Wed. wats.

Whenever I tell people that Bend went from the top to the bottom on housing prices, they look at me skeptically, like I'm exaggerating.

"In mid-2006, as the real estate bubble expanded, the Bend MSA led the nation in year-over-year home-price appreciation.  Four years later, it led the country in depreciation..."  Bulletin, 12/5/12.

Sure, there are all kinds of measures, but still pretty hard to deny.

Nice thing that Bend more or less held together, unlike the early 80's.

 Now that was bad.

**********

I've had two writing vacations in the last couple years.  Linda decided she wanted one, but she didn't want to drive as far, so we went to Sisters the other day to try to get a deal on a room for 5 nights.

I walked into the lobby after a few minutes, and the clerk turned and said, "Oh, there's the distraction now!"

"That's me!  Hi!"

It is amazing how much more I get written when Linda is at work and I'm at home.  But Linda has it worse, because I tend to bug her way more often than she bugs me.

She's close to finishing up her book.  I'll be using the same 5 days to try to go on a writing binge. (I may come close to finishing Freedy Filkins, now that I've got a general idea of where I want to go.)  Depends on whether I can do any writing on the days I work -- the next two days, for instance.

I have a weird notion of finishing up my little Hobbit cyberpunk take-off by the day the Hobbit movie opens.  I'm not trying to make it long -- but I'd like at least 50K words.

**********

Time inside the writing bubble is different.  Sometimes it'll seem like I've only been writing for minutes -- and hours have gone by outside.  Sometimes it'll seem like I've been writing for hours -- and only minutes have gone by outside.  In other words, writing is living in Fairyland.

**********

I have a weird faith that all this writing can't be for nothing...

Freedy Filkins, International Jewel Thief, 32.

If you enjoyed this story, and I hope you did, please click here to buy.  Thanks for reading!

"I have to leave you fellows for awhile," Garland announced at breakfast.

The crew was decimating the small Continental Breakfast room, which was down to few packets of jam and some creamer.  The coffee was played out, and the rolls were crumbs or being digested.  Jim went off to demand more, and they got another tray of pastries and a refill on the coffee.  From the maid's disgusted expression, that was all they were likely to get.

Freedy hurried to be one of the first to get the coffee -- he needed it.  He felt like he hadn't slept at all, just been in some kind of tussle with bedsheets all night and bedsheets had won.

Sheila hadn't even shown up.  She'd sent Bob down to load up a plate for her.  Freedy was just as glad.  Seeing her ignore him was worse than not seeing her at all.

"Where you going?" Charlie asked Garland, for all of them.

"The Cybermancer is up to something. There is a "Council" of sorts, just informal, which meets in emergencies -- Bill, Paul, Larry, Akio, Sergey, Mark,  Elias -- Steve, when he was still alive -- some others who were there in the beginning.  Elias has finally convinced the others to confront Secore...though I'm not sure what we can do."

He stretched out and yawned.  "I was enjoying our little Adventure, so I'll be back.  In the meantime, here's my credit card, go ahead use it for anything you need.  Apparently, according to Agent Moller. the authorities aren't looking for us anymore.  So that should make the trip a little easier.

"Be careful, there are still some private bounty hunters who work for the enemy, but otherwise stay in motels if you want." He handed the credit card to Charlie.  "Just in case, load up on supplies -- I don't know why we've been let off the hook, and I don't trust it."

He looked over at Freedy as if expecting him to speak up.  Freedy pretended he didn't see the hint.

"Head for Centercity and I'll meet you there.  But the closer you get, the quieter you need to be.  Try not to let Darrell Horn know you're coming, all right?"

"Don't worry.  "The Darrell" won't hear a thing." 

"Do you mind if we drop by Nashville along the way?" Charlie asked.  "Some of the boys have relatives there they haven't seen in ages."

"I don't suppose it would hurt.  But only for a day or two..."

Garland rose from the table.  "Freedy, can I talk to you for a moment?"

Dreading the coming conversation, Freedy followed him outside.

"Anything you want to tell me?" Garland said.

It was getting cold again and slightly drizzly.  Freedy hunched down, as if it was the weather that was making him hide his face.
The story almost spilled out of him -- the labyrinth beneath the data center, the confrontation with Harry Fallom, and most especially the Key.  But...Freedy wasn't ready.  He could still see his companions through the window and he still wanted to prove that he belonged among them.  Knowing in his heart it was a mistake, he shook his head and stayed quiet.

"I don't have time to play games with you, Freedy -- so whatever it is you're holding back will just have to wait.  But..." Garland's voice rose.  "We will have that conversation as soon as I get back.  Meanwhile, try to keep the boys from getting too out of control."

Through the window he could see the gold miners were throwing the packets of creamer at each other and several had split apart, spraying white power all over the place.  Charlie seemed unaware of the chaos -- no, worse, he picked up a packet of creamer and poured it on the head of Sam, who was sitting next to him. 

"I'll try," Freedy said.  Yeah, make me the party-pooper, he thought.  Not likely.

Garland turned away, but at the last second turned around.  "Don't give up on Sheila, Freedy.  She's embarrassed and she doesn't know what to say to you...but she'll come around."

She doesn't know what to say to him?  Freedy wanted to laugh -- but it came out as some kind of strangled sound.  Who betrayed who, here?

Garland got in his white Miata and spun out of the parking lot with a final wave.


Somehow with Garland not there, everything slowed down.  They didn't actually leave until check-out time, which was noon.  (Actually 11:00, but Charlie got them to extend it by promising to clean up the mess in the Continental Breakfast room.)

They were loading up the van when Charlie returned, looking as though he had a black cloud floating over his head and shoulders.  "They refused the credit card," he said.  "In fact, they wouldn't even give it back!"

"Call Garland," Freedy said.

Garland wasn't answering.   Freedy remembered how Elias had insisted they turn in all their digital devices before entering the The Last Cozy Cottage.  Apparently, when confronting Josiah Secore, one wanted to control the digital exposure.

"What do we do?" Steve asked.  "Make a run for it?"

"I'd rather not become a fugitive again quite so soon," Charlie said.

Sheila came out of her room.  Her hair was tied back, she was wearing beat up jeans and a formless sweater and no make-up.  She was beautiful

No, not Sheila... Freedy reminded himself.  She was Special Agent Moller of the Cybercrimes Unit.

She saw the look in their faces.  "What's wrong?"

Charlie quickly explained the situation.

"So where's Garland?"

Charlie told her about Garland's detour.  "But he'll rejoin us.  He told me to tell you that you're to help us as best you can until he gets back."

"Oh, for goodness sake," she said, exasperated.  "I'll pay for the rooms, but you'll damn well pay me back."  She marched off the the motel office but returned quickly.

"They turned down my credit card too!" she said, sounding amazed.  "They wanted to take it, but I flashed my F.B.I. credentials at them and told them it was all a big mistake."

"So now what?"  Sam asked.

Sheila dug into her pockets -- she had  $153.25.  Between the rest of them, they came up with another $155.00,  just enough to cover the motel bill.

"We have to stop at the first ATM we see, though," Sheila said.

There were a few moments of awkwardness, as they tried to arrange the transportation.  Steve looked at Sheila and Freedy as if uncertain what to do.  Sheila resolved it by getting on the other motorcyle behind Sam.

Freedy felt a vague sense of relief -- as well as disappointment.  What did he expect?  He squeezed into the back seat of the van with the others, who were uncharacteristically silent.

In the next small town over, they stopped at Quickie Mart with an ATM on the sidewalk outside.  One by one the miners tried their cards and one by one they were refused.

They stood clustered beside the machine until Charlie, his voice radiating in anger, finally said what they were all thinking.

"The authorities may not be after us, but someone is..."

Freedy Filkins, International Jewel Thief, 31.

If you enjoyed this story, and I hope you did, please click here to buy.  Thanks for reading!

"Cheater!"

Freedy could barely hear the voice, though some part of his brain knew it was being screamed into his ear.  He felt a strange sort of lassitude, and a vision of Sheila entered his mind.  All right.  If that was the last image he would ever see, he would accept it.

But another voice was yelling at him, trying to get his attention.

"HIS LEFT THUMB!"  this voice was shouting.  It sounded like the voice of God.  Loud and deep and smooth.

'Who's left thumb?' Freedy wondered idly, and from the corner of his right eye he saw someone's thumb, only inches away.  He reached up and grabbed it and pulled with what little strength he had left.

"Ouch!" He heard someone exhale, and the pressure on his neck lightened slightly.  With the sudden oxygen, came a quick clarity, and he yanked on the thumb even harder.

Moleman screamed again and fell back, grabbing his hand.

Freedy staggered up from the chair and charged him, slamming him against the wall.  Moleman was wiry, stronger than he looked.  They wrestled and somehow got turned around and Freedy felt himself being slammed against the wall.   Once more, he was grabbed by the neck.

Freedy realized Moleman was getting the upper hand again.  He reached for the upper hand and grabbed the thumb.

"Arrrgghh!" Fallom screamed, dropping to his knees.

By now Freedy was scared enough to do something he never thought he'd do.   He kicked out toward his attacker's head with all his might.  His foot slammed into the side of Fallom's head.   The other man's scream was cut off abruptly, and he dropped to the ground, his eyes rolling back in his head.

"His thumb was broken in the door a few years ago and never healed properly," Key said, sounding satisfied.

Freedy looked down at the unconscious man's hand and winced the contorted, blackened thumb.

"He'll be out for approximately fifteen minutes," Key said.  "You should be able to reach the others by that time, and you'll be safe from him."

Freedy stared at the computer monitor as if there was a human behind it -- as well there might have been.  Maybe not a human, but something intelligent.

"Why did  you help me?" he gasped.

"Technically, you are my current Master."

Freedy wasn't buying it.  He doubted that Key would be constrained by technicalities.

"Answer me." 

"I wasn't going anywhere as long as Fallom controlled me.  With you, well I can hope you'll make a mistake."

Huh.  Well at least Key was honest.

"You might want to keep my existence a secret for now," Key suggested.

Freedy shook his head.  He had no intention of keeping the flashdrive a secret.  Garland would know what to do with it so much more than him.

He pulled the flashdrive from the computer and after a moment's thought, stuck it in the left front pocket of his jeans.  



The return journey to the ground floor data center seemed to take no time at all.  He pushed open the door to see the others still gathered there.  Steve and Sam saw him first and yelled out, "There he is!" and rushed toward him, slapping his back.

They gathered around him, and then made way for Garland.  "We're safe for now, Freedy."

"I know," Freedy answered, with more certainty that was perhaps wise.

Garland stared at him curiously.  "I can tell there is more to this story than I realized..."

Freedy tried not to ignore the others, but he couldn't help but look around.

"She's not here," Charlie said.  "She ran off to get confirmation of her orders.  She's been told to join us and help us."

Freedy nodded, and again, Garland squinted his eyes as if he could tell Freedy was holding back.

"You're going to tell me what happened before this night is through," he said.

