quiet during the drive over from the Marsh Market. But now, as the liftgate holding Erin's wheelchair hummed earthward, he became as talkative as a game-show host.

"Sure you gonna be alright, getting in deah? Hard enough, getting' on train right now, even ef you're not crippled, eh? I can be help if you need."

"For an extra twenty smackers, I bet," Conor mused sourly to himself. The sight of all the ruination outside had put him in a cynical mood. To the dik-dik he said, in that faux-Slavic accent he'd adopted. "Nie…got this, but thanks." He had considered pretending to be deaf, but had quickly discarded the idea as too risky. Instead, he'd simply decided to portray himself as a mammal of few words—as few as possible and with as few syllables as possible. It helped immensely that smaller mustelids tended to have naturally high-pitched voices—more or less eliminating the need for the young silver fox to 'talk older' than he actually was.

"You sure?" the tiny antelope persisted, unwilling to part with the chance at a few more shekels, "And where she going, enyway?"

"He," Conor corrected, looking even more dour than a second ago, "Meeting family inside. They taking him to hospice out of town; Zootopia too violent." He shrugged, "Didn't say where."

And that finally got the medical transport diver to shut it. Folks will ask questions about a sick animal…but never a dying one. It was another lesson he'd learned at the feet of Danny Tipperin.

Upon passing through the handicapped mammals' entrance, the young silver fox discovered that the dik-dik had been worth listening to. At once he found himself under the towering gaze of not one but two rhino police officers, both of them with folded arms and no-nonsense expressions. Only then did he realize something that he should have considered earlier. Smuggling yourself out of Savanna Central in the guise of a disabled mammal wasn't exactly an original idea. At least one or two of the other kids wanted by the ZPD had probably tried it, tried—and failed.

His only hope, he knew, was that he had something they hadn't…but would it be enough?

He decided to play his hole card right away, a set of papers he'd ginned up on his laptop, and then produced, surreptitiously, with the help of one of the Mercy Star's printers. Now, before anything else, he hurriedly offered them to the officer standing nearest. The rhino took them with a cold expression and examined them closely. At the same time Conor was mentally crossing his fingers—and thanking whatever stars were available that his inquisitor came from a species with notably poor eyesight.

But then the other rhino pulled out a device that looked like a miniature double-barreled shotgun, except with a downturned muzzle. Ohhh, foxtrot—a sniffer wand! That thing could easily tell that the animal pushing the wheelchair was no sable…and that the mammal occupying it wasn't a pika.

All he could do was grit his teeth and pray, while the rhino-cop waved the sniffer over him and his charge.

But then the big mammal looked at his companion and nodded, "Clean." The first officer nodded back and waved the two young mammals through the checkpoint.

Conor had no idea what had just transpired but he wasn't about to ask questions. It would only be later that he'd learn how he'd managed to dodge that bullet. The sniffer-wand had been set to scan for explosives and incendiary materials, not species.

In the meantime, he reached for the chair controller.

It wasn't there; his pocket was empty! Ohhh, foxin'-A! When had he…? Wait, there it was…underneath the wheelchair, on top of the battery pack. He almost reached for it, but then stopped. The officer who'd just waved him through was looking right at him—and he wasn't wearing a benign expression. To the fugitive young silver fox, it seemed almost as if he was being dared to make a grab for the control pod. And when he did, the cops would know instantly that the chair was capable of moving under its own power. There was nothing for it but to clamp his teeth together—and push.

He expected the chair to remain stubbornly in place but, thank goodness, it moved—with all the blinding speed of tranq-darted sloth, but it moved. He could feel his injured knee whining in protest, but at least the rhino-cops seemed to have finally lost interest in him and his passenger. Or…had they? He couldn't look long enough to be certain

By the time he'd gone ten yards, the whine in Conor's knee had risen to a fox scream and his bum leg was shaking like a divining rod. All right, that was it, he couldn't go any further. The cops would either see what he was doing…or they wouldn't.

He dared another look over his shoulder. The rhinos were still within eyesight, but their backs were turned. He snatched up the controller and thumbed it. The chair moved blissfully forward on its own. Now, if he could just make it to the door…

Yes…there was the alcove, just behind that escalator. But dangit, there were so many animals riding on it, you couldn't have slipped a playing card between them. Erin and he would never make it inside without being spot…

Well, hello…what have we here?

They were a gemsbok and kudu, walking side-by-side in the direction of the escalator—and they were bickering.

…loudly.

"We should have come this morning, like I said!"

"And do what, exactly? Sit around for three hours, twiddling our thumbs?"

"At least we'd have gotten a seat on our train!"

And…they were getting louder by the second.

"You shut up!"

"No, you shut up!"

…so loud, in fact, that Conor had to wonder if Erin could hear them over the music.

"YOU SHUT UP!"

"YOU SHUT UP!"

If she could, she wasn't the only one. Half the station was staring at them—staring and backing away.

This is, except for two police officers, a lion and a tigress…currently pushing their way through the crowd in the direction of the quarrel.

Whoa, thank you fox-gods! But he'd have to time his move just right, and he'd only get one chance. Not now, not yet…wait until the cops get there. Not yet…N-N-Not yet…NOW!

Conor pushed the wheelchair into the alcove. He was certain that at least one of the bystanders must be looking in his direction, but it was now or never.

For a long moment, he lingered in the shadows, waiting for a figure to appear in the entrance-way.

When no one did, he turned and pushed Erin to the end of the recess. There he stopped, exchanging the controller for his cell phone, and punching in the access code. He crossed his fingers again, this time for real. He rarely, if ever, used this entrance…not for more than a year in fact. He could only hope it would still be functional.

Erin had heard the shouting match—but she hadn't been able to make out any of the words. She just wanted to get to wherever the heck they were going and get her tail out of this stupid wheelchair; her feet felt like they weren't there anymore. She was tired and bored and hadn't had a nibble to eat since last night.

Now, she felt more than heard a scraping noise. The wheel chair moved forward perhaps five or six feet and then there was a loud clunking noise in her wake…again felt, rather than heard.

And then the world became dark, very dark. Even blindfolded behind sunglasses, Erin could tell that much. She hoped Conor had brought a flashlight or…oh wait, foxes had night-vision, she'd forgotten about that. And then, perhaps ten seconds later, she found herself enveloped in a soft, earthy aroma. It wasn't an unpleasant smell. In fact, it was slightly reminiscent of the Hopps Family Warren, if not quite as clean. It brought images of her family to mind, in particular, her older sister Judy.

"What would you say, if you could see me now. Jude?" She couldn't help wondering, and then hurriedly banished the thought. Wherever Charcoal-Boy was taking her, they were somewhere underground right now. "Yeah, that REALLY narrows it down," She sniffed to herself.

