The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers: A Novel

by Thomas Mullen

  Thanks again, brothers. His sips had become gulps and his head was swimming. He glanced at the redhead, still out of earshot, leaning over the bar to share a story with the bartender.

  “So, out of curiosity,” Weston ventured, his eyes still on the redhead.

  McGill said a number far higher than Weston had imagined.

  And because he’d already lost face in front of this man, as well as his own self-esteem, Weston said, “I don’t suppose … I don’t suppose you owe my brother a favor?”

  “Getting a message to Owney is one hell of a favor. Jason and I are more than square after that. You want a girl to lay her frame down for you, you’ll goddamn pay her for it.”

  Then his eyes gave Weston the up-and-down again and he shook his head.

  McGill walked away, toward the bartender and the redhead. He whispered something to them. Two smiling faces turned his way and Weston averted his eyes, staring straight ahead, at the glass he was two sips from finishing. But he could hear them laughing. He hated them all. His face burned as he downed the glass. It might have been more fitting—a nice and the hell with you, too—to have left that last bit of booze before he walked away, before he hurriedly fled the building, but he just couldn’t bear to leave it behind.

  He was still drunk and still angry more than an hour later when he made it back to Lincoln City. He walked out of the train station and crossed the street to a telephone booth, closing the doors behind him.

  He dropped his coin and told the operator long distance, Chicago. The number, he realized with shame, he had memorized after staring at it for so many nights. He looked out the windows on both sides to see if anyone was watching. The world was swirling.

  The secretary who answered the phone was coldly professional, as if she knew why he was calling. As if she were holding the receiver with black gloves.

  “I’d like to speak to Cary Delaney, please.”

  Weston slept for the rest of the afternoon. He had feared that making that call would be like tying a noose around his own neck, but instead it was the opposite, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders and he could breathe again. He felt weightless, drifting up and into sleep. But when he woke it was dark and his head was throbbing.

  He opened his door to fetch some water from the bathroom and again a man was sleeping in the hallway. The man hadn’t been there that afternoon, had he? Weston tried to remember, but the day was fuzzy. He felt a surge of fear and he wondered if he could be hungover and still drunk at the same time, because he was being irrational. Surely this couldn’t be—

  It was. Jason looked up at him and motioned his head to the door. Weston nearly dropped the empty glass. He turned and his hand was already shaking as he twisted the knob. He swallowed and thought for a moment he might vomit.

  Weston took two steps into the room, then stood still as Jason again shut and locked the door, again checked behind furniture and under the bed, again laid his natty sheet and long powerful firearm on the kitchenette table.

  Jesus, did Jason know? Had this all been some elaborate test of Weston’s loyalty?

  Jason was in the same clothes as the day before. Apparently his night’s sleep on Weston’s floor hadn’t been a good one, because his eyes remained red and baggy.

  “Didn’t think you were home,” Jason said, his voice unreadable but tense, like the night before. “I knocked a while back and you didn’t answer.”

  “I was … pretty tired.” Weston tried to act naturally. “What happened this morning?”

  “Nothing. Just didn’t think I should stick around by day. So. Did you do it?”

  He swallowed. His voice was tiny. “Did I do what?”

  Jason stared as Weston just stood there, stunned. Weston had done it. And if this had been a test that he had failed, he would stand here and take his punishment. He would not back down. This was not his brother anymore.

  “Jesus, Wes.” Jason shook his head. “Did you go to Karpis or not?”

  Weston exhaled. Calm down. “Yes. I saw McGill, gave him your message. He, um, I don’t remember him ever explicitly saying that he’d tell Owney, but—”

  “He wouldn’t say that,” Jason interrupted with the first smile Weston had seen on his face in the past two days. “He’ll just do it. Perfect. Thanks, Wes.”

  The fear began to subside, and Weston felt all the smaller for having been so scared of his own brother. And angrier. He kept replaying Jason’s words from the night before: I’d like to think I’m getting past it.