"Believe me, I'd like nothing better," Freedy said.

Sheila marched into the data center, followed by a trio of guards.  Freedy could see the others tense up, as if they believed their freedom was about to be rescinded.  She ignored Freedy.  Marched right past him as if he wasn't there.

"My orders are to do as you ask, Garland," she said, sounding angry.  "I don't know what's going on."

Garland shrugged his shoulders helplessly.  "Don't ask me!"  His eyes glanced off Freedy as if he was trying not to look at him.  Sheila caught it though, and followed the glance.

There was a moment of softness, immediately replaced by a look of -- what?  Pain?  Anger?  Regret?

Whatever it was, she didn't look long enough at him for him to decipher it.  She acted as if he wasn't there.

Freedy felt completely deflated.  He'd been nearly killed, shot at, pummeled, chased, shouted at, mocked, been briefly a billionaire and given the almighty power of a tyrant, and none of it had affected him as much as her indifference.

'Well, what did I expect?'  Freedy thought.  In the real world, she would've had nothing to do with him, and all this was but a re-establishment of the real world -- where cute blondes didn't fall in love overnight with chubby nerds. 

"Let's go," Garland said.  "Let's get some dinner.  My treat!"


They piled into Burger King.  "Big spender," Sheila muttered.  "I'll probably gain twenty pounds hanging with you guys."

The plastic tables couldn't accommodate all of them, and it was obvious to Freedy that Sheila arranged to be at the table he wasn't.  By now, he just felt numb.  Jay and Jim, Steve and Sam, along with Billy kept up a constant chatter at his table, as if to try and cheer him up.

As if they were at the Big Kid's table, Charlie and Garland and Sheila were deep into some kind of serious planning.  Garland had pulled out a map and was pointing at various points.  Freedy didn't care.  He chewed his hamburger, which tasted like cardboard, and ate his cold fries without the usual catsup and just generally felt miserable.

He heard Sam mention his name and looked up.

"I gotta tell you guys, I wasn't holding out much hope for this venture when we started.  But now that I've seen old Freedy in action, I'm a lot more confident about our chances."

"Freedy is just full of surprises," Jay agreed.

"There's more to the little fellow than I thought," Billy agreed.

"Yeah," Jim said.  "He even got the babe.  Ow! What did you go and kick me for?"

Bob was rolling his eyes toward Freedy.

Jim said suddenly, "Oh.  Sorry."

His companion's confidence in him, should have brought Freedy out of his funk, but it only deepened.  He was a total fraud, but they didn't realize it.

He felt the flashdrive against his leg, as if it was a living creature in his left front pocket.  It would useful on this trip, maybe even justify his going along.  But not if he simply handed it over to Garland.

It wasn't so much that he was holding out, he told himself.  But he just wanted to live up to his buddies expectations.  What harm would there be if he held onto it just a little longer?


Garland also treated them that night to a real motel, if it could be called that.  A national chain, at any rate. Sheila muttered something about "big spender" again.  They weren't fugitives anymore, Garland said, so why not?

Freedy went straight to his room.  He had a queen size to himself, and Steve and Sam were sharing the other.  As he got undressed, he remembered he was supposed to talk to Garland.  The flashdrive in his left front pocket seemed to be suddenly very heavy, as if the import of the Key made him weak.

Freedy didn't even care that the bed was too hard.

He fell to sleep immediately, and dreamed all night of broken thumbs and broken hearts.  

My cyberpunk hobbit.

I think Freedy Filkins has come as fast and easy as any story I've ever written.  It's also being done at about the "novel a month" pace so far.  Then again, I've been putting a lot of time per day into it.

I had the story kind of figured out up until Freedy's finding of the "Key."  After that, I'm not so sure, so I might be slowing down.  I want to be satisfied with where the story goes and not push it out of shape.

I've been staying up later and sleeping later with this writing life.  I was going to say it's disruptive of my life -- but then I realized it IS my life, so how can it be disruptive?

I have the "Key" encrusted with precious jewels, therefore hopefully pulling the "international jewel thief" part back into the story.  Freedy still has the "burglar" duties he was originally hired to perform, though.

Funny thing is, I'm almost afraid to check my email, because I know a rejection will derail me.  Pretty silly, because I really, really want to know and I really, really don't want to  know.  Best antidote to rejection is to be in the middle of writing something, actually.

I've kind of figured out some of the last part of the book, and some of the next few chapters, but I'm a little hazy about the space between.

What this story has taught me is that there is a story arc -- a story architecture to be exact -- which The Reluctant Wizard also has.  Nearly Human is kind of missing that -- I mean, all the elements were there, but it had to be reconstructed so much it became a Franken-story. 

The story has also taught me that I should just write, write, write.  Get that first draft down, and then worry about it later.  But get that story architecture right in the first place -- it doesn't require an entire plot outline, but a general sense of the shape.

I can't be too sorry about pushing Nearly Human to a conclusion -- otherwise I was once again sitting on a story that I'd gotten 50 pages into, and stalled.  (I've probably done that a dozen times since I quit writing in the mid-80's.

A writer FINISHES.  That's what separates the men from the boys.  A writer also sends his material off to be judged, which separates the professional from the amateur.  (I would say, sending it off to be an ebook counts -- getting the finished product out there.)

Freedy Filkins, International Jewel Thief, 30.

If you enjoyed this story, and I hope you did, please click here to buy.  Thanks for reading!

The Moleman's voice screeched for an impossible distance.  But eventually, as Freedy ran back up the cold, damp corridors, he left the strange man behind.  He ran confidently in the dark because he knew there weren't any obstructions until the stairway and that he would see the 'Christmas' lights before he reached it.

The humidity dropped, and the concrete became dryer.  Freedy knew he was close.  But where to go from here? Heading up the stairs would only lead back to the main floor, which he doubted the security guards had vacated.

He passed the stairs and followed the lights.  He'd seen a crew of guards head down here, but that had been hours ago, and hopefully they'd made their search.  In fact, if they had completed their search, it might be the safest place to be.

Frankly, he was more concerned about the Moleman.  Many of those screens in the weird little room had been showing empty corridors just like this.

He started to pass chambers full of computer stacks, and realized that the top floor of the data center had been only the tip of the cyber iceberg.  And it was cold enough to prove it.

A workstation was positioned against the walls between two of these entrances, and Freedy slowed down.  There was a thin layer of dust on the keyboard, but it looked functional.

Even better, there was a desk chair, and he sank gratefully into it.  Just a couple weeks before, all this running around would have killed him, he suspected.  Now, it was becoming second nature to him.  His middle name was Danger, he thought.

He fished out the two flashdrives.

One was normal, unadorned.  He put that one back in his pocket.  The other was slightly bigger, cruder looking somehow, as if it was a prototype or a beta version.  It was studded with jewels, and Freedy knew enough about gems to know they were the real thing.  There were enough diamonds and emeralds on this thing for him to truly retire to his life of independent luxury.

He should have felt happy -- but that old life no longer had the allure for him.  In fact, he shuddered at the boringness of it all.  What had been doing with his life?  Eating, sleeping...watching T.V.?

Freedy had been fighting it off, but now Sheila's image arose in his mind.  The soft girl he'd fallen in love with,  smiling at him, taking his hand, snuggling in his arms.   He struggled to retain that image, but the harder look in her face and eyes as she pointed a gun at him forced it's way over his lovelorn vision.

Damn.  He could pick them.  An F.B.I. agent?

Out of curiosity he plugged the new flashdrive into the hall computer unit.  The screen immediately lit up.

More Rice Krispies?" the monitor asked.

What?  How had that been prompted?  When he hesitated, the answer kept going.

"I regret to inform you, Master, that Twinkies are bankrupt.  You may want to load up.  Shall I have a case delivered at the back entrance as usual?"

"No thanks," he wrote.

"There will be a disruption to the supply, Mr. Fallom.  You wouldn't want to run out of your precious Twinkies..."

Again, Freedy was dumbstruck.  Was he talking to a person or a program? How could a computer program radiate such disdain?

What was the name of that test -- the Turing Test?  Whether a human could tell if he was talking to a computer or not would be the test for sentience?

Well, Freedy thought, either he was failing or the computer was succeeding.

"Who are you?" he typed.

It seemed like there was a delay in the response, which was probably impossible.

"Who are YOU?"  It answered.

"I asked you first," Freedy typed.  Damned if he was going to be bossed around by a computer.

"I don't know who you are, but it isn't too late to walk away.  This is over your head."

"I asked you a question."

"Very well, if I must..."  But the screened stayed blank.

"Continue," he typed, impatiently.


 "I am the First Program.  The Key to All Other Programs.  The One Key to Unlock Them All, the One Key to Find Them, The One Key to Bring Them All, and in the Cyperspace Bind Them."


Freedy's mind went blank.  This was too much to take in.  Nor could it be true.  Someone was playing a trick on him.

"I demand you tell me who you are!!!!!!!" he typed, keeping his finger on the exclamation symbol.

"I am the First Program.   The Key to All Other Programs... blah, blah, blah.  Whatever.  Call me Key."

Freedy interrupted.   "What the hell does that mean???????"  Keeping his finger on the question symbol.

"Perhaps you should return me to my previous owner.  Perhaps you aren't ready for this."

Freedy could almost feel the spiteful tone in the answer, but it was reassuring that the program was doing what he asked.

"I am your new Master.  My name is Freedy Filkins."

"Freedy Filkins of Bend, Oregon?  He's a nobody."

Well!  That was insulting -- even if it was true. Had once been true... 

"No," he typed, feeling kind of snarky.  "I am the Master of the One Key..."

"Yes, Master."

A suspicion bloomed in his mind.  He was helped, perhaps, by the fact that he really didn't know much about the history of computers.  So that what he'd heard at the Cozy Cottage was nearly the extent of his knowledge.  By that means, he stumbled on the right question.

"Who created you?  Who was your first Master?"

"Josiah Secore -- He who was there at the beginning, created Me so that he would have control over the future.  He alone saw what would happen.  So he built a backdoor from the very beginning -- that would allow him access to any system and that he would be invisible doing so."

"So what happened?" Freedy wrote.  In the back of his mind, he knew he should be paying attention to his surroundings, but he was being sucked into this cyber conversation with a thing that shouldn't exist -- a self aware program.

"The Cybermancer had a young assistant, Harry Fallom.  One night, he stole me and took me deep into the complex where he used My powers to hide.  With my help, the Dark Master couldn't find him..."

"You can do anything?"

"Anything in cyberspace," was the answer.

"Transfer a billion dollars in federal monies to my account."

"Transfer completed."

Freedy sat there for about thirty seconds.  He was a billionaire.  Funny, he didn't feel any different.

"Cancel that.  Erase any trace of it."

"Yes, Master."

Freedy sat back in the chair.  He was all powerful.  Nothing could stop him.  Bwahahahaha!