Time turned invisible again as they continued on their way. They might have been down here for five minutes or five hours for all she knew. And, to quote Willy Wonka, there was no earthly way of knowing…in which direction they were going. Their route had begun with a long straightaway that seemed to go downhill, followed by a meandering turn to the left, a shorter, straight passage, a sharper turn to the right, and then an even longer beeline that seemed to ascend ever so gently. Erin was sorely tempted to raise a complaint about her cramped legs. Wherever the heck they were right now, there couldn't be anyone else around. She didn't though; she kept her silence. With her eyes covered and her hearing preempted, there was no way for her to be certain.

When they finally stopped, the young doe-bunny became aware of another sensation—of something opening, this time with a metallic feel to it. Conor rolled her forward again, the metallic impression repeated itself, and then she became aware of an electric hum and felt herself rising. Another lift-gate? No, this was a much longer ascent…and the machinery carrying her upwards felt a lot more substantial than last time. She was in an elevator of some sort.

After maybe a minute, the ascent stopped with a small jolt, and something heavy opened up in front of the wheelchair, closing behind it as soon as she was through. The chair stopped again, and something else opened, this time with a rattling sensation, again closing behind her as soon as he passed through.

And then, the music stopped, and she felt the air-buds being taken from her ears.

"Okay Erin, we're here."

"About time!" she snapped, all but tearing the covering from her eyes. "What the heck took you so…?"

The words died in her throat…and then she was almost leaping out of the wheelchair, her mouth slack as she turned a 180, staring breathlessly at her surroundings.

"Sweet…cheez…n' CRACKERS!"

She'd expected to end up in a place that was dark and dreary, not light and airy.

And…so spacious, as big as a high school gym with the bleachers taken out—and a ceiling tall enough to grace a cathedral. On her left was a set of stairs, leading upwards with an elevator beside them. Over on the right, she could see a TV screen the size of a tall ship's mainsail—and at the far end of the enclosure, a combination gym and dojo, complete with free-weights and practice dummies in small, medium, and ginormous sizes. To the young doe bunny's rear, set behind a rolling gate was the door to a freight elevator with a trio of heavy wooden doors next to it…also behind gates, set on rollers, and fitted with counterweights to assist with opening and closing. No, wait…the last one had no counterweight and there was something odd about it. She filed that away for later and moved on.

There were no rooms as such. The various spaces were kept separate by the type of portable dividers used in business offices. Because of these, Erin was unable to make out the entire contents of the…the…

"What the heck do you call this place?" she asked, turning to Conor with her nose twitching.

"My loft," he answered, with just the barest note of pride in his voice.

"Loft," the young doe-bunny repeated the word as if it were only vaguely familiar, "Some loft." No kidding, this place could have been a suite in a five-star hotel. There was track lighting, there were overhead fans—but it was still a little too warm in here. "Any chance you can kick on the AC?" she asked.

"No problem," Conor answered her. And then, apparently speaking to the room, he said, "Mother? I'm home."

At once Erin became aware of an almost silent hum, and felt a breath of cool air coming from a trio of air ducts.

She raised an ear… Wait a minute, when had she unpinned them? And where was the scarf she'd been…? Oh, there it was, across the back of the wheelchair.

"Mother?" she queried, her face assuming a wry expression. "What happened to Deeri and Alpaxa?"

Her companion only shrugged and grinned awkwardly.

"Don't look at me, it was Kieran's idea."

The ear went even higher. "Kieran? You mean Kieran McCrodon, right?"

"Yep," the young silver fox was nodding soberly, sweeping a paw in wide circumference. "He designed and built this place…or he supervised its construction anyway."

"Ummm, 'kay." Erin answered warily, "but why, and what kind of place IS this…and, um, what the heck is that for?"

She was pointing at the nearest wall, although she could have been indicating any one of them. The entire loft was sheathed in with what looked like a tightly-meshed chain-link fence.

"Oh that?" Conor shrugged again, "That's just the Furaday Cage."

"The…what?" Now both of the young doe-bunny's ears were standing at attention.

"A Furaday Cage," he repeated, "Not for keeping intruders out, for keeping my loft from being detected electronically."

"Oh…I see," Erin told him. She didn't, not really, but was willing to take his word for it.

"And that's a big reason why Kieran set up this place where he did." Conor was warming to his explanation. "We're inside of what used to be an electrical substation."

He went on to illuminate.

Whereas most generators produce Alternating Current, most subway trains, tramcars, etc. run on Direct Current. Since DC current can only be transmitted over relatively short distances, you can either build a zillion generators in a zillion locations…or you can build a much smaller number of substations to convert the AC current to DC.

"And that's where we are right now," Conor was saying, "The tunnel we used to get here was where the electrical cable between here and where the old Zootopia Trolley depot used to be…back in the day before they tore it down and built the Zootopia Metro."

Erin got that okay…but then it triggered another question,

"But…don't the ZTA trains run on Direct Current?"

"Yeah," Conor admitted, "but now they have better ways of making the conversion than these bad boys. I don't know exactly how it works, but these old skool substations were never that efficient. They used these things called rotary converters; they looked like generator turbines, and they were a serious fire hazard, or that's what I was told anyway." He pointed up at the ceiling, "That's where the oil tanks used to be."

"Oil…tanks?" Erin's nose was twitching in confusion.

"That's right, oil tanks," the young fox answered, half solemn and half amused, "Electrical fires don't play well with water, so they had to be put out using non-flammable oil instead."

"Ah, I see," the young doe-bunny answered, and this time she did, "But you said something a minute ago about the reason…uh, Kell…no, Kieran set this loft up in an electrical substation."

"I did," Conor nodded, "And it has to do with the Furaday cage. The more heavily they're grounded, the better they work." He waved paw at the floor. "And those old electrical substations were always seriously grounded. It made his job a whole lot easier."

Erin clasped her arms and looked around the room as if following the path of an errant fly.

"Okay, one more question." She actually had a lot more, but felt she was closing in on her quota. "What the heck is this loft FOR?"

A sly, toothy grin unwrapped around her companion's muzzle

"Ah, yes, that. It was originally built for The Mister's use—and now you know why it's so plush in here. That dude had a serious taste for living large."

Erin's nose ceased its movements, replaced by a thumping foot. She was in no mood to play riddle-me-this. "I figured that, but WHY did he have it built here?"

Conor's manner turned abruptly serious.

"As a hideout. A few years back, he was looking at 25 years in a federal pen for illegal weapons dealing. Interpaw had him dead-to-rights—or that was what he thought—and so, he made up his mind to go on the lam before the jury could render a guilty verdict."

Erin's foot ceased its movements and her nose took over once more.

"But…I thought he never went to jail."

