Freedy Filkins, International Jewel Thief, 13.

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As if someone had drawn back the blinds, the solid sheet of gray folded back and there were blue skies and sunlight behind it.  The temperature started to rise.  And then rise some more.  Freedy took off his coat, then his sweater.  Underneath, his t-shirt was wet with sweat.  He hadn't showered on the whole trip, which was into late into the third day. 

At a rest stop outside Albuquerque, New Mexico, Garland and he waited, perched on a picnic table, drinking the Dr. Peppers.  They were mostly quiet, talking about how hot it was getting.  The heat seemed to be pounding off the pavement into their faces.

Drowsily, Freedy wondered why he wasn't more curious.  He had Garland at his mercy, but he was satisfied with simple companionship.

Why didn't he ask what they were doing?  Where they were going?  Freedy felt overwhelmed and when he felt like events were over his head he tended to shut down and deal with what was in front of him.  He figured they'd tell him what they wanted from him when they wanted it.

When the van pulled up, he could see that the others were surprised to see him with Garland.

"You didn't even know I was gone, did you!" he exclaimed.

Charlie frowned.  "Oh course we did."

"We missed your company, pal," Billy assured him.

Billy and Bob paid more attention to him than the others,  maybe because they felt bad about breaking his skylight.  He was beginning to be able to tell the twins apart.  Both were tall and angular, with thick blond hair, and both wore goatees.  Billy had slightly longer hair, his nose was tipped up slightly more as if he'd been in a fight.  Bob was a tad chunkier, and favored all black clothing.

Freedy didn't believe their protestations.  He was an afterthought, he was sure of it, someone Garland had decided to add at the last moment.  Under false pretenses, at that.  He was no Master Thief.  Last time he'd stolen anything was when he was six years old and that was candy and he'd been caught.

Sam and Steve roared up on their motorcycles, and the conversation was drowned in the roars of the engines.  One thing Freedy had always hated  -- revving engines.  It was like fingernails on the chalkboard for him, like a thousand kazoos were blowing in his ears.  His idea of purgatory was a Nascar race, and complete hell was a Monster Truck rally.

The two brothers kept revving and revving, even though they'd already kicked down their stands.  It was as if they couldn't bear to let the noise stop.   Steve and Sam weren't twins, but were close in age and appearance.  They'd taken off their huge ponchos, revealing again that they were little guys, with loose clothing, gaunt faces and scraggly black beards and hair.  They weren't much bigger than Charlie but without the strong personality.  They usually just grinned at the conversation around them, laughed at the jokes, but rarely joined in.  Their Harleys spoke for them.

Jay and Jim were complete opposites.  One was tall and skinny, the other short and fat.  Same bemused look in their face, surprisingly delicate features -- thin nose and mouth, high cheekbones and flattering thick eyelashes over deep brown eyes.

It was a ridiculous number of new names for Freedy to try to remember.  He was still calling each brother by the other brother's name a good fifty percent of the time.  It usually came out as:  "Hey, Sam, I mean Steve" or "Jay -- Jim!"  Still, Freedy was kind of proud of himself.  It was usually hard enough for him to remember one name after introduction, much less eight new names.

"We can get there by nightfall," Garland was saying to Charlie when the bone-rattling revs of the Harleys were finally, blessedly switched off.   The traffic suddenly seemed to be whisperingly quiet in comparison, even the decompressions of the trucks pulling into the rest stop.  Cicadas buzzed relentlessly in the background, and it soothed Freedy.  He closed his eyes and soaked up the sounds, the taste of Dr. Pepper, and unmoving table under his butt.

The simple pleasures of travel.  Which mostly consisted of short respites from the discomforts of travel.

"I'm not sure we should arrive in the dark," Charlie said.  "But I long for a shower and a hot meal.  So let's push on."

They tumbled into the van, and it wasn't long before the heat and the rocking, creaking of the back compartment put Freedy to sleep.


He woke and his neck was frozen at a forty-five degree angle.  He put his hands up to his head and pried it sideways.  There was a loud snap.  That's it! he thought.   He wasn't spending another night in this van.  They could leave him in the ditch.  At least he'd be able to lay down!

They were winding up a mountain road.  It was still dusty and hot; by now the back window was completely covered with dust and he couldn't see out.  He peered over the seat.  They went over a couple cattle grades, made several bewilderingly roundabout turns, and arrived on a bluff above a small stream.

A log cabin was perched on stilts on the slope.  The crew suddenly seemed alive and excited and Freedy guessed they'd reached their destination.

The back door groaned open, and the late afternoon light slanted into his eyes, blinding him for a moment.  Charlie was standing there, looking down on his with a slight smile.

"Welcome to Lorn Mountain," he said.  He waved at the cabin and then beyond to the stream below and then up to the rising slopes.

"This mountain is my ancestral home, Freedy.    I need you to help me take it back from the thieves who stole it."