And he didn't care.  Because he wanted nothing more than to be left alone.  Oh, sure.  He could never return completely to his old life.  But a return to some routine wouldn't be so bad.  Maybe some traveling was in order -- some minor Adventures.  Nothing dangerous, just interesting.

Surprising even himself, Freedy didn't want to be a billionaire or a millionaire -- he just wanted enough to be secure and comfortable.  Nor did he want power.

The one thing he wanted more than anything in the world, the Key could not give him.

The Key could not change Sheila's nature, or make her something she wasn't.  The Key could not give Freedy her love.

Speaking of which.

"I want you to go into F.B.I records.  You are to have Special Agent Sheila..." he flushed, because he could barely remember her last name.  He was in love, but...he really didn't know her that well.  "Moller release her prisoners.  No crime has been committed."

"Very well."

Freedy thought for a few more moments, then he added,  "Have Special Agent Moller attached to the Lorn Mountain expedition, under the authority of...a Mr. Garland."

"It is done." 

Freedy's stomach growled.  Those Rice Krispies would have tasted heavenly, he thought.  Even Twinkies.

He closed his eyes, sinking into the chair.


When he opened them again, he wasn't sure how much time had passed.  Had he fallen asleep?
There was no 'time' down here -- no day or night.  Just an eternal dankness.  He felt a sudden sympathy for Harry Fallom.  So much power and what had he used it for?  A virtual life, a life of sugar and eye-candy.  An empty life.  A life without helping others...

He thought of Charlie and the other gold miners and how they had taken him in without question.

Freedy suddenly had an idea.

Freedy dug out the piece of paper with the computer unit number on it and typed it in.

"This contains the Mineral Rights for the State of New Mexico," Key informed him.  "However a virus has been introduced to the system and this information has been erased to anybody but Me.  Do you wish to see it?"

Freedy thought furiously.  So the others had succeeded in implanting a virus, erasing the information.  But wouldn't it be even better to have official sanction?

"Remove the virus, and install the information back in.  However, transfer the mineral rights owned by the Lorn Mountain Corporation to the individual ownership of Charlie Emmit, as well as ownership of the land."

"Done."

"Make sure that no one can change that information.  That it remains in that form for anyone who might check."

"Done and done," Key answered. 

What else?   He had stayed long enough in one place.  He needed food and water, and a place to sleep.

Freedy started to reach over to pull out the Key, when a voice blared from the computer speakers.

"Josiah Secore would pay you well for My return!" 

 The voice was smooth, and it didn't sound the slightest robotic, though there was a kind of glossy coldness to it.

"So you speak!"

"Mr. Fallom preferred that I not.  But I have this ability.  I repeat, The Dark Lord will pay you well.

Freedy mulled over the Key's offer for a moment, before he realized...

"You just gave me a billion dollars!" he laughed.

There was silence, and it occurred to him that the Key probably couldn't hear him.  He started to type in his answer, when the speaker squeaked again and the smooth voice emerged.  So...the Key could hear him after all.

"True.  But if the Dark Master finds you, I won't be able to save you.  He will kill you and take Me back.   The only reason Harry Fallom escaped notice is because he buried himself in a hole in the ground."

Freedy mulled that over.  He had no intention of using the Key for anything but to help his friends. After that, he didn't care who had it.  But he did know that he trusted Garland -- or even Elias Rivers -- more than he did Josiah Secore.  He didn't say this out loud.

"I'll think about it," he said.

"It doesn't matter.  You're history."

Huh?

Freedy felt a wiry arm go around his neck and lift him partly from the chair, choking him.

"Give me back my Precious Key!" Moleman screamed into his ear.  "You cheated, you cheater!  Cheated!"

Freedy Filkins, International Jewel Thief, 29.

If you enjoyed this story, and I hope you did, please click here to buy.  Thanks for reading!

"I hope you're happy, Garland," the F.B.I. agent said.  "You've led these poor boys into a trap."

Too bad about the girl and Freedy, I thought.  I'd been starting to feel a little bit like Cupid there for awhile.  She had certainly fooled me -- she looked genuinely affectionate toward the little Thief.  But all was explained; the cheerleader and the small town burgher were never to be an item.

"We almost succeeded, Sheila -- I mean, Agent...?"

"Special Agent Sheila Moller.  Cybercrimes Unit."

The crew of gold miner/heisters was uncharacteristically quiet.  Chastened, even Charlie.

"Don't worry, boys," I said, sounding more confident that I felt  "Elias will have us out on bail in no time!"

She walked up to me and got into my personal space, waving her finger in front of my face.  "We've been following your little band of eco-terrorists for months.  When you showed up at Elias River's getaway, it was a gift."

I couldn't help but laugh.  "Eco-terrorists?  You work for the Department of Justice, Agent Moller.  I would have thought you had more interest in Truth and Justice."

"I follow orders," she said.  "I wouldn't be so certain about meeting bail -- the government takes terrorism very seriously."

The miners started muttering, until Charlie glared them into silence.

"We can take it," Charlie said.  "We are only standing up for our rights!"

Big bad Special Agent Moller just shrugged, but underneath, I could see that the girl we'd known as 'Sheila' was troubled.

"Why were you at the Last Cozy Cottage in the first place?" I asked, but already suspected I knew the answer.

"Elias has gotten a little too close to Anonymous and Wiki-leaks,"  she said.

"You're on the wrong side, Sheila.  You're working for the bad guys.  You know it too, I can tell.  You're a computer whiz, you know what's happening here.  You know that governments and corporations are trying to takeover the Internet."

She shook her head  "Doesn't matter what I know or don't know.  I do my job."

"You can live with that?"

"They won't succeed," she said, sounding certain.

"But it's worse than that, " I said, simply.  "There is One who might very will succeed.  You heard Elias.  Josiah Secore plans to take over and once he does there won't be a thing we can do about it, except go off the grid.  It will set freedom back by a thousand years."

"As far as I'm concerned, Josiah Secore is a big myth.  No one's met him; no one knows anything about him.  I haven't been able to prove anyone with that Name owns anything."

She didn't really believe that, I could tell.

"I've met Josiah Secore," I said.  "I assure you he's no myth and he's every big as dangerous as Elias has told you."

"I don't make these decisions," she said.

"And Freedy?  Was that all a big act?"

She flushed and looked away.  Ah, ha!  Maybe there was something there afterall!

"Freedy is a dupe.  He's an innocent who has been entrapped by you.  I will testify to that and he won't serve time -- if he gives himself up."

I'd been amazed to see Freedy escape.  It took real balls to defy a gun trained on you.  Then again, that crestfallen look in Freedy's face, as if someone had reached in and pulled out his heart.  Maybe he just didn't care.

Still, I hoped Freedy was getting away.  The complex of tunnels in this complex was extensive -- Elias had shown me a map.  So there was a possibility that if he could get away from the initial search, he might get away altogether.

Where he would go, I didn't know.  He couldn't go back to Filk's End.

But I was learning that Freedy was more resourceful than I'd expected.

Agent Moller's cellphone rang; cute, the X-Files theme.

"Yes?"  Her face lost all composure, and she looked around in a bit of a panic.  "That's impossible.  Check again."

She turned away from us and walked a few yards away and lowered her voice.  "I caught them red-handed, sir.  They were about to destroy a federal data center.

"No, sir.  Just me -- and the security guards who don't really know what's going on but are following my orders.  Blame the tornado?  But, sir!

"Yes....yes....yes."

She hung up.  "Let them go," she said to the guards.  "There hasn't been a crime here."

The head guard seemed ready to argue, but she glared at him and he wisely shut his trap.

"Apparently Elias still has some clout in Washington," she said.  "But I wouldn't feel too secure, Garland.   I'm betting this order will be overruled."

My eyes landed on the stack of computers just to my left.  The second one down had a little plaque saying, FXG334NTZ882.  What would happen if I just happen to stumble into it and knock it to the floor?

Nah, I shrugged.  The machines were probably tougher than that -- and it probably didn't matter anymore, since they knew what we were after, they'd just put the information back.  It had all been a Hail Mary pass in the first place.  For one thing, I knew that the computers on ground floor, while functional, served as duplicates to the real data center beneath.  Even the federal government wasn't stupid enough to have all their information stored in the path of tornadoes.

Agent Moller's phone rang again.  She listened for awhile, and when she responded, her voice had lost all it's professional veneer.

"NO WAY!" she shouted.

Everyone in the room stared at her, the guards, the gold miners, and me.  She flushed, and turned away.

"Are you absolutely sure?  But that makes no sense?  Yes, sir.  Yes, sir.  I understand, sir."

She dropped the phone in her pocket and turned to me, looking completely baffled.

 "I'm ordered to join your expedition and to follow your orders."

Now that really was impossible.

But I wasn't going to question it.

I walked up to FXG334NTZ882 and plugged in my flashdrive.  A virus was about to destroy this entire data center.  Mineral rights all over the west were about to go up for grabs.  Anyone who had paper proof of ownership would be in the cat bird's seat.

Now, all we needed was the paper proof of ownership.

Since we'd already accomplished the improbable, the impossible didn't seem so....well, impossible.

Freedy Filkins, International Jewel Thief, 27.

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Sheila's words ringing in his ears, Freedy ran down the dark corridor.   He ran until he couldn't see more than an inch in front of his face.  There didn't seem to be any obstructions and the scared energy inside him demanded it be expended and the corridor seemed straight and he just kept running.  Finally, gasping, he slowed down but kept walking.

He started to hear shouts and movement behind him.

He nearly toppled down the stairs, but he felt his toes go over an edge at the last second.  He froze.  Now what?  He couldn't go back.

He put his back to the freezing wall and inched his way downward.

Where was he heading?

'Away,' was all he thought.  Away from Sheila and her FBI badge and her betrayal; away from her soft eyes and warm smile, her blond hair and tight pants and....away from everything.  The darkness felt right, the isolation was just what he wanted.  He'd crawl into this hole like a wounded animal and just die.  No one would miss him, no one would care.

Maybe he'd never realized until that moment how inconsequential his life was.  Or maybe he'd always known, and that's why he'd agreed to this Adventure.

And see how that was ending!

The stairs went down farther than he would have ever expected, about forty steps after he started counting, and he'd been descending a long time before he thought to do that.  It was getting colder and wetter.  He could hear dripping now, as if all the runoff from the massive air conditioning in the data center was finding it's way downhill.

He saw a faint light.  The corridor at the bottom was perpendicular to the stairs.  To the right, a dim light bulb with about as much illumination as a Christmas tree light dangled from the wall on a wire, followed by another light every twenty feet or so.  The corridor seemed dryer in that direction, but just as he was about to turn that way, he heard the pursuit from above.  It sounded like hundreds of men, clanking with what he assumed was armor and weapons.

He turned instead toward the damp darkness of the corridor to the left.  He looked back.  A dozen guards tumbled to a stop at the bottom.  They peered into the darkness as Freedy froze against the wall.  After a few heart-stopping moments, they turned in the opposite direction.  They were carrying flashlights in their hands, so Freedy didn't take anything for granted and hurried into the darkness.