"That's right, he didn't," the young silver fox agreed, "And for that you can thank Mr. Rodenberg." His mouth twisted in irony. "Or…maybe you wouldn't want to thank him for getting that big jerk off the hook. But whatever…he came in, beat the case, and The Mister died a free mammal."

For a long moment, there was silence in the loft…particularly on Erin's part. Did Charcoal Boy really just say…?

"Ummm…Conor…" She ventured, as delicately as if she were picking a lock, "Did it…ever occur to you…? If he had gone to jail…you'd…probably still be… locked up in Granite Point…on the fourth year of your one-year sentence."

"I know, right?" he threw up his paws in exasperation, as if she were talking about some other young fox. "Sometimes I can't believe it myself, but that's how I feel when I think about it." He shook himself, as if shedding excess water. "Never mind; move over and let me get in that chair. I'll give you the grand tour."

For a small batch of seconds, his words didn't seem to register. Chair…what chai…?

But then, "Ohhhh, dumb bunny…you mean the wheelchair, right?"

"Yep."

She moved quickly aside and he hoisted himself into it, "I didn't just buy this thing to get us home. Gonna need to keep the weight off my bad leg for a while." He thumbed the controller console and the wheelchair raised up to his correct height, while the right leg elevated to almost a 90-degree angle. "Ahhh, that's better" he said, patting the controller. "I'm gonna have get this thingamajig attached to the arm when I get the chance"

Erin didn't seem to hear him; she was too busy thumping the floor again.

"You mean…you could have changed the height on that thing any time you wanted?"

"Uh, yeah," the young fox answered, tilting his head sideways, "Why, is that a problem?" He was wearing a pained expression, as if to say, 'For crying out loud, you're starting in on me already?'

"Darn right it is," she said, chin up and paws on her hips. "I can't hardly feel my feet from the way my legs were crunched up all the way here."

"Yeah?" Conor rejoined, looking vexed and then looking down, "From where I sit, Snowdrop, at least one of 'em seems to be working pretty good." Not the brightest of all comebacks, but he was tired and hungry too. He hurriedly shifted gears. "Dangit bunny-girl…it was that or maybe someone made your species. And then what would've happened? Would you rather we'd been busted on the way here?"

"No," she admitted, her fire only slightly dampened. "But what about after we went underground…there wasn't anyone else around then, was there? You could have changed the settings after…"

"Okay, sorry," he said, lifting his paws in a placating gesture. He wasn't, not really, but anything to get her to back off. He turned a slow back and forth crescent in the chair to test the directional controls and lifted a thumb. "Okay we're good to go.

"Uhhhh…" Erin let out a sighing breath that seemed to deflate her a little, "Could we start in the kitchen? I'm just about starving right now."

"Yeah, me too." Conor nodded in agreement. He hadn't eaten since last night either…Mmmm, how long ago had that been? Never mind; he could almost hear his stomach snarling, 'Send down the grub and no one gets hurt.'

He turned another half circle and began to roll away, beckoning for the young doe-bunny to follow. A moment later, another turn and the kitchen was spread out before them.

For Erin Hopps, one look was all it took.

"Wow…this is almost as big as our kitchen back home," she marveled. And it was; the stove had more than a dozen burners. There were two ovens, three microwaves, a king size air fryer, and a deep-fry station with baskets the size of clothes-hampers. Everything was in brushed, stainless steel and you could have landed a plane on the cooking island. She let out a small sniffle, and then hurriedly quashed it.

Luckily, Conor didn't notice. "I know…I've seen it," he said, feeling a pull of warmth at the memory. Who would have known, back then during the Carrot Days festival that things would come to this? And then, anticipating his guest's next question, he hastened to explain. "You have to remember, The Mister never planned to hide out here alone. Heck, he couldn't if he wanted to, not in his condition—like a hundred times more crippled than I am right now." He shrugged. "And in any case, he wasn't gonna leave his brothers behind."

"Right," Erin was thoughtfully stroking her chin. But then her eyes fell on the big, double-doored refrigerator—a big…beautiful fridge, the size of a bank-vault. It was no use, resistance was futile. She dropped to all fours and went scurrying past the surprised young silver-fox.

"Uhmmm?" Conor raised a finger as she went hurrying by. He might as well have been trying to flag down an avalanche. In a heartbeat, the young doe-bunny was flinging the fridge doors open—they were power assisted—and practically diving inside.

Things remained like that for perhaps ten or fifteen seconds, and then the doors began to swing shut again…slowly, revealing a young, white-furred bunny with laid back ears, a furiously thumping foot, and blue eyes blazing like acetylene torches.

"You…you stupid, dumb, brain-dead, excuse for a silver-fox! JUST WHAT THE HECK IS YOUR PROBLEM, CHARCOAL BOY?"

Chapter 74: All Together Now (Cont'd...Part 6)

Summary:

Hurricane Erin makes landfall

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle

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Part Two:

Oxidizer

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Chapter 10
All Together Now - Cont'd…Part 6

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"THERE'S NOTHING IN HERE BUT CARNIVORE FOOD, YOU...!"

Erin was waving a paw at the refrigerator as if ordering it to go away.

Conor, meanwhile, was raising HIS paws in a placating gesture. "Hold on bunny-girl, let me check." He scooted past her in the wheelchair and once more spoke to the room at large. "Mother, open the refrigerator doors." And to himself he thought, "With my luck, she'll probably tell me. 'I'm sorry, Dave…I'm afraid I can't do that.'"

She didn't say it, and the fridge doors commenced to swing wide. Truth be told, the fugitive young silver fox already knew what he was going to find but he needed a few seconds to think. Dangit, had he really eaten that much fruit all by himself?

He soon had his answer and the answer was yes. Most of the produce had been perishable and so he'd been obliged to finish it off quickly. Now there was nothing left except bug-meat and various seafood items. He didn't bother to check the freezer; he loathed the frozen stuff. Still…he should have expected something like this. He'd known he was getting low on provisions in general, even before his fight with Judy. Between his injuries and the riot and everything else, he'd been unable to make another grocery run…but he'd never imagined he'd run completely out of…aw foxtrot!

He felt genuinely bad about the situation. He might even have apologized for the oversight, except…some bunnies just don't know when to back off.

"There…see?" Erin was thumping her foot again. "If stupidity was a crime, Charcoal-Boy, you'd be doing life without parole. How could you make me come here without even thinking about…?"

"Make you come here?" Conor spun the chair so fast, one wheel lifted up off the ground. His ears were back and a fang was showing. "In case you missed the memo, Snowdrop…"

Her ears went flat, as well

"I TOLD you not to call me that…!"

"Or…you'll…what?" The angry young silver-fox was already halfway out of his seat, his voice low and menacing. "Stick a wrench up my nose?" His finger stabbed out in the direction of the cabinets. "Go ahead, there's one right there in the third drawer. Take your best shot." He sat back again, folding his arms…and waiting.

