Читать книгу The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers - Thomas Mullen - Страница 9

The sun rose grudgingly, as if it would have preferred to stay in hiding. Jason intermittently checked its progress over the familiar, softly sloping landscape of southern Ohio before finally admitting he was awake.

“Good morning,” Whit said when he noticed his brother rustling.

Jason grunted in return. He sat up straighter. The feeling of his stolen shirt tugging slightly against the bandages on his chest told him it hadn’t been a dream.

Though for the first few hours the brothers had felt charged with adrenaline and bewilderment, they had grown tired as their drive unfolded into the night. They chose to sleep in shifts, aiming to make it home as quickly as possible.

“Home” referred to the Lincoln City house they had grown up in. They hadn’t lived there in years, but nothing had taken its place in terms of either permanence or significance—even though their other brother, who still lived in Lincoln City, made them feel less welcome every time they visited.

They desperately wanted to find Darcy and Veronica and let them know they were all right, or alive, or whatever they were, but that seemed too risky. If the girls thought the brothers had been caught, it would be hard to predict how they would react. Go into hiding? Surrender to the police? There was also a chance the cops had been watching the girls all along, and had somehow gleaned information from their movements that had led to the brothers’ “apprehension.”

With their wounds bandaged up and the scene of their ghastly awakening many miles behind them now, it was easier to tell themselves that there was some other explanation for this. The morning’s clarity only heightened the previous night’s dreamlike quality, and Jason and Whit both sat there in the car, hoping that this soon would make sense, hoping that God had granted them some startling favor. Or maybe the Devil had held up his end of an already forgotten bargain—that was more believable. And so they were merely trying to act the way they normally would when pursued by forces beyond their control—something with which they had considerable experience.

Over the past few months—ever since the federal government had made the elimination of “Public Enemies” a priority, like reducing unemployment and stabilizing the dollar—the brothers had been transformed from local criminals of modest repute to world-famous outlaws, as newspapers across the country printed exaggerated versions of their life stories. Jason was flattered until the drawbacks became clear: safe houses started turning the brothers away, and wary associates showed declining interest in future heists. Worse, the type of regular folk who used to put up Jason and Whit whenever breakdowns or blown tires left them stranded in the middle of farm country—the people who were grateful for the hideout money the brothers paid them and who praised their efforts against the banks—were now too tempted by the government’s bounty on the Firefly Brothers’ heads. Back in May, when the gang had pulled a job at the Federal Reserve in Milwaukee, Jason and Whit had barely survived when random civilians started taking potshots at them; one of their associates wasn’t so lucky.

At least the bloody Federal Reserve job had been their most lucrative yet: a hundred and fifty grand, to be divided among the four surviving members of the Firefly Gang. The money, however, was easily traceable and therefore needed to be washed. Which was a problem: launderers were even more skittish around the brothers than safe houses were. Sorry, they all begged off, you’re too hot. The gang split ways as Jason and Whit tried to find a reliable, less cowardly fence. There followed weeks of hiding out, of exhausting the goodwill and bad judgment of old pals, of waking to late-night police raids and sneaking through early-morning stakeouts. One fence who claimed he could help them had turned rat, setting them up for a meeting at a Toledo restaurant that was surrounded by feds. Jason had pulled off a brilliant escape that time, but barely. Finally, he and Whit had fallen so low as to live in a car, sleeping in their clothes and bathing in creeks. Jason Fireson, the silk-suit bandit, had become unwashed and unshaven. Carrying six figures of unspendable bills on his rather foul person.

The brothers’ share of those unspendable bills only grew when one of their two remaining partners was gunned down by cops in a Peoria alley. Jason read about it in the paper.

Finally, they found a trustworthy guy who knew a guy who knew a guy who could pass the hot bills while on a gambling expedition to Cuba. The laundering fee would be steep; the chiseler had insisted that washing money for the Firefly Brothers was an extreme risk, as was doing business in Cuba. But it was the best Jason and Whit could do. Stomach fluttering, eyes especially vigilant after the Toledo escape, Jason had handed two very heavy suitcases to this stranger he had just met, who was boarding a flight for Havana and would supposedly be coming back to the States for a Detroit rendezvous with the Firesons two weeks later.

Miraculously, the fence did return, with seventy thousand clean bills—less than they had agreed upon, but he claimed he had run into some trouble abroad and had needed to dip into the funds for some healthy bribes. Jason shook the washer’s dirty hand and took the money. Now, at long last, he and Whit could disappear and start a restaurant in California, or raise bulls in Spain, or whatever it was they had promised themselves and their girls they would do.