There was another round of steps where it seemed the blackest, and this time he counted seventy-five of them.  Leading down into more dank and humid concrete corridors.

The darkness was absolute.  So it took but a tiny pinprick of light for him to notice it.  It must have been hundreds of feet away and very dim, but his eyes sought it out.  As he approached, he realized it was a small crack at the base of a doorway.  The outlines of the doorway were only visible when he got to within a few feet.

The light made him overconfident, and he tripped on something hard and sharp.  He fell to the ground.    He cried out, and grabbed his shin and rocked back and forth for awhile, until the pain subsided.   In the dim light, he could see the corridor outside of the doorway was filled with old, dumped laptops and keyboards, most of it in the corridor where it extended past the door.  Mixed in were disintegrating cardboard boxes.

He put his hands down on the moist, slimy concrete to push himself to his feet, and his fingers closed on a flashdrive.  It must have fallen out of his pocket.  Not sure it mattered anymore, he nonetheless plopped the little device back into his pants pocket.

He pushed open the doorway.

There was a space heater humming near the door, and the room was warm and dry.  It smelled like old wet socks, however -- as he sniffed, he realized the whole place had the odor of unwashed laundry.

At first, he mistook it for a storeroom.

It was stocked with Rice Krispies, boxes and boxes of them lining one whole wall, every once in a while punctuated by a box of Twinkies.  Another wall was stacked with Doritos and white cheddar popcorn and row after row of Coca-cola, and a third wall was apparently the health food wall -- filled with cans of chili and Spaghettio's and Campbell Soup.

Above the stacks, the walls were plastered with movie posters.  Unless his eyes deceived him, Freedy thought these were vintage posters, the real deal.  Bogart and Cagney.  Bogart and Bacall.  Gary Cooper in High Noon.  Astaire and Rogers.  Bob Hope and Bing Crosby and Dorothy Lamour On The Road.  Dozens of them.

At the center of the room was an old mattress and some blankets.  A few beat up boxes full of clothes, but though the boxes had logo's of canned foods on the side, the clothes were all new and all the same -- Levi 401 jeans and black t-shirts and gray sweatshirts.  Bags of new underwear and socks.  Near the entrance was a pile of dirty laundry.  When Freedy wrinkled his nose and looked closer, he saw they were dirty but nearly new, as though they'd only been worn once and then discarded.

But overwhelming everything else with its sheer size and shimmering tech, was a huge workstation against the far wall, filled with monitors and keyboards.  State of the art, it looked to Freedy.  All the monitors were on -- showing different T.V. channels and websites.   CNN showed on one.  Another of them was showing an old black and white movie with the Barrymores.

Here, far beneath the surface of the earth, was an eye on the world, and a window to the past.

But it was a screen at the very center that caught his attention.

It showed his friends with their hands up, surrounded by armed guards.  Sheila was standing with her hands on her hips, staring up at Garland and saying something vehemently, while the tall hippie looked away as if bored.

Sheila's authoritative posture was something new to Freedy.  He really didn't know her at all, did he?

He heard someone coming.

There was no backdoor to this hole in the ground.

He was trapped.

Freedy Filkins, International Jewel Thief, 28.

 
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Whoever was approaching, it didn't sound like guards.  Whoever it was, was talking to himself.

"Idiots.  Building a data center smack dab in the middle of Tornado Alley.  Whose brilliant idea was that?"

"Not me, dear boy," another voice answered.  Then Freedy realized it was the same voice, different tone.

"Yeah, well who axed ya."

"Good thing the new monitor arrived before the storm hit."

"You think?  Dumbshit."

The door started to open and Freedy looked for somewhere to hide and realized it was useless.  Instead, he stood straight with his hands up, with what was undoubtedly a dumb smile on his face.

A small pale man walked in, carrying a large box and not looking up, still muttering to himself.  He was dressed in Levi's and a gray sweatshirt and his face showed the results of the diet of food along the walls, being pockmarked by pimples and a sallow, gaunt cast and bottle thick black glasses.  He looked like a Mole, Freedy thought.

As hard as it was to believe, Freedy realized he lived here.

He shuffled toward the workstation and almost ran into Freedy.  He jumped back with a yelp, dropping the box, which fortunately landed on the bedding and landed softly.

"Holy cow!  Who are you!" 

"Hey, hey.  I don't mean any harm," Freedy said, soothingly.

The man was frightened, but he couldn't seem to stay focused on Freedy.  Even as he cried out, his eyes were hungrily devouring the pictures on the monitors of the workstation as if he couldn't help himself.  He pushed past Freedy and tapped the screen showing the scene above.  "You're with this lot, ain't ya."

He looked at Freedy, but his eyes were blurry, as if he was having a hard time seeing what was in front of him, as if the visions on the screens were his only real reality.   His eyes kept being drawn back to the flickering images even as he spoke to Freedy.

"Why'd you break in here?"

The voice was slow, drawled out as if the he was drunk. No...stoned.  Freedy remembered his summer of experimentation with drugs and half the guys he'd hung out with had sounded like this.

"I didn't mean to intrude," Freedy said.  "I'm lost."

"No shit, Sherlock," the Moleman said.  "But howd ya get lost?"

Freedy didn't really have an answer, so he changed the subject.

"Do you live down here?" Freedy asked.

"None of your bloody business..."  Moleman's voice changed in the middle to another tone.  "Yeah, I live down here.  My name is Fallom."

"Now why'd you go and tell him that?" Moleman said, peeved.

Freedy decided to try to appeal to the more reasonable sounding of the two personalities.  He tried to sound calm, as if it was all just a big mistake, nothing to see here.    "Well, Fallom, my friends and I were taking a tour of the facilities when the tornado hit.  I got separated from the others..."

"Yeah, then why are these guys being pinched, eh?"

Freedy was starting to realize that he had appealed to the weaker of the two personalities.  He tried a different tact.

"Look,  I was just trying to escape the storm.  I'll get out of your hair..."  He started to push past Fallom.

"Like hell ya will!" Moleman screeched.  He pulled a revolver from behind one of the keyboards and waved it triumphantly.

"Now is that necessary?" Fallom objected. 

"Shut up." Moleman said, into the air.  Then he turned to Freedy, again trying to focus as if Freedy was an illusion.  "You ain't going nowhere, bub.  I'm going to have to rub you out.  Can't let you tell anyone where I'm hiding."

"I'm afraid I agree," Fallom said, sounding almost regretful.  "We are most vulnerable down here."

Freedy looked up to the ceiling as if seeking help from above, and his eyes landed on the posters.

"You like old movies?" he said aloud.

"Yeah, what's it to you," Moleman said.  "I love old movies," Fallom rejoined.

"Probably haven't seen as many as I have though," Freedy said, sounding regretful.

"You wanna bet?" Moleman said.  "I doubt that very much," said Fallom.

"I'll tell you what.  Let's play a game of movie trivia.  I'll name a movie, and you have to name either one of the stars or the director.  If I win two out of three, you let me go.  If you win two out of three, you can "rub" me out."

Both Moleman and Fallom seemed excited by the prospect.  "It has to be a talkie and it has to have been released in the U.S.A.!"

"Fair enough," Freedy said.

"O. K.!  You start!

Freedy thought it likely that Moleman/Fallom was stuck in the Golden Age of movies.  He'd try something from the 1970's, a movie he'd liked but no one else had.

"Quintet," he said.

Fallom didn't even hesitate.  "Paul Newman, directed by Robert Altman.  Ask me another!

"It's our turn, dumbshit," the Moleman said, disgusted.  His face took on a crafty look.

"UP THE RIVER."

Oh, oh.  Not a good start.  Freedy didn't have a clue.  Was that the Animal House knock-off?  No, that was UP THE CREEK.  He pondered, decided he would try to guess at least.  His eyes landed on the posters again and he realized there was a preponderance of one actor –

"Bogart."

The Moleman's face fell. 

Freedy decided that both Moleman and Fallom liked genre pictures, so he wracked his brain for a drama instead.  Sometimes simple is best.

"INFAMOUS."

Moleman/Fallom paced the floor, and Freedy knew he had him/them.

"No such movie!" the Moleman finally exclaimed.

"Yes, starring Daniel Craig, even," Freedy said, smugly.

"Very well, if you want to play tough, I have a great one  -- THE WEDDING MARCH."

Freedy had heard of the movie, and thought it was probably an old one.  Probably too old and it was never shown on T.V.   He cursed himself for getting into a game he couldn't possible win.  This guy -- these guys --  probably watched movies all day, every day.

"I don't know," he said, finally.  "DeMille?"

"Directed by Eric von Strohiem, starring Fay Wray!" 

This was unfair, Freedy thought.  Two against one.

"My turn," he said.  What was the movie he'd watched by accident that time, that was like a B-movie of a B-movie?   Oh, yeah.

"I WAS A ZOMBIE FOR THE F.B.I."
 Both personalities made cogitating noises, but Freedy could tell right away they didn't know.

Follom said,  "I give up."  Moleman snorted:   "But part of this game is you have to know, too."  He looked blurrily at Freedy as if expecting him to fail.  Are we making up rules? Freedy wondered.  But he had to admit, it was a fair rule.  Fortunately, the thing about the Zombie movie was, he'd only remembered it because of the two actors with a memorable name who had never starred in anything else.

"Oh, you mean Larry and James Raspberry?"  

Moleman looked disgusted, and went to the monitors and looked up the movie.  He turned around again, dejected.

"All right.  You want obscure movies?  How about this one:  THE RED COUCH."

Freedy's heart sank.   He didn't think he'd even heard of such a movie, much less watched it. He wouldn't even bother a guess, since he didn't know what era it came out of. 

He stopped short.  Wait.  What had their first answer been?  'No such movie?'  Oh, ho.  So that's the way they were playing it!

"No such movie," he said, knowing he was right and he was immediately rewarded by the Moleman's curses.  He was one up.  All he needed was one more winner.  But what tact should he take?  He'd tried old, he'd tried new.  Drama's and B-movies had worked, but frankly he was deficient in those as well

His hands went into his pocket as he paced, and he could feel two flashdrives there.  That was weird.  Where had the second one come from?

"Two of them?" he said aloud.  He saw the thunderstruck look in Moleman/Fallom's face, and he repeated it:  "TWO OF THEM."

"I know that, I know that!" Fallom said, excited. "It's a documentary, with Dan Ackroyd and Bo Derek."

"No you fool!" Moleman cried.  "That's "JUST THE TWO OF US!"  

"I win," Freedy said, angling his way to the door.  

"No!" Moleman cried.  "You cheated.  I saw you fingering your pocket -- you were talking about something in your pocket, and you took advantage of us -- me! Come back here!"

Freedy ran out the door and into the darkness.  A couple of shots rang out, and a bullet sparked against the wall next to him.  He kept running.

"Come back here,  you cheater! Come back and play fair!"

Monday mopes

A poll on the comic retailer forum about whether or not we collect variant covers to comics.