Erin hurriedly stepped backwards—so fast she almost tripped. Her blue eyes were as wide as saucers and her nose was twitching furiously.

The sight of her looking like that hit Conor like a shot to the gut. He could handle it when she was mad at him—but not when she was scared of him.

Still…frightened or not she'd been out of line a second ago. He took a short breath and rolled the chair backwards, leveling his voice as he spoke.

"You know perfectly well I didn't make you come here, Erin. It was your idea, not mine."

To put it mildly; she'd been ready to resort to blackmail if he'd refused to let her accompany him. Granted, he hadn't exactly been against the idea, but the notion that she'd been brought here over her objections was beyond ludicrous.

"But whoever came up with the idea, bunny girl…no way did I have time to plan for it, am I right?"

"Yeah, okay," she admitted, but her foot was still thumping.

No matter, he'd made a dent, and now he could tone it down a little.

"That being said, I knew I was going to run out of provisions sooner or later when I went into hiding—and I knew enough to make plans to resupply myself."

"You did? How?" Erin's foot had gone silent and her nose had begun to twitch,

The young silver fox answered her by reaching under the wheelchair and withdrawing his laptop. It was a tense few seconds—he'd forgotten, up until now, to check if he still had it—but no worries; it was right where he'd left it.

Setting it up on the cooking island, he flipped it open and booted up. "I've got a couple of drop boxes set up near two of the exits."

"You mean," Erin's foot had resumed its thumping, "there's other ways to get in here, besides that way-long maze we used?"

Conor was ready for that one.

"None that were safe." He turned and looked up at her, "You have to remember, bunny-girl…when you're on the run from The Mammal, you don't wanna be spotted coming and/or going from your hidey-hole. So, the other entrances are all in seriously isolated locations—locations that would have looked way suspicious to that medical transport driver if I'd had him drop us off at any one of them. And besides that," he gave her a short, uncomfortable look, "Before today, I never needed help getting home. Matter of fact, you're the first visitor, guest, or whatever I ever had in here."

Erin's response to this was a peculiar mix of emotions. She looked both flattered…and a little depressed.

Well, at least she'd stopped that stupid foot-thumping.

He turned back to the computer, "Okay, need a USB cable. There should be one in the bottom drawer, second from the right. Can you…?"

"On it," she said, hopping over. When she returned with the requested item her nose was twitching. "Don't you have Wi-Fi?"

"Doesn't work in here," he said, sweeping a paw around the room to indicate the Furaday cage. "That bad boy swings both ways," he said, plugging one end of the cable into the laptop and the other into a port midway down the cooking island. "So, I have to use backstrap routers," he explained, sitting up in the chair again, "Pain in the tail, but it beats having the AKER goons busting in on me."

"Um…what's a backstrap router?" Erin asked the question as if she wasn't really sure she wanted to know.

"It's a router set off-site in a hidden location and accessed by a shielded cable. The closest one is five blocks away…as far as I know."

"How many of them are there?" the young doe-bunny queried. She seemed fascinated in spite of herself.

"Seven that Kieran set up himself, plus five more lines that he ran into servers of unsuspecting citizens." Sensing her next question, he added. "A few of the larger companies in Zootopia have something like dozens of routers, so one more line won't be noticed. Others have them installed but barely use 'em…like this videogame parlor, Luwak's, over in the Rainforest District. And in case you're wondering why I need so many, it's the best way to keep those bad boys from being spotted. I never use the same one more than once every couple of weeks, and when I go online, I always pick a different one at random…or actually, the computer does it." He turned back to the laptop and began typing. "Okay, what do you want to eat?"

For a short moment, Erin only stood and stared. And then, almost cautiously, she began to recite her grocery list, gradually picking up speed as she went along. As anyone could have predicted she went heavy on the legumes and leafy greens and, surprisingly, she ordered only a single bunch of carrots. Conor assumed that it was because for this bunny-girl, it was carrots from the Hopps Family Farm or nothing. He was mistaken and she quickly put him right.

"Bunnies love carrots, Conor…but we can't eat too many of them or we'll get sick. A diet of nothing BUT carrots can even kill us, if it goes on long enough."

"Yeah," The young silver fox acknowledged, feeling only a little bit foolish, "It's the same thing with rodents and cheese."

"Right."

When Erin got to the fruit section, he began to offer a few suggestions; these foods were on his menu as well. At one point, he even yipped with delight. "Oooo, the Marionberries are in. We gotta get some of those, bunny-girl!"

He sucked in his breath for a second, but it turned out that he needn't have bothered. This was one proposal she wasn't going to argue with. "Oh yeah, we get those every once in a while, back home in Bunnyburrow. They're totally scrumptious."

When Conor finally finished however, she wasn't quite done.

"I'm going to need more clothes, too," she said, spinning around to illustrate the situation. "I can't go around in only one outfit."

"I hear you, Erin." The young silver fox was nodding affably—but not for the reason she might have expected. "You'll be recognized right away if anyone sees you in the clothes you were wearing in jail." He turned back to his laptop again, but stopped with a finger poised over the keyboard. "Anything else you're gonna need?"

Erin pulled at her chin for a second.

"Let's seeee…a toothbrush and some dental floss…"

"The brush yeah, but I have plenty of floss."

"Oka-y-y-y, and some fur-wash—for bunnies, my fur is different from yours, some conditioner…oh, and I'll need some pads, too."

"Pads?" Conor's ears were standing at full attention.

Erin sighed, and then groaned.

"Yeah, you know…pads, girls, time of the month." Her expression was half irritated, half ironic.

As matter of fact the confused young silver fox didn't know; heck, he didn't have a clue as to what she was talking about.

He was, however, at least wise enough to know when to step aside.

"Ahhh, maybe you better do this," he said, pulling the wheelchair back from the cooking island.

"Yeah, maybe I better," she said, taking his place, with an expression of small triumph. "You don't know my size anyway."

For the next few minutes, Conor remained mute while Erin typed and scrolled. He wasn't worried that she might do any damage to either his laptop or the software. She could handle a computer, at least when it came to something as basic as shopping on the net. He knew that much from the online sessions they'd shared, before his arrest.

When the time came to go to 'checkout', however….

"Okay foxy, over to you."

Erin stepped away from the laptop, and he rolled in to take her place.

…and felt his jaw fall open like a trap door. He remained like that for half a second and then spun the chair in the young doe-bunny's direction with his ears laid back.

"For fox's sake, Snowdrop…whaddaya trying to do, break me?"

Erin only sniffed and tossed her head, "There's nothing in that order I don't need, Conor…and nothing that expensive either."

"I know, but…" he was pointing at the computer screen with a quivering finger, "Do you know how much Amazoon charges for next day delivery?"