  “Are you spending the night again?”

  Jason shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

  Weston seemed to be gaining control of his insides, but his stomach felt even worse than usual, scoured by alcohol and otherwise empty. He told Jason that McGill had fed him some whiskey and he desperately needed to get some water.

  He walked to the bathroom and filled two glasses, standing there for a minute while he drank and refilled and tried to calm down. He hated how meek he’d been around Jason. Last night he’d wanted to say something but hadn’t possessed the nerve. He needed to act this time.

  Back in the room, he handed a glass to Jason, who twitched at the slightest sound from the hallway or the street.

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Weston said.

  Jason waited.

  “Have you ever wondered,” Weston asked, “how differently things might have turned out if it had been me Pop had gone out with that night?”

  Jason didn’t move, but his red eyes were much colder. “How’s that?”

  “Maybe the jury … maybe they would have believed me more than you.”

  “Why?” Jason’s voice was quick now, nearly interrupting his brother.

  “C’mon, Jason,” Weston said, softening already. “I mean, no offense, but—”

  “None taken. Get it out. Why?”

  “You were on the stand in a prisoner’s outfit, for God’s sake. I’m not blaming you, I’m just saying that maybe if it had been me, then—”

  “You’re not blaming me.”

  “I only mean—”

  “You’re not blaming me.”

  He would not cower. He would not shake his head or let this subject go undiscussed one moment longer. “I’m just saying I wish Pop’s alibi hadn’t been a guy in a prisoner’s uniform. A guy with two arrests.”

  Jason sucked in his bottom lip and nodded to himself, as if Weston had confirmed something he’d always known. “They didn’t not believe me because I had a record, Wes. They—”

  “It certainly made it easier.”

  “—didn’t believe me because I was his son. Any son would have lied for his father, and they knew that. The alibi was all Pop had. Any son would have lied. The only difference between you and me is I can lie better.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Jason waved his hand at Weston. “I am so sick of carrying this with me. No, Wes, I don’t think of how it might’ve been different. Because it would have been worse if you’d been the one up there perjuring himself.”

  Weston’s tongue still worked, but his chest had trouble forcing the air out. “What are you saying?”

  “Do you have any goddamn idea how difficult that performance was? The prosecutor tried to poke his fingers into every hole he could think of, but I had an answer for him each time. And you had the goddamn nerve to be angry at me for not being with you all during the trial. Not being able to ‘support’ you and the family.” He shook his head. “Support you? I was the one shuttling back and forth from a prison cell to the courthouse, I was the one turning that prosecutor back with every answer and not breaking a sweat. I never stuttered. I didn’t blink. You think you could have done that? You think you have that in you?”

  Weston didn’t remember stepping backward, but he was now leaning against the wall. The world had moved around him.

  “Pop was lucky I was the one.”

  “Do you mean—?”

  “I knew Whit bought
it, but you, too?” Jason laughed in derision or disbelief. They felt the same to Weston. “I figured you were smarter than that. I figured that, at the very least, you were smart, Wes. Jesus Christ.” Jason shook his head. “Fine. Believe what you want. If it had been you, Pop would’ve been acquitted. If it had been you, all would be well. A big, happy family. I didn’t mean to stomp on your beliefs, Wes.”

  Jason reached into his back pocket and put on a grimy brown cap, pulling it low over his forehead. Then he picked up his rifle, wrapping it in the filthy bedsheet and cradling it in his left arm.

  Things were happening too quickly for Weston. He didn’t understand. No, he did understand—he just didn’t want to.

  “You’re, you’re sure? Pop … told you?”

  Without answering, Jason walked to the door and had his hand on the knob before Weston could ask, “Wait, what are you doing?”

  “Leaving. Don’t worry, Wes, I’ll find a way to pass you some of the money once I get it washed, no problem. And then you can forget about me. You’ll never have to look at me again, and you can blame your no-good brother for all your life’s problems.”