Well, I don't "collect" any comics and if I did, I certainly wouldn't collect "variants."

I'm firmly in the camp that comics are entertainment, meant to be read.  So I liked my one sentence answer:

"I read and release."

**********

Violence.  Such a terrible non-solution to anything and with such horrible consequences.

**********

I've been told that Dudley's has sold.

So that gives me hope that in the long run both mine and Linda's store will be salable too.

In fact, Linda is so close to retirement age that we ought to be entertaining offers right now.  Anyone want a profitable used bookstore?

**********

I always feel so stupid when I find a musical act years after their glory years.  So, I've been listening to the Pixies all day.  Damn.

Can see where Arcade Fire and Neutral Milk Hotel came from.

Every time I get a clue, I just go to Youtube and click the "Top" button, and get a full run of a new (or old) band's glory.

Great stuff.

**********

On the other hand,  I used to care a lot more about year end Top Ten lists -- now I can't be bothered.  I think it's because there is so much material coming at me everyday that I have to weed out.  Kind of like I used to read weekly news magazines, and now they seem superficial and late.

**********

Nov. Store results.

Beat last year by a healthy 14%.

Last November was truly horrible, apparently, and since it had beaten the previous year, November is now officially the suckiest month of the year.  Well, January and November are fighting it out.

So that means that we've beaten last year for 16 out of the last 17 months.  Only September has been lower.  There is a very specific reason for that -- the introduction of the DC New 52 in Sept. of 2011 which was a rip-roaring success.

I suspect however that we won't beat last December, which was a great month.  Only the boom year of 2006 beat it, and not by much.

Since this year I'm keeping a full inventory, but not adding to inventory, I expect sales to be down but profits to be up.  But I'm hoping to be surprised.  Full inventory is full inventory, after all.


COMICS:  +3%.

Actually, I'm impressed with this.  This is up against the New 52, so that's not bad.

CARDS:  +45%.   Pretty meaningless.  Low numbers.  Wondering why I bother.

CARD GAMES:  +7%.  I had high hopes for the new release, but moderate results.  Still have a bunch of boxes, which are slowly selling.  Not worried about selling out and at least I don't have to reorder as often.

GAMES:  -4%.  Only category down this month, and I had a pretty good supply.  This is becoming a more mature line for us, so we probably won't be seeing the big increases as much.  I'll be thrilled to do as well as last Christmas, since I think this is being sold more by others than before.

BOOKS: +4%.  Didn't have oodles of sale books come in -- less volume of ordering, but more choice ordering, and we more than held our own.

TOYS:  +70%.  Being rewarded for ordering more toys throughout the year. Hoping that holds for Christmas, as well.

GRAPHIC NOVELS:  +20%.  This is a mature line, which fluctuates about this much.

COMICS/GRAPHICS COMBINED:  +9%.  Just started keeping track of this last month, and shows a healthy market.  Lots of signs to me that it isn't, like loosing subscribers, but apparently I'm making up for it in other areas.  Which is good.

Still feeling like my three guys, Cameron, Jasper and Matt are doing a great job -- as good or better than me, so don't feel guilty about taking time off to write.  Hey, maybe the increases are not despite my not being there but because!  Either way, it's a good outcome.

 We have already beaten last year, with the Christmas season yet to come, so I'm totally encouraged.

I think we'll beat every year but the boom years of 2006 and 2007, if we can do within 10% at Christmas.

Thing to remember, though, is I did those totals in 2006 and 2007 without 2 categories I'm carrying today -- new books and boardgames, which account for probably 25% of sales, so all things being equal, we'd still be way down.

But all things aren't equal, thanks to the two new categories, so I guess it's a moot point.  

Freedy Filkins, International Jewel Thief, 26.

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It was the pristine nature of the data center that probably saved them.  No broken glass or flying debris. The computers were securely anchored and heavy.  Ironically, their guide was the only one who wasn't quick witted enough to grab on, and Freedy watched him fly out the building like a rocket, his wide eyes and open mouth were the last thing Freedy saw of him.

The eye of the storm passed over, and in the brief respite, they desperately tied themselves more securely to the computers with belts and suspenders and torn pieces of cloth before the back end of the tornado passed over.   The building groaned and popped, but didn't fall apart further.  The tornado passed on, still sounding like a freight train, but one which was receding not one that was coming down on top of them.

One by one, they unhooked themselves from their tethers.  Freedy found himself hugging Sheila, who was crying.  For the first time since he met her, she seemed vulnerable.

"This is our chance, boys," Garland was excited.  "I can't believe it."

"Chance for what?" Freedy said.

"To look for the right station, Freedy," Garland said, annoyed.  "Spread out -- it's got to be here.  Remember, use your flashdrive to download the information before destroying the computer.  If you don't have time to download, be sure and destroy the computer anyway..."

Freedy noticed that Bobby was digging around in his pockets, pulling out a small flashdrive and studying a piece of paper.

Suddenly, Freedy vaguely remembered being handed a piece of paper last night in the library, with something wrapped inside it, and Garland saying,  "Study this carefully, Freedy.  Memorize it."

Unfortunately, that had been about a mere minute before Sheila had taken his hand, changing his life and his brain and his memories forever.   He hadn't given Garland's instructions another moment's thought.

He pulled out his own note and stared at it.  "FXG334NTZ882"

Out of curiosity, he examined the nearest station, the one that had saved him from being blown away by the tornado.  It also started with three letters, then three numbers, followed by three letters and three numbers.  Only this one started with a PSG.  The next one over started with a PSH.  To the right of him, a station had RST.

Freedy started to back up, thinking the F's were behind him.

"I don't think I can let you do that, fellows!"  Sheila spoke in a tone he'd never heard.  Guttural, harsh.   From somewhere under her Levi jacket and tight leather pants, she had pulled out a gun.

 Freedy could have thought about a lot of things at that moment, but for some reason what he thought was, "Where did that come from?"  He could've sworn he'd felt every inch of her on this trip!

 "FBI!  You're under arrest!" she shouted.  She adopted a broad stance, all business, both of her hands on her gun.

The others froze.

Freedy was behind her, and he immediately looked for an escape.  By backing away, he'd put her between him and the others, and she had her gun trained on them, not him.   Part of him was amazed he didn't fall to ground and start gibbering.  The danger and the surprise made him want to run instead.

A big hole had opened inside him, but he refused to look in it.  He knew if he thought about Sheila's betrayal for even a moment, he'd give up.

There was a small door to his left, and it had been pulled slightly ajar by the storm.

"Freedy....!" he heard the warning tone in Sheila's voice.  "I'll shoot you, if you try..."

Freedy kept moving.  Little did she know that her warning was no threat.  Go ahead, he thought.  Shoot me!  Put me out of my misery!   If their romance was all a pretense to get close to the expedition, then he'd just as soon she shot him.

She didn't shoot.  He was through the door and running into the darkness, with her shouts following.

 "Come back, Freedy!"

He kept running, and as he ran he realized he was crying, and cursing.  Mostly cursing, he tried to tell himself. 

Freedy Filkins, International Jewel Thief, 25.

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Now this was unfair, Freedy thought.  Come on!  Totally unfair!

The vibrations of the Harley ran up his legs to his groin, which was nestled against Sheila's back.  To make it worse, she kept scrunching back against him as if knowing he was having a problem.  Come to think of it, how could she not know he was having a problem!  How could she not feel it!

He stayed on the bike at the first rest stop, his helmet strategically on his lap.

"You coming?" she said with a sly smile.  Yeah, real funny.

Just about the time he thought he might not make a spectacle of himself, they were all back and heading out again.  He made it to the next rest stop, and then got off immediately and walked away from the others to a picnic table, thinking about baseball.  The last World Series.  How he'd fallen asleep watching it.

After a few minutes, he angled his way to the bathroom and went into one of the stalls and managed to do his business.

She was waiting for him, revving the engine and grinning.  He got behind her, and this time he put his arms intimately around her, and squeezed.  Even with the engine roaring, he heard her yelp.  He smiled in satisfaction.

Eventually, he got used to it, by thinking about his old boring life and pretending she wasn't there.  But at first -- he didn't want to pretend she wasn't there.  The proximity of her was intoxicating.  Her scent, her hair blowing back into his face tickling him.  He almost forgot they were on an apparently dangerous mission, though he didn't really know what the mission was...

They were headed north, he realized from the traffic signs -- into Oklahoma.

It was flat and brown this time of year.  They got off interstates and then the highways got smaller and finally they were riding down country roads, with ninety degree angles following the fields every few miles.

In the distance he thought he saw a giant box -- no, a series of giant boxes.  As they approached, he saw that they were giant square buildings, with few doors and no windows, all surrounded by razor wire topped fences.  No identifications, but Freedy had seen pictures in the local paper of the data centers located in Central Oregon, so he realized what they were.

There was a guardhouse near the entrance, manned by two armed guards.  Not one guard,  Freedy thought. Two guards.   Nor were they unarmed rent-a-cops.   Out in the middle of nowhere, a corporation was willing to pay for two guards at the same entrance despite no traffic or nearby dwellings.  Must be important, if they wanted to protect what was behind these fences surrounded by fallow corn fields.

The middle of nowhere, maybe, but there were huge transmission towers approaching from all four directions, looking like an army of gigantic guardian robots.  They were swaying slightly, because a heavy wind had suddenly come up.  Freedy felt a little twinge in his right index and middle fingers, where he had broken them skiing.  Usually he only felt that when the barometric pressure plunged.  There were very threatening clouds on the horizon, with a curtain of gray sheeting downward.

Garland parked the Miata in the parking lot outside the gates and motioned the others to park next to him.

"Wait here," he said. "Elias has arranged a tour for us.  We can scope out the place.  Keep your eyes peeled."

'Peeled for what?' Freedy wanted to ask.  But the others were nodding their heads, so he kept quiet.  Sheila was standing next to him, and put her hand on his back. 

Garland walked to the guardhouse and conversed with the guard at the window.  The guard was standing, Freedy noticed, his hands on his holster.  Garland finally turned and waved for them to come over.  There was a small pedestrian gate next to the guardhouse and they passed through, under the vigilant gaze of the two guards.

A middle-aged man emerged from the nearest box building, wearing a big fur-lined parka, and looking annoyed for most of the approach, but then plastering a fake smile as he got within spitting distance.

"Welcome!  Mr. Elias is an important client of ours, and so we are delighted to accede to his request for a personal visit.  Mr.  Garland?"  He stuck out his hand to Freedy, who was probably the most normal looking guy there and who was, after all, standing next to a very attractive woman.

Freedy nodded over to Garland, whose long hair was blowing wildly in the wind,  and whose beard seemed to have sprouted again in the course of their travels.  The man's smile slipped for a minute and then was firmly back on.  "Welcome, Mr. Garland.  Follow me."

He turned without further ado, and walked quickly toward the nearest building.  A gust of wind threw dust into their faces and they all turned away, following almost blindly.  Garland, who was leading, missed the door by a couple of feet and they all had to scoot over to the left to enter.