"I can't wait a whole week for a regular delivery, Charcoal Boy," She was completely unyielding, "Especially for the pads."

That might have been true, or maybe it wasn't—but it was more than enough to get him to back off. Grumbling inaudibly, he entered his account information and clicked 'buy'.

"There…happy now, bunny-girl?" he asked, turning to face her once more.

"Overjoyed," she answered smartly, and then, "How long before the food gets here?"

Conor looked at his watch, "Hour…hour-and half."

"Kay," Erin answered him, at least partially satisfied, "Then, how about you showing me the rest of your loft while we're waiting?"

Ohhh, yes…at last an agreeable suggestion from this bunny.

"Sure thing," Conor smiled, and turned the chair in a 180, beckoning with his right paw for her to follow.

They started in the living room, where a semicircular, overstuffed sofa faced in the direction of the TV screen. It was actually a double-row affair, but only the first one was the correct size for a small mammal.

"Wow," the young doe bunny marveled as she plopped herself down on one of the seats. "Commm-fy!" She began to work her backside into the cushions…while Conor glanced hurriedly away.

"Yikes…Don't DO that to me, Snowdrop!"

He had to move quickly, before she noticed the look on his face. Otherwise, she'd be teasing him from now until…wait, that's it.

"Mother," he said, speaking to the room, "Raise leg-rest on 5-A."

In response, an almost imperturbable hum came from beneath where Erin was sitting, and then the front of the couch began to fold outward, lifting her legs up and off the floor.

She was suitably impressed. "Oooo, tres cool."

There, that was better. "Yeah, now watch this. Mother, armrests up, 5-A."

"Whaaa…?" Erin almost leapt off the sofa as if it was electrified—but then stopped when she realized that it was only obeying the young silver fox's command. On either side of her, padded sections were rising up to elbow height.

"There's a slide-out tray table and cup-holder too," Conor told her, "But you have to pull it out with your paw. It's in the right-side armrest. No, up a little higher. Yeah, now pull it out, and flip it sideways. And swing it towards you and…tah-dahhh."

"Wow, super cool." Erin seemed almost to have forgotten her hunger; she was that impressed. "Does this chair recline too.?"

"Yeah."

"Awesome." Erin sat back, and spoke to the room. "Mother, um, recline 5-A"

Nothing happened.

"She doesn't recognize your voice yet." Conor hastened to explain with a smile. "We'll get you fixed up when we get to the computer room." He waved a paw at the big-screen in front of them. "Notice anything, bunny-girl?"

She leaned forward and squinted for a moment with her ears working…then pitched backwards as if she'd been thrown into her seat. "Sweet cheez n' crackers, you have your own CATMOS theater!"

"I know, right?" the young silver fox sniggered, thoroughly pleased with himself. "And we've got all the streaming channels, too. Amazoon Prime, Netfox, Gnulu, Ewetube…"

Erin raised an ear. "What about Dis…?"

"DON'T SAY IT!" Conor's voice was a piercing fox-scream

"Oops, sorry." She seemed to fold in on herself for a second, but then quickly recovered. "Uhm, 'Mother'…Kieran got that from 'Alien', right?"

"Yeah," the young fox answered quickly, grateful for the change of subject. "He always did have a warped sense of humor. Danny T. used to call him a walking blarney stone." He sniggered at the memory.

Erin sniggered too. "Okay, where to next?"

Their next stop was the gym, a surprisingly Spartan set-up. There were only a few machines, two treadmills, a couple of stair-steppers, and that was it. There was also, however, a huge selection of free-weights, along with a speed-bag, pull-up bars, and a wooden martial arts dummy. "When it came to fitness Kieran was always Captain Old School." Conor explained, and then pointed at the closest wall. "He even put in a running track around the perimeter of this place. He hate, hate, HATED treadmills. They were strictly for the other guys to use."

The next stop on the tour proved the absent sea-mink wasn't entirely above making a concession to modern technology.

Erin didn't notice at first; she was too busy staring at…

"Is…Is that a Racuzzi?"

"Yep," Conor, "Nice one, huh?"

"Nice?" the young doe bunny was blinking her as if her eyes were deceiving her. "If that's what you call nice, I can't wait to see awesome." The spa was as big as a backyard trampoline—for large mammals.

And that wasn't all, as a quick sniff told her. "Wait a minute, is that…salt-water?"

"Yeah," Conor nodded seriously, "Being kinda marine mammals, the McCrodons never cared much for chlorine—so, instead it's got this thing called a Salt Pure system."

"Hard to clean?" Erin asked, getting down on one knee and peering into the water like Narcissus studying his own reflection.

"It's mostly self-cleaning," the young silver fox answered, rolling up beside her. He flipped a paw, adding, "Every few months or so, tho'…yeah, and it's a chore. Now, c'mere, I want to show you something else."

The 'something else' was another treadmill; only this one was encased in plexiglass, like a display model in a store.

Conor waited for Erin to ask the question, but it never came. She seemed to have figured out, at last, that he'd give her the skinny in his own, good time.

"That's so you can fill it with water before you start," he explained. "I haven't used it much, myself…but I'll be using it a lot now."

"Why's that," the young doe-bunny asked, "Low impact?"

"Exactly," Conor told her, "Good way to give my bum leg a workout while it's healing."

"Right." The young doe bunny answered agreeably, but then looked around with her nose twitching. "How come there's no pool though?"

Conor didn't respond, not for several seconds. "Come again?" he was tilting his head sideways, as foxes sometimes do.

"If the McCrodon's were a semi-aquatic species," Erin swept a paw around the room, "wouldn't they have wanted a swimming pool in here?"

"Oh…right." The young silver fox smiled dismissively, "They didn't like pools, thought they were too confining; a lot of marine mammals feel that way. Naaaw, for them it was either big water or nothing. That pool, down at the Beach House was mostly for other species." He turned the chair a few degrees and pointed at the freight elevator. "They had plans to run that bad boy all the way down to the Nocturnal District, mostly so they could swim in the underground lake, but it never came to anything. The Mister's brothers wanted it, but he didn't—not surprising since his swimming days were way over by then. Anyway, by the time Denis and Gerry finally talked him into it, Mr. Rodenberg had taken over as their attorney, and the plan was put on hold. When he finally beat the case against them, it was dropped altogether. Too bad," he sighed and shook his head, "It would have been way handy to have had a direct route to the Nocturnal District from here."

"I heard that," Erin readily agreed. She too was from a species not averse to conducting night operations.

The next item on the agenda was what would have been The Mister's private bathroom—as evidenced by the parallel bars on either side of the toilet…a useful accessory now that Conor was partially wheelchair-bound. "There's two other downstairs bathrooms besides this one, but I never use 'em." He explained. "This one's got a heated floor, no-fog mirrors, and a steam-shower." He was pointing at a glass booth the size of a freight container.

