The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers. Thomas Mullen

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СКАЧАТЬ the cops pocketed their notebooks. Once back in Chicago, she’d read everything she could find about Jason at the library. He and his gang already had robbed another bank, or three, or seven, depending on which rumors were to be believed. Reporters couldn’t keep up: the Firefly Brothers were allegedly responsible for a train robbery in Utah, had orchestrated prison breaks in Missouri and Minnesota, robbed National Guard armories across the Midwest, and even made off with three fighter planes from a factory in western Pennsylvania, all in the past two weeks. They were suspected of being communist insurgents, or Nazi agents, or Confederate loyalists in the mold of Jesse James. They were committing crimes in Republican counties to help local Democrats in the upcoming election, or maybe the opposite. Mostly lies and conjecture, Darcy figured. But what fun it would be to try to find the truth hiding beneath it all.

      She had seen an approximation of Jason’s face on a wanted poster outside the post office and had let her nails linger over the badly drawn cheek. Surely the police artist had never seen Jason Fireson with his own eyes, felt his presence.

      “Could have sworn First National used to be here.” Jason’s suit might have been dark blue, but in the night it was black. “City’s changing so fast these days.”

      “Or are you here because you’ve reconsidered kidnapping?”

      It was cold and she could see her breath. They both could: he watched her breath hanging there and the moment felt even more intimate than when his eyes were on hers.

      “I’m still not a fan of it, I have to admit. I had a feeling you might come willingly.”

      “With a known desperado? What do you take me for?”

      “A fascinating woman who hasn’t been fascinated enough.”

      She stepped closer. She thought of that wanted poster, and she wanted her fingers on that cheek. “You’re offering me fascination?”

      “I’m offering you an evening. For starters.”

      She smiled. Except she’d been smiling the whole time. He made her put smiles on top of her smiles.

      That had been barely ten months ago. Despite what she’d told that officer, they were not married. But a ring seemed trivial to her, as it must to him. She had no need for rings or necklaces, brooches or earrings, rocks or stones. Just him. Whether Jason had understood it or not, the money had never mattered to her.

      He had wooed her for the better part of three weeks, like the carefree man of means he was. Each day, after she returned from her achingly dull job as a typist—her father had objected to her even having an occupation, as such servitude did not reflect well on the family name, but she refused to take another cent from him—Jason’s car would sidle up to the sidewalk. He took her to the sorts of nightclubs proper suitors would have been scandalized to set foot in, dancing her through the steps he knew and allowing her to show off the latest crazes; he escorted her to the World’s Fair, winning marksman contests and surveying his domain from the top of the Ferris wheel; he drove her through the countryside, gunning the V8 engine of his new coupe, testing the truthfulness of the salesman’s boasts; he bought tickets to air shows, the two of them lying beside each other on picnic blankets, their lazy fingers reaching up to trace the daredevils’ paths through the heavens.

      Darcy had avoided alcohol ever since her initial troubles with it, but with Jason she found she was able to partake of a drink here and there. He always ordered but never had a second. She commented on this, and he said something about the need for control. Such calmness, so different from her. She wanted to sample all of life, and although she sensed this craving in him as well, it didn’t gnaw at him as it did her. He seemed to know he would get around to everything eventually, that there was no need to rush. It had to be an act, didn’t it? But my, such a good one.

      On the tenth night of her whirlwind courtship, her father called her, asking who was this man she had been seen with. Seen by whom? Outraged, she had switched apartments the next day, moving to a different neighborhood, changing her telephone number, not leaving a forwarding address. It exhausted her meager funds, but Jason happily paid for the next three months’ rent; he had been spending the past few nights with her anyway.

      What a strange new life, and so sudden. Darcy had returned to Chicago from boarding school a year earlier, having turned down her father’s invitations to be sent away to some girls’ college. She was sick of being sent away, imprisoned by others’ expectations. Wasn’t that what had finally driven her mother to despair? Marilyn Windham had been trapped by expectations that she couldn’t fulfill: being a kindly mother, the petite and smiling trophy for her tycoon husband, producing a male heir for his legacy. So she had broken free the only way she knew how. Darcy refused to let such onerous and limiting expectations be placed upon her. She had no interest in playing the society princess, the debutante, the prize for the next generation of financial barons.

      In truth, she hadn’t known what did interest her, until the day Jason Fireson winked at her. It was tiresome, she had realized that day, to define yourself against things. So refreshing to find something you didn’t want to rebel against, something you wanted to wrap yourself inside.

      After reading the telegram, Darcy hurriedly put on a white-flowered dress and light sweater and ran down the stairs. Her heart was frantic, and her stomach was reminding her that she hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours. Life had returned, and she needed sustenance. She clasped the telegram in her right hand, folded in half.

      “Excuse me, Miss Windham?”

      A voice she did not recognize. You never knew how Jason would contact you, and she turned to face the man. But he wasn’t there.

      She was about to turn again when she felt a hand clamping on her right forearm. A car had pulled up on her left, by a hydrant. There was another man, and a hand pushed her head down before she could see his face.

      The men were moving toward the car and her feet did their part to keep up. Then she was in the backseat and someone pushed her head down again, and another set of hands was riffling through her hair. A tightness was pulled over her head, stopping at the eyes. Goggles? She felt them sucking at her skull. In front they were stuffed with dark cloth. Like the blindfold from that other time, but far less gentlemanly.

      “Go!” someone hissed.

      The car was moving when she asked if they were with Jason.

      “Keep quiet and everything’ll be fine,” said a voice beside her.

      “She say Jason?” someone asked from the front. “Doesn’t she know?”

      “Know what?” Darcy asked.

      Something jabbed her ribs. “You know what this is, doll? Keep talking and you’ll be as dead as your boyfriend.”

      Darcy was very still even as the car took a sharp right. Jason had not sent these people.

      She pressed her palms into each other, the fingers pulling on their opposites’ knuckles. The world around her was mad but she tried to be its calm center.

      She felt very alone, and she had dropped the telegram.

       VI.

      Weston Fireson’s brothers haunted him long before they were dead. As their adventures had filled newspapers the previous spring, СКАЧАТЬ