The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers. Thomas Mullen

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      “I know how these things work!” the man insisted. “There was a bank robbery in South Bend a month ago, and they killed the two people they took with them! I say we let go now and take our chances in the woods!”

      The prayer’s voice had only grown louder.

      “That wasn’t the Firefly Brothers in South Bend!” replied the man behind Darcy. “That was some other gang! And I’m not letting go at this speed!”

      As if on cue, the Buick began to slow down as it approached a crossing with another country road, where an empty car was waiting. The landscape was flat and deserted, occasional silos the only dark scratches on the horizon.

      “I’m going to let go and run for it!” the man said, shifting his gaze among the three of them to enlist their participation. Then his fingers uncoiled and he was gone. Darcy turned and saw his body rolling on the ground, dirt and pebbles rising in a cloud.

      The Buick parked beside the other car.

      “Everybody back up three paces!” commanded a deep voice. Once the hostages had obeyed—each of them flexing tight fingers finally released from their death grips—the doors opened. One of the robbers sprinted back toward the escaped hostage, who was slowly attempting to rise, moaning.

      Three other men exited the car.

      “Hope that wasn’t too rocky of a ride,” the gang leader said to the hostages, his eyes lingering on Darcy. A long, double-handled gun dangled like an afterthought from his right hand. With his jacket open, Darcy also saw that he had a pistol in a shoulder holster. “The roads out here leave something to be desired.”

      “Please don’t hurt us,” begged the woman who’d been praying.

      “Why would we do a thing like that? You’ve served your purpose, and did a particularly good job of it, I might add. Now, we are going to have to tie you and you”—he pointed to the other man—“to this post here, but the cops will find you soon enough. And it’s a nice warm day—it’ll be good to get some air.”

      As one of the robbers escorted the wounded escapee back to the parked cars, the rest of the gang busily moved packages, bags, weapons, and gasoline cans from the Buick into the other car, a black Pontiac. They all wore gloves, which struck Darcy as odd, considering that none of their faces were masked.

      “So you’re the Firefly Brothers?” Darcy asked the ringleader. “That’s what they call you?”

      He looked at her appraisingly, as if surprised her voice wasn’t quivering. Perhaps he preferred quiverers? She didn’t think so.

      “They call us a lot of things. But we’ll take that one over some of the others.”

      She had heard of them. They were making some noise in the lesser parts of the Midwest, though not in her hometown of Chicago, where the Syndicate held something of a monopoly on crime—or perhaps only an oligopoly, now that Capone was in jail. The papers must not have run any photographs, though. Surely she wouldn’t have been able to blithely flip past a picture of this face.

      “So why am I not being tied up with them?” she asked him as two of the robbers began tying the other hostages’ wrists to the post of a collapsing fence.

      “We still need some company for a bit longer, if you don’t mind,” the ringleader told her. “But don’t worry, this time you can sit inside with us. Won’t be long.”

      “So do you have a name, or is it just Firefly Brother Number One?”

      “Better not let my brother hear you say that—he’ll take offense. My name’s Jason. And you are…?”

      “Darcy Windham.”

      “You aren’t related to—”

      “He’s my father.”

      “My, my. An automotive heiress.” He tipped his fedora. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

      “I’m afraid I’m not terribly close to my old man, so don’t ask me for any free cars.”

      “I’ve never had trouble finding free cars. You aren’t fond of your old man?”

      “Well, he did name an axle after me, but that’s about the extent of his familial affections.”

      Jason smiled. “It’s a form of immortality.”

      “Yes, a rather greasy one.”

      The other robbers had finished tying up the hostages, and Jason motioned for her to get into the backseat of the Pontiac.

      “You’re just going to leave this Buick out here to rot?”

      “Afraid so. The cops saw it, so the cops can have it.”

      “Why don’t you wear masks?”

      “I hope you aren’t calling me ugly.”

      “No,” and she found it impossible not to return his smile as he put a hand on her shoulder to guide her into the car. “But it does make it possible for your hostages to identify you later, doesn’t it?”

      The man who’d vomited screamed, “Jesus, lady, shut up!”

      “Hey, watch it, buddy!” Jason snapped. But when he turned back to Darcy he was smiling again. “It’s hot under a mask. Plus it’s hard to breathe. And who cares if people can identify me?”

      She still hadn’t quite gotten into the car. “You aren’t afraid of the police?”

      “Are you?”

      “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

      “Never? Then why do you have that gleam in your eye, Miss Windham?”

      More thunder, rattling her apartment’s windows. More gin, rattling her nerves. It was supposed to settle nerves, wasn’t it? Perhaps she’d had too much, or too little. Only one way to be sure.

      She hated herself as she poured. It had been years since she’d taken more than one drink in a sitting, not since emerging from the long fog precipitated by her mother’s “suicide.” Darcy preferred to think of it as a murder, even though there was no murder weapon for her father to leave his fingerprints on. Darcy had barely been in her teens, but her father hadn’t noticed her drinking for months—or maybe he’d noticed but hadn’t cared, at least not until the spectacle of herself became an embarrassment to him and his business. And then his solution had been to send her to a sanatorium—straitjackets and syringes and soft rooms.

      Her father had called her a few hours ago, to see if she’d heard the news. He sounded as if he were gloating. She didn’t know how he’d got her number—she had assumed this apartment was her secret. The man had tentacles; there was no limit to where they could slither. He’d asked what she was doing and she had said what does it sound like I’m doing, and he had told her martinis were a rather strong drink at this hour. What’s wrong with strength? she’d asked. Didn’t you preach the importance of strength, the necessity of strength, the primacy СКАЧАТЬ