"Aren't those controls a little high up for you?" The young doe-bunny was gazing upwards with a small frown and crossed arms.

The reply was both swift and breezy

"Oh, it's linked into Mother; everything in here's hooked into her."

"Oh-kayyy," Erin answered with a dubious twitch of her nose, "But what's a-a-a…a steam shower?"

"Combination steam-bath and shower." Conor tried not to sound condescending, but it was a losing battle.

As was Erin's struggle not to sound irritated. "Oh, right."

From there, it was on to the library…which brought up another obvious question as soon as they entered.

"How come half the shelves are empty?"

"Hey, they were completely empty when I moved in here." the young silver fox informed her, aiming a paw at the ones that were filled.

Erin nodded and went over to inspect the contents, surprised by what she found. She'd been expecting rows of Manga Novels and Young Adult fiction. Instead, she found volumes by Alexander Dumouse, Robert Louis Stevixen, Rudyard Klipspring and James Fennimore Raccooper.

Not that the young silver fox was completely immune to lowbrow fiction. He also had the entire Edgar Mice Burrows 'Mars' series, and the collected works of HP Loverat.

On the other paw, there were volumes by Doestoyevsky, Victor Ewego, Charles Doggins, and even a copy of Moby Dick.

Erin turned and looked at her host with a wicked twinkle in her eye. "What, no Beowulf?"

He responded by slapping a paw against his chest, and looking suitably pained. "I'd rather read a subpoena!" And the two of them shared a hearty laugh.

There were plenty of other books in the collection but it was time to move on…to a place Erin was eager to see, the music room.

It had all the usual accoutrements, amps, monitor speakers, a flat screen display, a pedal board, a mixing board, and don't forget the mike and headphones.

And then, of course, there were the guitars. In addition to Conor's 'heavy-relic' Strat and the unplugged twelve-string he'd brought with him to the Carrot Days Festival, he had the obligatory acoustic six, a Jazzmaster in tobacco-burst finish, and a Les Pawl knock-off in burnt orange—with emphasis on the burnt. No kidding, this axe looked like it had been rescued from an oil-well explosion.

"Whoa," the young doe-bunny gaped, hefting it in her paws, "What is it with you and the beat-up guitars, Conor?"

"What can I say?" he said, offering a faux-helpless shrug, "I like finishes that match my history." An impromptu comeback but a good one—or that was how he saw it. "Anyway, you gotta admit it's a cool look…and she's got the sound to go with it."

"Show me," she said, passing the guitar back to him.

Conor didn't object. This was the kind of challenge he liked. He took the guitar and rolled over to the control console. While he busied himself with getting it plugged in Erin gave his set-up a closer look.

"Hey, you play synthesizer?" She was pointing at a half size electronic keyboard on her left.

"A little," he said, glancing over his shoulder, "If I didn't have editing capabilities, you wouldn't want to hear the music I make on that bad-boy."

"I-I'll take your word for it," the young, white-furred bunny replied, offering a wry smile. "And, what's that?" She was pointing again, this time as something that resembled a stove with ceramic burners.

"Drum pad," he replied, turning the chair to face her, "Vintage model. I use it for laying down percussion tracks." He gave a quick turn to a tuning peg. "Okay, let's try this. Mother, start playback."

A loud screech of feedback, followed by a double drumbeat came through the speakers, and then a pair of bass riffs. Conor answered with two rolling power-chords, and then he began to sing,

"♪ Crazy…but that's how it goes
Millions of mammals…living as foes." ♫

He was in good voice, considering all he'd been through in the last three days.

But then, this particular tune that was easy for him to sing from the heart.

♪ "Mental wounds still screaming
Driving me insane…

I'm goin' off the rails on a crazy train
I'm goin' off the rails on a crazy train." ♫

And besides that, he was totally crushing it on the guitar. You could tell that from the way Erin was following every move of his fingers.

When he finished, she was applauding and thumping her foot vigorously

Conor tried to bow but stopped short as a ragged shard of glass seemed to stab into his side. "I assume that's not an angry foot-thump?" He asked, attempting to cover it. Even to him, it sounded lamer than his bad knee—but if the young doe-bunny noticed, she gave no sign.

"No way, foxy." She giggled; the first time she'd done that since her arrest. "So where to next?"

Before Conor could answer, his phone did it for him, pinging to notify him that the provisions had arrived.

"Whooo, thank goodness." Erin's cheeks were puffed out like popovers, "I don't think I could've held out much longer."

"Me either," the young silver fox admitted, "Do you think you can give me some help over here?"

"Sure, no sweat," she answered at once, her confidence belied by her twitching nose, a signal that he couldn't fail to notice.

"Not for that," he hurriedly amended, pointing to over by the gate that led to the elevator, where several bikes were parked, "See that trailer over there? Can you bring it here and hook it up to the wheelchair? There's a hitch on the back."

Erin's ears went up and so did her eyebrows. "Wow, you really do think of everything."

"Ahhh, not exactly," Conor fanned a paw, looking mildly self-conscious. "It came standard with the chair. Attempting to qualify the remark, he added, "That IS why I chose this particular model, though," He had no idea why he'd felt the need to tell her that.

When he got to the exit, a quick check of a hidden surveillance camera showed that the coast was clear. He would have preferred to wait until after dark to retrieve the delivery, but he was plenty famished himself. Mother's reach didn't extend to any of the exits. For that, he had a phone app.

And he wouldn't be needing it anyway. All his drop boxes were set up so that he didn't need to go outside to access them. Still…if the ZPD ever caught on to any of them, they'd be one step away from nabbing him.

"I should have launched a drone and had it sweep the area before I came here," The skittish young silver fox grumbled to himself, and then entered the code to lower the drop-box contents down to his level. "Yeesh, I'm getting paranoid…or sensible; take your pick."

It took a bit of effort to get everything transferred from the drop-box to the trailer and—even more disconcerting—more time than he'd have liked.

And he had good reason to be wary; even Kieran McCrodon wasn't immune to making the odd mistake. If anyone happened to be passing by the drop box right now, they wouldn't be able to see him—but they'd sure as heck be able to hear him. Aggghhh, grrrr, he could have used Erin's help after all. Ah well, at least he was able to get the trailer loaded without putting too much strain on his injuries.

Wisely, he had chosen to include a couple of pre-made, microwaveable meals with the other items—as he explained to Erin upon his return to the loft.

"Okay, now for the bunny we have Falafel with roast veggies. And for the fox, we have Shawarma with onions and Tzatziki sauce. For the appetizer, we have Dolmas to share, and Baklava for dessert."

"Sounds yummy," He could almost hear Erin drooling—except for… "Please tell me that's not real meat." She was pointing at the second microwave, where Conor's meal was performing an endless pirouette under the lights.