  “Wait, Jason, please. I didn’t know, I never thought he, I mean, how—”

  “Shut up!” Jason spoke through gritted teeth. He pulled at the knob and realized he had forgotten to unlock it. “Just stop talking, Wes, before you make it even worse.”

  The images still hadn’t finished forming in Weston’s head—Jason’s story, this new awareness of things.

  Good God, what had Weston done?

  “No, please, don’t go to Detroit.”

  Jason was unlocking the door. Weston had to tell him.

  “Jason, you can’t go there. You don’t un—”

  But instead of turning the knob Jason put his hand in his pocket, and when it came out there was a pistol in it.

  “I swear to God, Wes, you say one more goddamn word and I’ll snap.” He was pointing it at his brother and his eyes were wet. Weston had never seen Jason look so unhinged. “Stop talking. Just stop.”

  He had to tell him. But the gun was pointed at his chest, and Weston’s mouth was too dry to say a thing.

  Then Jason opened the door and stepped out. Weston expected a slam, but his ever-wary brother shut the door quietly.

  Weston didn’t remember sitting down but here he was on the floor. Had he fallen? The world had moved up three feet and knocked him down. Had he passed out?

  He had to warn Jason. His legs were shaking but he managed to stand, pulling himself up alongside the table. He could chase after Jason, but would his brother really shoot him? Was he that angry, that deranged?

  Weston ran to his bed, pulling open the curtains and lifting the window.

  “Jason!” He didn’t see his brother out there but he screamed all the same. “Don’t go to Detroit! They know you’re coming! The feds know about it!”

  Two pedestrians looked up at him, this madman screaming into the night. Jason should have reached the bottom of the stairs by now, should have made it outside. Tears were running down Weston’s cheeks.

  He screamed his warning again. He screamed that he was sorry. Someone yelled for him to shut the hell up. Weston screamed and screamed and finally collapsed, his head on the windowsill, hoping his brother had heard him.

  XXXII.

  Heading north from St. Louis, Jason had driven as long as Whit could tolerate. Whit’s scorched leg was hurting more with each passing hour; he needed rest, and not in the backseat of the car. Jason drove past the bedroom communities and into quieter country, stopping at a tourist camp just off the Mississippi. He figured everyone in the state would be hearing radio updates about the Firefly Brothers and he hated the idea of letting rooms from a suspicious proprietor, but the only alternative was to pull into a park and sleep in their latest vehicle, a stolen Ford. He’d spied signs for the camp on the country road he’d been driving, and had followed its cursory directions here, off an even smaller road. He surveyed the area—a dozen small cabins scattered about the property, connected by walking trails. The branches of oaks and hickories hung heavy with leaves; the camp would be hidden in shadows even by day.

  The manager was indeed listening to the radio, bluegrass twanging in the moonlight, but he was elderly and probably had bad eyesight. Jason gave a false name and paid for three nights in advance, asking about fishing conditions as if he gave a damn.

  The cabin was in the back, with an obstructed view of the road. The gentle shushing of the river in the distance was the only sound. He roused Darcy and guided her into one of the bedrooms. Whit so reeked of booze that Jason feared being vomited on as he helped him hop his way into the second bedroom. When Whit lay down, Jason checked his leg again: it looked worse than before, and he wondered if they’d misjudged the severity of the injury. He gave Whit two more painkillers and downed a few himself.

  Next he carried the money and the guns into the cabin and locked the door.

  With wet towels he cleaned Darcy’s wounds and dressed them with the bandages and some towels. Lying on the bed, she bit her lip as he did this, but she didn’t seem to be in as much pain as he thought she would be. He would need to buy more dressings, and some antiseptic, but this was good enough for now.

  “Did they hurt you?”

  “No. I did that to myself, cutting my ropes loose.”

  He leaned over and kissed her on the lips.

  He hadn’t slept since his last death, if you could call that sleep. Given their all-night watch outside the kidnappers’ lair, that meant he hadn’t slept in two days—days that had covered hundreds of miles and many gunshots. And the car crash: various muscles he’d never even felt before ached with each motion.

