Ferreted Away by Gwen Mitchell

The clacking of Charlene’s high heels echoed down the narrow cement hallway as she followed behind the burly institution guard.  He ambled along, frequently looking over his lump of a shoulder to ogle her.  She gave him a saccharine smile every time and put an extra flutter in her lashes, which almost had him tripping over his own feet.  Distracted was good.

When they’d reached the halfway point, he hunched over and fumbled with the jangling loop of keys on his belt.  Charlene pulled a small compact mirror out of her gaudy pink shoulder bag and pretended to check her hair and make-up. The guard didn’t notice the tiny red light on the camera at the end of the hall behind them winking out.  So far, so good, she thought, and snapped the compact closed.

“You’ll have ten minutes darlin’.”  He pushed the heavy metal door open for her.  “Give ‘im a good one.”

“Oh, don’t worry.”  Charlene slid by him and tapped her fingers on his chest three times, as if she were brushing away crumbs.  “I will.”

Samuel, according to his nametag, gave her a crooked, cross-eyed grin as his eyes glassed over with the haze of her dream spell.  He was present, but already light-years away.  Too easy.  She slipped into the visitation room and the door clanged shut behind her.

Another intrusive camera perched on the ceiling in the far corner.  With a flick of her wrist, that camera too, went out.  The scent of pine cleaner assaulted her as she locked eyes with Harold for the first time in months.  The love of her life blinked up at her in bewilderment, sallow and scruffy, wrapped in a pristine white straightjacket.

“Harold, it’s me,” she said, her voice breaking.  Shock, and then understanding dawned across his features.  Charlene stumbled forward and lunged into his lap, squeezing him tight and covering his face and neck with kisses.  She ran her hands down his back and the buckles and straps restraining him slithered loose.

“You shouldn’t have come here!” Harold choked out before wrapping his arms around her and smothering her with a heated mash of lips.

“Did you really think I would leave you to rot in a drab old dump like this?”  Charlene scoffed, then stood up and tugged her too-tight skirt down.

“No.”  He chuckled.  “So what sort of plan have you cooked up?”

“We walk out,” Charlene answered, grinning.

“Simple as that?”

“Well . . . not precisely,” she admitted, drawing a small purple vial from her bag.  Before Harold could utter a word in protest, she threw it onto the white tile floor at his feet.  It burst, emitting a green vapid cloud that swirled around the figure of Harold, sparkled, and then dissipated.

“I’m sorry, darling.”  Charlene sighed as she scooped up the small ferret that lay curled where Harold had stood. “It really was the easiest solution.”

She dropped the squirming bundle into her bag. “You can change back in the car.”

***

Samuel gave Charlene a vacant smile as she exited.  She cast a suggestion that he needed to relieve himself, and he sidled further toward the interior of the building.  She tossed her hair over her shoulder and smiled as she passed the front desk clerk, still engrossed in his television program.

Her purse jostled when she stepped through the outer door and into the glaring sunlight.  “Harold, not yet,” she mumbled, crushing the bag to her side.

She reached her rented red convertible and the front doors of the Hyde Grove Asylum flew open.  Three orderlies armed with stun guns toppled onto the lawn.

Charlene hopped over the car door and tossed her bag – and Harold – into the passenger seat.  “Hold on, dear.””

She honked and bullied her way through the crowded drive, narrowly missing an old man in a wheel chair, who flipped her the finger in her rearview mirror.  The tires squealed as she floored the gas down the tree-lined straightaway off the grounds.  They skidded by the gatehouse, spitting gravel as wrought iron jaws closed behind them.

Harold poked his head out, a fretful look in his beady black eyes.

“I suppose you could have done better?”

His head bobbed once and he squeaked, holding up the nugget of caramel she’d filled with the counter-potion.

“Yes, that’s it.”  She grabbed her sunglasses from under him and put them on.  He set to work on the candy.

A few minutes later, Harold emerged from the abandoned gas station’s bathroom looking much more like himself, and not simply because he was human again.  The droop in his shoulders had fled and his stride was confident as he crossed the empty lot.

Charlene leaned against the hood of Harold’s old silver Volvo and braced for the lecture she knew was coming: She shouldn’t have taken such a risk, should have planned better, should have had help.  Harold had a tendency to forget that she wasn’t his starry-eyed pupil anymore.  And he often focused so much on principle that he neglected facts.  Like how her plan had worked.

She straightened, about to point that out, but he bowled over her argument with a heart-stopping grin.

“Ah, there’s my girl.”  He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close.  “You don’t know how glad I am to see you.”

His gaze danced over her face, free of glamour, and her cheeks flamed.  “I do like the blond though.  Maybe you could keep it for a while,” he murmured, then captured her lips before she could retort.

“Now,” Harold said, smoothing her hair, “please tell me the hotel is nearby.”

Charlene narrowed her eyes at him.  “You mean you’re not going to point out everything I did wrong?  Perhaps I got the wrong ferret.”

“Solitary confinement can change a man,” he replied, jutting out his chin.  “Animal transformation’s a tough potion.  I should be proud.”

“Yes, you should.”  She slid her arms around his neck and stifled a laugh.  “You’ve got fur behind your ear.”

“Hm.  Perhaps you still need some tutoring after all.”

Charlene shook her head and leaned into him.  “Kiss me again, you rascal.”

THE END

© Gwen Mitchell 2010

Author Bio:

When not studying science and philosophy at the UW or otherwise cavorting through the Emerald City, Gwen can be found at her favorite Starbucks drawing off of the shifting grey skies of the Pacific Northwest to write dark paranormal stories, which don’t always end happily but leave her characters satisfied none the less.

You can learn more about Gwen by visiting her website at: www.gwenmitchell.com