"It's not," he told her, crossing his heart and raising a paw. "All plant based, I swear."

"'Kay," that was good enough for her.

When the entrees came out of the microwaves, they were, as nuked food tends to be, too hot to eat. But that was okay, they had the dolmas to work on while they waited for things to cool down.

For most of the meal, the only sound to be heard in the loft was two young mammals, nomming at an almost breathless pace. It was only when they were most of the way through the main course that Erin finally spoke again.

"What're those for?" She was pointing with a fork at the three heavy doors, lined up against that one wall.

She didn't get an answer right away. Conor was obliged to swallow first. "I don't know what they were used for originally, but now they're storerooms, survival gear, tools, building materials…all kinds of stuff." he patted the side of the wheelchair, "I could have built this bad boy from scratch with what's in there." He didn't bother to mention that one of the storerooms also contained an assortment of MREs. He could just imagine the eruption from the young bunny sitting across from him.

"WHAT? You had food in here all along, and you…?"

Which would have been a wet firecracker, compared to the blowup if she ever found out what they tasted like.

"Another wheelchair from scratch?" Erin was raising a dubious ear and eyebrow, "Seriously?"

"Wellll…." The young silver-fox answered, compressing his lips and looking up and away, "with that and the 3D printer, maybe."

The ear went down and her eyes went wide. "You have a 3D printer in here?"

"Yeah," the young silver fox grinned, reaching for his glass of iced tea, "And wait'll you see it. It's not big enough to print a boat hull…like the ones Billy's family has, but it's super powerful and super smart, it can even work in carbon fiber. I'm gonna use it to make a pair of crutches for myself."

"Billy…" Erin sighed, remembering the young thylacine who'd helped them escape from a whole slew of pursuers the other evening, "Gaw, I hope he's okay."

"Oh, he'll be fine," Conor smiled and fanned a paw, "His dad can be tough, but he's a decent guy. He won't come down too hard on…"

Erin cut him off with a wave of her own paw.

"That's not what I mean, Conor; they'll be looking for that boat won't they?" She didn't specify which boat, or who 'they' were. This time he knew exactly what she was talking about.

"Oh yeah…that." He growled, suddenly grim as the reaper. "They'll need to pull the engine and destroy the hull if they know what's good for them."

"You think they will?" Her nose was twitching again.

"Dunno, but I sure would," he shrugged. "Anyway, I can help. I can add a backdated stolen boat report to the ZPD files. Have to talk to Billy's dad first, see if that's what he…"

Erin nearly dropped her fork. "You can still get into the ZPD computer?"

"No comment!" Conor answered hurriedly, looking more than a little flustered. What the heck had he told her THAT for? "Me and my big, fat, fox-trap!"

For a long moment an awkward silence reigned at the table, finally broken when the young doe-bunny cleared her throat.

"Uh what is it with that third door over there?" She was pointing at the last of the three storerooms.

It was an obvious, and clumsy, attempt to change the subject, but Conor went with it almost eagerly.

"I sealed it shut; it's the room where all the guns are kept." That, in his opinion, should have explained everything, but Erin didn't seem to think so.

"Huh?" Her ears were standing tall again, "I mean…I know you can't stand guns, but…"

"It was the only thing I could think of," the young silver fox growled, more than a little exasperated—not with her but with the situation. "You should see what's behind that bad boy." He was aiming a finger of his own at the storeroom 3 door, "The Mister was an arms merchant don't forget. There's enough firepower in there to outfit a small army…or at least a brigade. I can't sell it, and I sure as heck can't toss it. So, I put a lock on the door, welded it shut, and cut the cable to the counterweight."

Erin sucked at a corner of her mouth. "Was all that necessary?"

"Not really," the young silver fox shrugged, "But it makes me feel better."

It was the truth but not the whole truth. If he'd had access to that room when he'd heard what Craig had done to his buddy, Saad…

Well…he hadn't, thank God.

Erin was both pleased and surprised when he insisted upon doing the dishes and putting them away before continuing with the tour. For his part, Conor was not surprised that she insisted upon helping; she was after all, the product of a farm family. Nor did he try to dissuade her; she wasn't exactly a guest here.

With the dishes rinsed and loaded in the washer, they moved on to the laundry room, the briefest stop on the tour so far. Next, they paid a visit to a barrel-shaped sauna-room. "Looks like this got plenty of use," the young doe-bunny noted, poking her head through the door and sniffing around a little.

"Yeah," Conor nodded, "Took some getting used to, but now I take saunas all the time."

"Can I try it?" she asked, surprising him.

"You'll have to get a bathing suit first…but yeah, sure."

"Nah, I'll just wear a towel and take it off when I get inside." Her eyes seemed to narrow, and he couldn't understand why.

"Well, you'll still need one for the Racuzzi," the young silver fox pointed out, wondering why his voice felt quivery.

And what the heck was Snowdrop looking so smug for?

But then, as if she'd suddenly remembered something, her expression vanished as if in a puff of smoke.

"Conor, there's something I need to say," her ears were drooping and she was thumping her foot in an odd manner; one he hadn't seen before. "I'm…sorry for being such a jerk earlier, I…" She looked away, as if overcome by a sudden wave of shyness. And then bracing herself, she met his gaze once more. "I always get cranky when I'm tired and hungry, and…it's been really stressful these last couple of days."

"Yeah…for me too," the young silver-fox answered, cracking a weary smile. "Tell you what," he added, scratching at an ear, "We'll cut the tour short—just two more stops, and then you can go lie down for a while." The truth of the matter was, he probably needed it more than her. She hadn't been rushed in for an emergency medical procedure the other night.

"Sounds great," she answered tiredly…her weariness mitigated by gratitude.

Conor would have thrown a fist in the air if he hadn't been so burned out himself

"Okay, let's hit the computer room first and get you entered into the system."

The 'computer room' wasn't an actual room, but a slightly irregular geodetic igloo, fashioned from what looked like copper straps.

"What now? What is that?" Erin's nose was twitching again, "Another-r-r…what did you call it? Another Furaday Cage? What do you need two of them for?"

"Think of it as the second line of defense." Conor told her, "Anything that manages to get through the outer cage gets caught by the Furrison."

"The wha…?"

"Oops, that's what I call it." He hastily explained. "The Furrison Hotel."

"Ohhhh, okay," her confusion dissolved into a swift stream of giggles. Being a rocker herself, she understood the reference. "Where's the… *snerk,* door, though?"

"Right here," the young silver fox replied, without missing a beat. "Mother, open up the Furrison; Fo-E-N-X Two, Two Three Times One, Nine."

In response to his words, a section of the dome seemed to detach itself and slide sideways like the door of an airliner.