  “What happened to you?” she asked.

  “Let’s talk about it in the morning. We should sleep while we can. It’ll make more sense then.”

  “I don’t want this to make sense.”

  “That’s good, because, honestly, it won’t. But I’m tired, and you look exhausted.”

  “My father did this.”

  “Did what?”

  She told him her father had been arrested earlier that day for masterminding the kidnapping. Jason told her he would buy the morning papers and see if it was true. But already he knew that it was. Windham had somehow arranged for the brothers to be killed, likely through his Mob connections, and then he was free to kidnap his own flesh and blood. As if sending his grieving daughter to a sanatorium those many years ago hadn’t been enough, now he’d gone this extra mile. Jason wished he had figured this out before the cops had, just so he could have had the pleasure of sparing the old bastard from life in prison. Windham deserved a different fate indeed.

  Jason lay beside her, both of them fully clothed on top of the sheets.

  She half rolled onto him, one arm across his chest. He winced but didn’t let on how sore he was. He carefully clasped her bandaged hand, and even though the light was still on he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  In the morning, Darcy was still out cold when Jason left her a note and drove to the nearest town.

  His various injuries had worsened overnight. He shuffled cautiously, and again he had to hope that because he looked so bad off no one would possibly think he could be the great Jason Fireson.

  At a clothing store he bought pants and shirts for himself and Whit, as well as two dresses, undergarments, some bandannas, and a yellow tam for Darcy. He slanted a new boater atop his head and donned a pair of dark-amber sunglasses as soon as he was out of the store. Next he bought some groceries, more ointment and bandages, another bottle of rye, and the Post-Dispatch, which he read in the car. Stories about the Firefly Brothers took up the entire top half of the front page, and many other pages besides. Police in Sedalia as well as state cops from the highway shootout had identified them, despite their alleged death twelve days ago. This had spurred J. Edgar Hoover into admitting he was no longer convinced that the brothers had been killed or even arrested in Points Nort
h. But at the same time Hoover warned people not to get carried away with far-fetched stories of miraculous escapes, reminding citizens that his very capable agents would rectify any mistakes made by less competent local police squads.

  Jason read the stories twice. Reporters invariably got most of their facts wrong when writing about the brothers, and today the conjecture was intensified, as the impossible events of the past two weeks had left the poor hacks with vast holes to fill. The Firesons were also blamed for a bank robbery in Jefferson City, as well as a shootout in Liberty and the burning of a library in Macon. There were no updates on Darcy’s kidnapping or any hints of her father’s involvement, and there didn’t seem to be anything about Brickbat or the doc.

  Ten minutes later, Jason was back at the cabin and Darcy was still asleep.

  Whit had certainly been in better moods. He woke up either drunk or hungover or some vicious combination of the two. Jason handed him a doughnut and a bottle of orange juice when he finished applying a new coat of ointment. They talked about what was in the paper and what it meant for them. Normally, Jason’s strategy would be to drive as far from a police presence as possible, but Whit’s leg and Darcy’s exhaustion required a different strategy. The cops probably thought they were trying to get somewhere in Jefferson City, or maybe even back home, so hopefully they were relatively safe here.

  “Let’s stay the night,” Jason said. “Maybe the next one, too. Then we can head up and get Veronica and Patrick.”

  He still had his California restaurant plan, but he hadn’t the faintest idea what Whit was considering as his next step. He had a feeling Whit didn’t, either.

  After the short-term plan was settled, Jason folded a piece of gauze in half, affixed some medical tape to it, and reached down to stick it on Whit’s forehead.

  “What’s the idea?”

  “You have a bullet hole there, remember? Darcy didn’t see it in the dark, luckily, and I don’t want to have to explain it to her later.”

  “So how do I explain a bandage on my forehead?”

  “You grew a wart. Real nasty one. I’m sure she’ll believe that.”