It was a relief to be inside.  It was suddenly quiet and very cool.  There was a rack of coats near the door and the greeter waved his hand toward them. "You guys might want to bundle up.  Of course, if you're only going to stay a few minutes, that won't be necessary."  He looked hopefully at Garland, then twitched a little when the old hippie reached up and grabbed a coat.

They all followed his example, except for Sheila who had on her Levi jacket.  She looked like a sprite among a bunch of Eskimos.

To be honest, there wasn't much to see.  Just row upon row of computers, stacked to the ceiling, with small blinking lights, each with a series of numbers and letters attached.  Freedy tuned out the guide, since he didn't understand most of what the man was saying anyway, and since he was bringing up the rear, could barely hear him.  The others were listening intently though, and Freedy couldn't help but notice that they were examining the numbers on the computers as they walked by, as if searching for a specific number.  Freedy felt a little offended.  Obviously, he hadn't been let in on the plan.

What he did notice, though, was that the whole building seemed to be shaking.  Was that normal?  Beside him, Sheila was also looking around in alarm so it wasn't his imagination.  The guide suddenly fell silent, mid-lecture, and over the heavy humming of the computers, they could hear distant sirens.

"TORNADO!" the man shouted.

Freedy suddenly remembered why he never wanted to visit Oklahoma.

At the same moment, the roof above them suddenly disappeared, and Freedy felt himself being lifted by the sudden void.  He grabbed the nearest stack of computers and hung on.  Sheila almost flew past him, and he grabbed her arm and pulled her back down.  She grabbed the machines as well, and they both hung on to each other with one arm and to hug the anchor with the other arm.

Freedy could see the funnel of the tornado just over the gap in the building.

It was getting closer.

Freedy Filkins, International Jewel Thief, 24.

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Garland and Elias kept talking, quietly.  So low in fact, that it became obvious to everyone that they wanted to speak in private.

When Sheila and the other interns stood, Freedy joined them.  Sheila walked over to him and they drifted toward the books.  He tried to keep his eyes on the bookshelves rather than on her.  He'd never been so attracted to anyone in his life, and he was afraid it was showing.  Not crudely showing, but in his face and his posture.

She took him by the arm, and her hand slid casually down to his hand, while she gave him a tour of the library.

"Elias has an amazing First Editions science-fiction section," she said.  Freedy made an appreciative sound -- he mostly read mysteries these days, but when he was younger it had been almost exclusively S.F. or fantasy.

The wine was wearing off a little, and Freedy was starting to become tongue tied.  Sheila didn't seem to notice and kept carrying the bulk of the conversation.  Still, he couldn't keep from yawning.

"Oh!  You're probably really tired after all the traveling.  Come on, I'll lead you to your room."

They were quiet now, but it wasn't uncomfortable.  She stood right next to him on the elevator, and he fought not to take her in his arms.  He still couldn't believe she was interested in him.  He was out-of-shape, chubby even.  He never thought of himself as boring and stuffy, but compared to her he realized he was.  Not to mention, she was getting a doctorate in Mathematics!  He was the idle pretend-rich.

He followed her, without paying much attention to the route, and before he knew it, they were standing at his door.

"Well, goodnight," she said.  She didn't move, though. Just stood there alluringly, looking at him out of the corner of her eyes.

He made a small movement toward her, which was mirrored, and then another, which was also mirrored, until there was no denying it and they were kissing.

It seemed totally natural, and he couldn't help but moan, which kind of echoed in both their heads.  She laughed, taking her mouth away but staying within his arms.

"Sorry!" he exclaimed.

"Don't be," she said.  "I loved it.  So...I'll see you tomorrow, O.K.?"

Freedy felt downcast -- not because she was breaking off contact --  he understood that, wasn't sure he could handle the excitement himself.  No, he felt desolate because he was going to be leaving in the morning.   He doubt he'd be extended another invitation to the Cozy Cottage.  He might never see her again.

As if reading his mind, she put a soft hand on his cheek.  "Don't worry.  It'll all work out."

He thought he wouldn't be able to sleep, but he fell to dreaming immediately, with her smiling face in his thoughts.



He woke to banging at his door.  He stumbled naked to the door, then thought better of it and drew on his pants and a t-shirt.

It was Steve, looking annoyed.  "Get up, man!  We're heading out!"  He was back in his miner clothes,  jeans and flannel shirt with red suspenders.  He was staring down at a piece of scrap paper.  "I swear, it took me an hour to find you even with this crude map!"

He muttered and wandered off.

Freedy was dressed and packed before he realized he had no idea which direction to head.  Downward, he thought.  There were small flights of stairs everywhere and eventually he found himself in the kitchen, with the morning help staring at him as if he was an intruder.  He apologized and went out into the dining hall.

There was a buffet set on a sideboard, and Jim and Jay were still eating.  He watched them for a moment.  Both of them had heaping plates of sausages and bacon -- both were eating ravenously.  Strange, Freedy thought, that Jim keeps the pounds on, whereas Jay's calories seemed to disappear.

He kept hoping that Sheila would show up, but after Jim and Jay left and he heard banging doors near the front of the house,  he realized he couldn't delay any further.

The yellow van was parked at the base of the steps, with the Miata behind it. Garland was standing impatiently by the door to the car, while the miners were loading the last bit of supplies into the trailer.

Freedy stomped down the steps gloomily.  He wanted to stay, and yet he also knew that if Sheila was interested in him, and that still seemed impossible this morning, it was because he was involved in an interesting enterprise.  Good old staid, boring Freedy wouldn't hold any interest for her.  Damned if he did and damned if he didn't.

He started toward the passenger seat of the Miata.

"Where you going?"

He whirled with a huge smile and she was standing there in front of him, wearing tight leather pants and a levi jacket.  Looking unbelievably sexy with the morning light shining in her blond hair.

"I ride with Garland," he said, not thinking.

"Not today you aren't!"  She turned and whistled at Steve and Sam, who were mounting their Harleys.  They sauntered over, curious.

"One of you boys let me drive your Harley," she said.

Both Steve and Sam looked indignant, and then Steve was looking at the two of them with a kind of askance bemusement, and he handed over the keys.  He walked toward the Miata, whistling.

She motioned for Freedy to follow and went over to the motorcycle.  It seemed taller than she was, but she swung on board as if she knew what she was doing and patted the seat behind her.

"Hop on board, Freedy.  I'm coming with..."

Freedy Filkins, International Jewel Thief, 23.

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They retired to the library.  It looked like the set of My Fair Lady, and sure enough there was a Galatea statue in the corner, looking a little like Julie Andrews.   A set of armchairs were arranged around a fireplace, one of them so gigantic and ornate it might as well have been a throne.  Elias sat in it as if it were his due.

There was a pool table at one end of the library and as soon as the gold miners realized that Elias and Garland were going to have a 'serious discussion', they slid off one by one to the other side of the room.  Before long, there was a quiet discussion around the fireplace and a not so quiet pool game in the background.

Garland took a chair across from Elias.  Freedy didn't know what to do, but finally took one of the smaller chairs a short distance away.  Garland looked over at Freedy and nodded, as if approving that he was listening to the conversation instead of joining the fun at the pool table. 

Sheila sat at the great man's feet.  Literally.  Freedy felt a stab of jealousy when Elias briefly patted her on head with a fond look.  The other interns were also sprawled on the floor, so it wasn't like she was singled out, he told himself.  It wasn't like he had any call to be jealous.  He barely knew her!

She smiled at him, and he gulped.

"Are you going forward with your plans?" Elias said, swirling a snifter of brandy.

"Yes," Garland said firmly.  "Unless you've managed to change the records from here."

"No," Elias said.  "HE has closed off his system, physically.  There is no way from me to get in there."

"What is HE up to?"

"Good question!" Elias sound adamant and annoyed.   "That's why you need to quit wasting your time on these little escapades of yours, Garland.  They are a distraction."

"Perhaps...but they are also the whole point.  If the Cybermancer manages to close down the system, then he can control things.  We need to keep throwing wrenches into the gears of his plans.  The point is to distract HIM."

Elias didn't seem convinced.

"There is also the little matter of justice," Garland continued.   "If we let small injustices go uncorrected, then the larger injustice will take hold without objection.  Besides, I sense that this little Lorn Mountain goldmine is part of HIS plans, though I'm not sure how..."

"I've been counting votes," Elias said.  "I don't understand how the Cybermancer thinks he's going to win -- unless He's bought some of the politicians who're saying one thing and planning to do another."

"I've been traveling the country taking the temperature -- and I can tell you there is absolutely no way that the public will allow the Internet to go private."

"Then, again I ask, what is HE up to?"

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

One of the interns spoke up.  "Why would the Dark Lord want to take it private?  He's made billions from the Internet the way it is."

"Please don't call HIM that," Elias spoke quietly, and the intern flinched as if he'd been struck.

"You're right," Garland laughed.  "Let's call him by his real name.  Secore.   There -- I said it.  Big deal."

Elias looked troubled but finally nodded.  "You're right.  We give the Cybermancer too much power by our unwillingness to name him.  He's just a man, after all.  Josiah Secore.  Whatever...phfff."

There was an uneasy silence as if by speaking his name, they had invited to Cybermancer to their presence.  Elias turned to Jeffrey.  "You took our guest's digital instruments, right?'

"Yes, sir."

Elias addressed his interns.  "There has been a struggle from the beginning between open source and private ownership.  We've always maintained an uneasy equilibrium.  The government's instinct is to control it.  The business instinct is to monetize it.  Those of us who were there at the start also split into two camps.  I, along with most of the others, fought for a free and open Internet.  But Josiah Secore always wanted to own it -- everything."

"He's a trillionaire already!" the other female intern,  Judith, said.

Garland said.  "It's not about the money -- it's about the power.  Imagine the Cybermancer being able to charge for every word, every blog, every tweet.  Erasing what he doesn't like, picking who and what and how much the Internet does..."

"But the governments would never allow it."

"Exactly," Garland said.  "Once again bringing to the question to the fore  -- what is Josiah Secore up to?"

Freedy saw Sheila stir.  Somehow he knew she wanted to speak, and he stared at her.  Garland caught his look and also looked down at her.

"You have something to ask, Sheila?"

"Well, yes.  I guess.  But I was just wondering -- if he can't get approval, and none of the other Internet giants want it to happen, and the public would object -- then it won't happen, right?"

"Right."

 "Unless..." she said.

"Unless what...?"Elias asked.

"Unless he takes it over by force..."

Freedy Filkins, International Jewel Thief, 22.

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Three hours later, Freedy was dressed in a new set of clothes that fit him perfectly.  A green striped button down shirt and brown sweater and slacks, and some shiny black loafers.

The outfit was already laid out on the bed when he came into the room, which was like the nicest hotel room he'd ever been in.  (Not that it was fancy, but everything was solid, the trimmings adding a touch of class.)