"Wow, awesome," Erin marveled. She was referring not to the doorway but to the set up on the other side. "That looks almost like an x-ray chair." She was pointing towards the hi-backed seat facing an array of different flat-screens.

"Ahhh, it's actually a zero-gravity chair," Conor explained, and then patted his injured knee, "And whoa, can I use this bad boy now. Now c'mon, let's get you registered." He rolled inside the dome, waving for young doe-bunny to follow him."

Luckily for both young mammals, there was more than enough room inside the dome for the two of them, and even the wheelchair. This place had been designed to be accessible by a mammal larger than both of them put together. Erin offered to help the injured young silver fox into the zero-gravity chair, but he insisted he could handle it by himself. And this time at least, he was correct, hoisting himself into it without even a hint of strain.

As always, it took less time than the blink of an eye for the computer to boot up; the screens coming alight so fast, it looked almost like a Christmas display. Conor, however, was only interested in the one facing him.

"Aren't you going to pick a router?" he heard the bunny standing beside the chair asking.

"Nope." He shook his head, "We don't need to go online for this. Now let's see here…"

Working quickly, he accessed 'Control Panel,' and double clicked on, 'Environmental Controls,' then 'Voice Commands,' 'Users,' and finally 'Add New User.'

"Okay," he said, passing her a headset, "When I give the word, say your name, age and species, making sure to speak clearly."

It took no small amount of fiddling on Erin's part to get the headset to fit properly. It wasn't designed for bunnies. Finally, after getting it in place, she nodded that she was ready.

"'Kay," Conor turned to the screen again, "Annnnd…go ahead."

"Erin Hopps…Thirteen…Bunny."

Immediately the screen flashed red and made a buzzing sound, followed by an electronic voice. "Not recognized; please try again."

Conor turned to her again, looking slightly embarrassed "Oops, forgot to mention. It needs your full species."

She thumped her foot but only once. "All right. Erin Hopps, Thirteen, European Cottontail Rabbit."

A query appeared on the screen.

DO YOU WISH TO CONFIRM?

[_] YES [_]NO

Conor clicked on 'Yes' and hit 'Enter,' and then turned to his guest with a smile.

"That's it, you're in."

Exiting the Furrison, he pointed to a set-up resembling a sawed-off phone booth with an array of machinery inside.

This time Erin understood without prompting.

"That's the 3D printer, right?"

"That's it." The young fox nodded, "Okay, one more thing to see and we're done for now."

Their final stop turned out to be upstairs, and to prove that Erin was in the system, Conor let her operate the elevator.

"Mother, second floor please."

Nothing happened; the car remained immobile.

"Wha…? Conor, it didn't work." Her face was a mixture of surprise and disappointment.

"Nah, it worked," He was looking not a little miffed himself, "I forgot how slow this bad-boy is. See? Look."

Erin did and saw that the platform was indeed rising upwards, even though there was no sensation of movement.

"I never use it myself,' he told her, making a throwaway gesture with his paw, "not unless I got something heavy to bring upstairs,"

"What's up there?" the young doe-bunny asked, canting her eyes at the ceiling.

He only winked, "You'll see."

"Pooh!"

But when the doors opened, it was obvious where they were. With a bed that big—emperor, not king-size—this could only be the master bedroom. And if that wasn't enough to convince you, take a look at the plush carpet, oversize flat-screen tv, massage-table, a full-size, not mini fridge, a smaller version of the bathroom downstairs and even a private spa.

"Don't tell me, let me guess," she said, stepping out of the elevator. "This was supposed to be The Misters' bedroom, right?"

Conor lifted a thumb. "Give the bunny-girl a carrot, yep that's right."

"Thought so," she giggled but then abruptly frowned. "Only…why would you put the bedroom for a disabled mammal UP-stairs?"

"Dunno…but I got a theory." the young silver fox grinned wickedly at the thought. "I think Kieran designed it that way on purpose, just to twist The Mister's tail."

"Didn't like him, huh?" Erin was folding her arms.

"Hated his guts," Conor answered flatly, with a dash of venom, "The only reason he was even working for his uncle was coz it was either that…or back to the slam."

"Uh-huh," the young white furred bunny nodded, picking up the bedside clock and giving it a casual inspection, "And now it's your room."

"Not quite," Conor was shaking his head, and then there was that grin again, "Now, it's your room."

Erin nearly dropped the clock.

"What…? I can't…"

But he was already holding up a paw.

"You said it yourself, bunny-girl. This room ain't convenient for a handicapped mammal. And for a while at least, that's me." He slapped the side of the chair. "I can't use the stairs—not without taking a chance on putting an even worse hurt on myself—and I don't wanna use that stupid elevator. So, you might as well sleep here…at least until I heal up some more. And don't worry about me; I crash on the sofa downstairs all the time."

"Well, since you put it that way," Erin's nose was twitching again," Okay, yeah…thanks."

"Ahhh, don't mention it." Conor was fanning a paw. "I…"

He was interrupted by a quick musical interlude, one that seemed to come from everywhere, and nowhere at once.

"♪ Liondon calling
to the faraway towns…" ♫

Erin's ears went up like skyrockets.

"Wha-What the HECK…?"

"That's just Mother," the young silver-fox quickly explained, "Means I've got an incoming message. Prolly a whole bunch of 'em. I've been away from home for a while, y'know," And to the room he said, "Go ahead, Mother."

The response wasn't quite what he expected.

"I have…" a robotic matron's voice informed him. "One…text message for…Erin Hopps…from…Vernon J. Rodenberg."

Conor's paw met with his face at high velocity. "Agggggh, grrrrrr, d'ohhhhh!"

"Wha…What's wrong?" Erin was staring in confusion.

He turned the chair in her direction with a grieved expression on his face. "I was supposed to call him as soon as we got home, but I forgot; dumb fox!" He gave himself another slap. "Ah, I better head downstairs and get hold of him ASAP. Mother, open up the elevator." And then to Erin he said, "You can have her put the message on the flat screen there while I go talk to him."

Her expression became even more puzzled. "Don't you want to know what Mr. Rodenberg's message…?"

"It wasn't addressed to me," he said, waving her off. "Back in a few."

He rolled into the elevator and the doors closed. To tell the truth, it hadn't been entirely out of respect for Erin Hopps' privacy that he had shined on reading the message. Noooo, it was because the rat-attorney's note was almost certainly some kind of legal mumbo-jumbo that had nothing to do with him.

And he didn't have time for that.

It wasn't until he rolled back onto the ground floor that the surprised young silver fox realized he'd gotten it wrong—horribly, spectacularly wrong. From up the stairs he could hear the sound Erin was making, coming in loud and clear.

She was crying.

He spun the wheelchair in a fast 180. "Mother, hold the elevator door."

---

Author's Note: RIP Ozzy Osbourne

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of The Fire Triangle -- A Zootopia Fanfiction