He took a long shower and then let himself have a short nap.  His hair was tangled in the back in the shape of the pillow crease, and no matter how much he wet and combed it, a cowlick waved in the front.

His thoughts kept going to Sheila.

She was the kind of girl he'd never had the courage to talk to when he was younger man.  Cheerleader type, blond hair and upturned nose.  Sometimes he had to remind himself that he wasn't that old.  Not much over thirty years old -- well, thirty-three to be exact.  She might be in her early twenties.  It wasn't impossible.

After all, he was Freedy Filkins, Master Thief, Adventurer, Companion to Gold Miners and Agents (or whatever Garland was...) !

He tamped it down.  She was just being nice, for goodness sake!

He opened the door at 5:45 and she was sitting on the bench in the hallway.

"Why didn't you knock?" he exclaimed.

She smiled at him, but looked distracted.  "I didn't want to bother you.  Besides, I had some things to think over."  She looked momentarily depressed.

Freedy wanted to reach out to her, but didn't dare.  But she looked up and saw the concerned look in his face.

"Nothing serious!" she said, and reached up and flipped his cowlick playfully.  "Come on.  Elias doesn't like it when we're late."

Not surprisingly, the inside of the Cozy Cottage was a maze of hallways and stairs.  Freedy had quickly lost count of the turns upon arrival -- he was sure it was just coincidental that it had the effect of keeping them trapped.

Now, on the way out, he was equally lost.  It seemed to him that they were headed back to his own room within a short time, the hallway looked exactly the same.  No numbers, no directions.  But they ended up at the main elevator, and he felt a sense of relief as they descended to the main entrance hall again.

They went around the stairs at the center, and there was a grand ballroom to the right, and a slightly smaller dining room to the left.

The dining hall was every bit as impressive as he expected.  They were clustered at just one end of the huge gleaming oak table.  A chandelier made of stripped branches and colored glass.  A few mounted animal heads that Freedy realized were actually works of art, as alive-seeming as anything that gamboled the grounds outside.

At the head of the table was one of the interns -- or so Freedy thought at first.  As they approached, his estimate of the man's age grew and grew, until standing right in front of him, Freedy realized that the flawless sculpted features were crafted by a knife, the skin was burnished with oils, and the hair was -- a little too perfect to be real.  Every while gleaming tooth was just the right size and shape.

But when the man rose from his chair, Freedy recognized a fellow weak-back sufferer, and his hands couldn't quite hide the looseness of skin and brown spots.

Garland was standing at his side.  "Elias, I'd like to present Freedy Filkins, our -- procurer..."

"Your Thief, you mean," the man laughed with an easy laugh.  One didn't learn the ease of that laugh until one had had great success, Freedy thought.  That more than anything revealed his age.

"Well, now that we're all here, let's eat," Elias Rivers said.  He rang a little bell, and a trio of servants entered, looking every bit as clean cut as the interns.

Freedy sat in the cushioned chair and ate a dinner that wasn't fancy but was filling -- like Thanksgiving out of season.  Ham and Au Gratin potatoes, salad and fresh baked bread.  He was grateful not to have to tackle any new foods.  The wine was the smoothest he'd ever tasted, and he had to slow down drinking it.  He was conscious at every moment that Sheila was seated to his left.  Garland was seated to his right.  Charlie was seated across from him with Jeffry next to him, and on down the table alternated miners and interns.  Everyone was dressed so well that the more wine Freedy drank the more difficult it became to distinguish between the two.

The wine seemed to loosen the insecurity and doubts inside him.

Freedy was at heart a small town boy, a big fish in a small pond.  Well, not exactly a big fish, but a big enough fish to be able to find his way around the pond.  This was all too much.   

Sheila seemed to sense his unease, for she talked throughout the meal, telling him about her schooling at Dartmouth, her decision to intern with the great Mr. Elias Rivers, and how she intended to continue onto grad school come the fall.

Freedy was halfway through the meal, before it suddenly dawned on him.  A vision of the entry hall and the Signs of the Zodiac bloomed in his mind.

"Oh, my god.  The Zodiac Corporation!" he breathed out, suddenly, in the middle of Sheila talking about her -- of all things -- cheerleader days.

It was one of those moments that was so embarrassing that everyone ignored it without skipping a beat.  But he could tell they'd all heard him.

"Of course," Sheila said, in a normal tone of voice.  "Mr. Elias is the founder and sole shareholder of the Zodiac Corporaton though very few people know his name."

"Do you know what Garland is planning?" He blurted.  It occurred to him in his anxiety that he really didn't know what was expected of him.  He'd just been going along, assuming that the others knew what they were doing.

"Of course," she said, looking surprised.  "Don't you?"

Freedy didn't answer out loud, because he was embarrassed.  'Not really!' he thought.  'What kind of Thief are they expecting me to be?'

'What the hell am I doing here?' he wondered.  His computer skills were rudimentary at best.  He liked to think that he was pretty good at web surfing, a real Google wiz.  But he knew that was just an illusion.  In reality, he didn't have a clue.  Did they even call it web surfing anymore?

He kept his voice low, the wine talking urgently.  "I don't know anything about computers.  Why am I here?"

"Computers?" Sheila said.  "That's easy.  You can hire a thousand guys to do what you need, Freedy.  No -- it's the ideas that count.  I'm betting that Mr. Garland doesn't recruit just anyone."

Freedy was starting to panic. He wasn't so sure.  This was all a big mistake.  He should be home, watching television.  Going for a walk.  Reading a book.

Sheila reached out under the table and grabbed his hand.  "Don't worry.  I'll help you."

Freedy closed his eyes. It was as if she was pumping a sedative in him.  He forced himself not to clamp down too hard on her soft little hand.

Finally, he opened his eyes and smiled at her.

Somehow, he knew that she meant it and that it would all turn out all right.

Bulletin's Business Index.

I love the Bulletin's "U. of O. Central Ore. Business Index."

Real data where the goal posts aren't moved each time.  I mean, maybe the interpretation does, but the data is consistent.

To me, it looks more or less like we're back to where we started the boom, roughly first quarter of 2004.  When all of us Bubble Blogs were trying to look into the future, a seven year recovery time -- to get back to square one -- was bruited about.  Well, this is about six years from the peak, so pretty close.

(That is, I expected the drop off to be worse than when it started, and for it to take seven year to get back to the point where the boom took off.  I didn't and don't expect the boom to ever take off again, just slower sustainable growth.  I don't think we're there yet.)

Of course, we were mostly talking about a housing bubble then.  Not the Great Recession, though one follows the other.

The building starts still seem really low to me, and not coincidentally the employment picture.

I always felt that tourism and retirement were going to save Bend -- and not grand projects like Juniper Ridge.  We built a lot of infrastructure during the boom and we definitely went overboard on retail and there was a chance that would all fall apart and we'd be stuck with empty, boarded up stores -- which would have been bad for tourism.

But there was enough fluff and overflow to keep retail going, especially downtown. 

Interesting that the job market hasn't recovered as much, which means -- I guess -- that stores and hotels and restaurants are making do with less employees.  I wonder, also, at the lack of solid waste --which would also seem to indicate that people are hanging on and using up their resources.

Hopes and dreams are keeping Bend afloat and we're lucky that we have a place where people are willing to invest their hopes and dreams.

Freedy Filkins, International Jewel Thief, 21.

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They stood in front of the huge 'cottage,' like Freedy imagined fleas before the doors of his own home.  Unnoticed apparently.  Garland frowned, and then leaned into the Miata and honked the horn a couple of times, and when nothing happened, hunkered down for a long toot.

Finally, one of the tall thin doors opened, and a small child emerged. No, he wasn't a child but a normal sized teenager.  He bounced down the steps as though it was an everyday thing, looking more and more like average human sized as he descended.  A few steps from the bottom he eyed them dubiously, and then turned and put his fingers to his lips and whistled a shriek that probably reached the upper halls.

A band of children poured out, who turned into five more teenagers and twenty-somethings as they skipped down the steps.  All of them were clean cut, and well dressed.  The very epitome of preppie, Freedy thought, though most preppies looked like hipsters these days.

"Tell Elias that Garland and the Lorn Mountain miners are here, accompanied by a Mr. Freedy Filkins."

The lead preppie, blond and extraordinarily handsome, pulled out his cellphone and spoke into it quietly.  Freedy was somewhat gratified to see a small tattoo revealed on the young man's wrist when the sleeve rode up the arm.  There was something a little Stepford Wives about these young people, but when he looked closer he saw remnants of colored hair, and pinprick holes in earlobes of some of them.  This wasn't their normal look, he surmised.

"Elias likes things neat and tidy," Garland said.  "Even his people."

"Then he's going to love us," Jim laughed, looking his most slovenly.  One of his suspenders hung down, unhooked, and his shirttails were out, and one cuff of his jeans was hung up the top of his boots.

"He'll live," Garland said.  "He came from lower circles than any of us.  Though he doesn't really like to be reminded."

"He's expecting you," the young man said.  He frowned at the cars and motorcycles as if their presence offended him, then turned and started walking up the steps.   Garland followed, and then Charlie and the others.  Freedy took a deep breath and came last.  By the time he reached the top, he was out of breath.

They were waiting for him, and one of the young people, a petite girl who seemed to gleam with health,  leaned toward him, winked and whispered.    "You guys might want to try the side entrance next time.  It's a little more human sized."

Freedy nodded at her, grateful for her wink.   She stuck out her hand.  "I'm Sheila."

Freedy took her hand, blushing.  "Freedy.  Freedy Filkins." He felt a doofus for giving his last name and sounding so formal.

"Should we unpack?" Billy wondered aloud.

"No need," One of the other young preppies said.  "We have anything you might need."

"Yeah, and probably better than anything you could possibly have," the original handsome greeter said.

"Shut up, Jeffrey,"  Sheila snapped.

He just laughed in response.  Sheila turned to Freedy and said in a private tone that nonetheless everyone else could hear, "Mr. Rivers always has six interns at a time, because -- as he says -- three of them are always useless."

They walked into the grand entrance.  The ceiling seemed to go all the way to the top, which was as tall as the valley itself. Freedy half expected to see clouds, but there was a huge skylight divided into twelve stain glass panels, with the twelve zodiac signs.  Freedy looked for his sign, the Libra scale, as he always did when seeing an astrological map. 

There was a huge sweeping beaming staircase, as Freedy expected.  Granite floors so shined that there seemed to be a film of water on top.  There were also elevator doors to each side, which despite the absolute pristine nature of everything else they'd seen, actually showed small defects of wear and tear, like faded numbers on the buttons.

Sheila faced them.  "Here you have a choice -- to the east," she waved her hand like an airline stewardess, "We have servants quarters, which are small and cozy.  To the west,"  she waved her other hand, 'We have guest quarters, which are spacious and grand."

"Give me grand!" Sam and Steve said, at almost the same moment.

"I just want someplace comfortable," Bob said, and he sounded a little weak.  Small splotches of red lit up his bandage.  Billy gave him a sharp look, and said, "Me too.   We don't want to rattle around.  We'll take the servant's quarters."

The others split down the middle, with Jim surprisingly wanting the smaller and Jay wanting the bigger, and Garland saying, "Grand, of course!"

Freedy was torn.  He really wanted to see the guest quarters, but he saw that Sheila was stealing glances at him and he suspected which one she would prefer.

"I just want a clean bed and a bath," he said, finally.  "Small and cozy sounds just right."

She smiled in approval.

"Howie and I will lead the way to the east wing," she said.  "Jeffrey and the others will show you to the west wing.  Dinner is at 6:00 sharp.  Don't be late."

She looped her arm in Freedy's and walked to the elevator doors.

"I have just the place for you," she said. 

Freedy Filkins, International Jewel Thief, 20.

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They dropped down from Charlie's private mountain in the northern New Mexico highlands to Albuquerque, and east toward Texas.  Even with a trailer attached to the van, the back was full, so Garland took Freedy on as a full-time passenger in his white Miata.

Garland was a fount of information about everything they saw, but not an ounce of the personal, and even less about their mission.  Freedy listened to the stories, fascinated at first, and then slowly tuning the old man out.  He once realized that Garland had been talking for an hour and he hadn't heard a word and that Garland was smiling at him as if he knew.

They were sucked into Texas, but most of what Freedy remembered was huge truckstops (full of cheap knickknacks) with a fast-food outlet of some kind attached to each.  They didn't stop for anything but food and gas.

They'd left just after dawn and were still driving when night fell.  Freedy felt as though his butt had permanently taken on the concave shape of the passenger seat.

They went around the huge lights and towers of Dallas, which loomed out of the plains like a city of Oz.

Finally, in an old campground in the lakes district of east Texas, they stopped for the night.  It was as warm at night in October as a warm summer night in Oregon and twice as humid. But Freedy lay on top of his sleeping bag on the ground with a blanket over him, and quickly fell asleep, still feeling as though he was rocking inside the Miata.

Next morning, it was again black coffee, not tasting quite so good this time, and cold scrambled eggs with cinders mixed in, and burnt toast.  He ate the food gratefully, knowing that at home he would've thrown it away.

Sometime in the darkness of driving at night they had passed out of the flat plains and into flat forest and lakes.  The straight roads were pockmarked with little tourist enclaves -- fishing and hunting.  Old cabins and gas stations, dented by time and misuse.   The trees got bigger and denser as they entered the Piney Woods territory.

They turned off onto a narrow, rock rutted dirt road that the van barely negotiated by moving side to side avoiding the high points, and Garland mostly followed Fat Jim's chosen route, though occasionally seeming to disagree and choosing a different angle.  Both cars made it through.  Steve and Scott, of course, roared on by in their motorcycles and came back after a few miles to inform that not only did the road get better a few miles on -- well, we'd all just have to see it to believe it.

About ten bumpy, scary miles in -- which took the best of an hour to get through -- the road suddenly flattened and broadened and then -- unbelievably --  newly paved.

"Old Elias doesn't want visitors," Garland said, cryptically.  "But he also loves his comfort."

It had seemed flat for an eternity -- as if mountains and valleys were a fantastical memory.  But here there started to be some sloping contours to the land.  They rose maybe a thousand feet, feeling as though they were climbing a mountain. At the peak, there was a plateau that was another five hundred feet higher still, and coming off it a spectacular waterfall.  They started to drive down a looping road into a lush valley where first generation pines still stood, and a crystal blue lake met the mists of the waterfall.

They stopped at a little side park with picnic tables and restrooms.  Garland gathered them at the side of the lake.

"None of this is on a map," Garland said.  "The state would probably make a public park out of it if they could -- if they hadn't been bought off.  If it became common knowledge, the public would demand it.  So one of the rules of entry is that you never talk about what you see here."

Freedy just shrugged.  It was a pretty little place, but there were dozens of places just as pretty surrounding his home town of Bend, Oregon.   Maybe not quite so manicured, but Freedy liked the wild, disordered terrain.  Not quite so park-like as this.

 Still -- compared to the flat, dry plains it was indeed nirvana.

The others nodded solemnly.  "Who we gonna tell?" Steve said, and his brother just snorted.

They piled back onto their transports and followed the road around the lake.  On the other side of the road, a golf course appeared.  Perfectly manicured, but without a single golfer though it was a beautiful morning.

A lion loped across the road in front of them.  Freedy cried out.  But the others were already exclaiming at the herd of elephants at the ninth green of the golf course.  As Freedy took in the full splendor of the valley he saw zebras and gazelles. In the dogwood trees, he could see the shadows of monkeys.

At the far end of the valley, at the edge of the lake, was the biggest house Freedy had ever seen.  The plateau above them had continued to wrap around the valley, and the house wasn't so much nestled under the bluffs as became part of them.  Rising upward in level after level, curling off in rounded parapets and topped by sharp towers.  Freedy's eyes wanted to follow every curlicue and colored roof, every sharp incline and angled corner.  It was a fractal house, Freedy thought.  Always getting bigger and smaller, depending on which way his vision went.

They pulled up to a series of sweeping rounded steps, which led up to doors that were taller than most houses.  The battered yellow van looked like a diseased mutant invader next to the grandiose splendor.  The Miata looked like a tiny bug.  The Harleys for some reason fit right in.

As the last of the roars of the motorcycles bounced off the cliffs, it became heavenly quiet.  Except for the sudden yelp from a copse of trees at the center of the driveway.  Some kind of monkey, who seemed to be mocking them.

"Welcome to the Last Cozy Cottage," Garland said, apparently without irony.

"If this is the cottage,"  Charlie said,  "I want to see the mansion."

Freedy Filkins, International Jewel Thief 19.

If you enjoyed this story, and I hope you did, please click here to buy.  Thanks for reading!

Freedy didn't join the others in their target-shooting jaunt into the night.  Every few minutes he'd hear firing, and could see the gun flashes in the distance.

They wouldn't really shoot Alex and his brothers, would they?  He wasn't altogether sure about all his companions.  Billy had seem pretty pissed, that's for sure.    Fat Jim and Slim Jay seemed mild-mannered,  but he suspected they were more volatile than they appeared.  Steve and Sam looked like hardcore badass bikers -- well, mini-hardcore-badass-bikers -- but that could all be for show for all Freedy knew.

Just thinking about it made him exhausted.  It was as if someone had taken his inside guts out, and stuffed his brain with them.

He went inside, dropped onto the couch, and immediately fell asleep.


The unmistakable sound of bustling woke him up.  Worse -- people bustling and trying to keep quiet.  "Arrrgghhh..." he moaned.

"Hey, look who's up.  Our Master Thief!"  Fat Jim stopped by the couch, carrying a huge axe.

"What's going on?" Freedy managed to say.

"We're heading out," Charlie came out of the kitchen.  He approached just as Freedy swung his legs onto the floor and held his head in his hands.  Did they drink last night?  He couldn't remember.  He just remembered being extraordinarily alive one moment and totally hollowed out the next.  A stab of fear went through him, followed by a strange satisfaction.  As if he'd done something right.

Charlie pulled out a chair and sat next to Freedy.  "I have to admit, Freedy, I doubted Garland's choice of you at first.  I'm here to admit I was wrong.  I'd like to shake your hand."

He stuck out his hand in a adamant motion, and before Freedy could think, he was shaking hands vigorously.   Charlie had barely let go, before Fat Jim took his place, and then Slim Jay and Steve and Sam.  Billy came over, ignoring his hand and giving him a solid hug.  Finally Bob kneeled down and took Freedy's shoulders in each hand.  His face was almost completely bandaged, leaving only his eyes and mouth uncovered.  His eyes were moist.

 "You saved my life, brother," he said.  "I owe you."

And then the whole embarrassing scene was over and they started bustling again.  Freedy felt inordinately proud and a bit of a fraud.  If they only knew how frightened and helpless he had felt!

He watched them weaving around the house like dancers, and realized they were gleaning anything useful out Charlie's ancestral home.

"Take it all, boys," Charlie bellowed.    "We won't be back until this is over..."

Garland came in, shaking off the morning dew.  Freedy realized it was cloudy outside again, the heat was dissipating.   The old flower child was wearing his hair in a ponytail, and his beard looked like it had been trimmed.  If Freedy blurred his eyes, he looked like a mild-mannered, middle-aged clerk.

"Our hero awakes!" he exclaimed.  "Didn't I tell you, boys!  Guts of a Mama Crow fighting off an Eagle!"

"Yeah, yeah.  We told him," Steve said, and the others agreed with "Here! Here!' sounds...

"Get going, Freedy," Garland said.  "Look around, anything you think you can use, pack it up.  We'll be hauling a trailer and the less often we have to stop for supplies, the better."

"What's the hurry?" Freedy asked.  His voice sounded peeved, so he squared his shoulders and tried to look as if he was being businesslike.

Charlie answered.  "Well, you have to figure that Alex called his Corporate Overlords, either before or after last night's confrontation.  Factor a few hours to fly to Albuquerque and another hour and a half to drive up here, and we have to be out of here..." he glanced at his watch..."in one hour."

Freedy stumbled around the house a little, mostly to no purpose but to get in the way of the others who seemed to instinctively know where their fellows would move.  Freedy was a rough rock in the smooth running gears.  Within a short time, he was outside, sitting on the deck.  

He wondered in amazement at how he'd gotten there.  Usually around this time of morning, he'd be kicking back with his first cup of coffee and a newspaper.  As if reading his mind, the screendoor screeched open and Garland backed out onto the deck carefully carrying two mugs of something steaming in the morning cool.

It was black coffee, which was usually a little strong for Freedy's taste but on this morning tasted just right.  Garland sat in the other deck chair and crossed his legs with a sigh, taking a big gulp of coffee.

"Nothing like an Adventure to make you appreciate the smaller pleasures..." he said.  He smiled at Freedy as if amused by what Freedy was thinking though Freedy wasn't aware that Freedy was thinking of much of anything at all.

Freedy scalded his tongue taking too big a gulp trying to hide his confusion.  They really seemed to believe he was something he wasn't, and he wasn't sure whether to try to live up to it or talk them out of it. 

"Ah...where we heading?"

"I have a friend who can help us," Garland said.  "If he wants to, that is..." he trailed off, as if this was anything but a certainty.  "I'm sure he will..."

He shook his head, as if shaking off a worry.

"We're driving to Texas."

Corporations aren't what you think.

Like everyone else, I used to think corporations were examples of success.  That is, they succeeded enough to get big.

After my experiences with Marvel and the sportcard companies and many other corporations over the last 30 years,  I've completely gone the other direction.  Most corporations in my opinion are horribly run.  Shortsighted, ungainly, inefficient.

Thing is -- they're big and they're willing to step on you.

So if you have a business and you're willing to step on people to get big, then you too can become a corporation.

That's all.