But they didn’t make it to Spain or California. They sent coded messages to Darcy and Veronica telling them to meet at a motel outside Valparaiso, noting that they would pick them up as soon as they paid a share to Owney Davis, Jason’s longtime collaborator and the lone survivor of their gang. They were supposed to meet Owney at a restaurant in Detroit, the night after getting the money washed. Neither could remember what had happened. Had they been shot while driving to the restaurant? That meant they somehow would have driven, badly injured, all the way from Detroit to Points North, which defied credulity, but no more so than their current existence. And if they had been shot in Detroit, did that mean Owney had betrayed them? Or maybe the drop-off with Owney had gone as planned but then something had happened during their long drive through Michigan and into Indiana to meet the girls. But what, exactly? And why Points North, which was a good twenty miles from Valparaiso? What on earth had happened that night?

So now, home. Normally they called their mother before visiting, using their code phrase (“I was just checking to see if the furnace needs oil”) in case the phones were tapped. But if the cops were still listening to her line, and if they were wise to the code, then calling would raise new suspicions. There was no way to tell what the Points North cop from the night before had told his colleagues, but Jason was betting on the fact that the cop would keep the bizarre encounter to himself, even after the alarm was raised about the missing bodies. For who would believe such a story? The cops had gone to the extent of announcing that the Firesons were dead, so police nationwide at least believed it to be true. That meant they would find some way to fit the fact of the brothers’ escape into their predetermined reality, and it was up to the brothers to hide in the shadows of logic that such lies cast.

“What if Ma’s already heard about our…‘apprehension’ by now?” Whit asked.

“If the gas station kid had, then she has, too. Reporters were probably calling her all night to ask for a comment.”

They were off the highway now, driving through occasional farm towns that had prospered during the war but had sickened and withered years before their malaise was shared with the rest of the country. Ten miles west of Lincoln City, they were winding through a particularly desolate hamlet when Jason pointed to a general store that sat between a vacant building and a farm equipment rental-and-supply company.

Whit parked in front. The sidewalks were empty and the light felt golden, dozens of suns reflecting from store windows.

Jason reached into his pocket and handed Whit one of the cop’s dollars. “Here, you’re the one wearing shoes.”

Whit walked into the store. Jason rolled down his window and let his arm dangle, feeling the light breeze of night’s retreat. His fingertips were no longer black, as he and Whit had stopped by a closed filling station late at night to rinse their hands with a hose.

When Whit walked back out of the store, his facial expression was grim. Jason did notice that Whit looked less gray than he had the night before, and he glanced down at his own arms and saw that the same was true of him, as if their bodies were recovering from…recovering from what?

But they still didn’t look quite right.

“We made the front page,” Whit said, closing the door behind him and opening the Lincoln City Sun between their seats.

Before Jason could read the enormous, Armistice-sized headline, his eyes were drawn to the photograph below it. Five policemen were smiling proudly. In front of them two bodies lay prone atop cooling boards, white sheets pulled to their armpits. Jason recognized the room. The bodies’ profiles were small enough in the picture for it to be possible to doubt who exactly they were.

FIREFLY BROTHERS GUNNED DOWN IN FARMHOUSE BATTLE

POINTS NORTH, Ind.—Jason and Whit Fireson, the Lincoln City natives and bank-robbing duo known as the Firefly Brothers, will terrorize no more financial institutions, murder no more officers of the law, and, one hopes, inspire no more misguided fealty among our more disaffected countrymen.

The Firefly Brothers were shot to death in a gunfight early Thursday morning that also claimed the life of Points North police officer Hugh Fenton, 42. Officers had been alerted by an anonymous tip that the brigands, who have at least seventeen bank robberies and five murders to their credit, were using an abandoned farmhouse outside the town of Points North as a temporary refuge during an attempt to flee the law and hide out in the western United States. More than a dozen Points North officers and deputies, led by County Chief Yale Mackinaw, surrounded the building under cover of darkness past midnight. After obtaining visual confirmation that the villains were in the building, Chief Mackinaw used a bullhorn to demand that they surrender. The brothers did not respond to that or to subsequent entreaties, and the intrepid officers stormed the building at approximately 1 A.M.

The Firefly Brothers, armed with Thompson submachine guns and automatic pistols, fired countless rounds from several weapons before they were vanquished. Chief Mackinaw would not divulge which of his officers fired the fatal shots, instead praising his entire force for its bravery and dedication.

Nearly $70,000 was discovered on the felons, the police reported.

“Those who choose to live outside the law will be brought to justice,” Chief Mackinaw said. “We gave the brothers ample opportunity to surrender, but they chose to try shooting their way out instead.”

The Department of Justice’s Bureau of Investigation had declared the Firefly Brothers the nation’s top Public Enemies three weeks ago, after its fatal ambush of John Dillinger eliminated him from those notorious ranks.

Jason Liam Fireson, 27, was unmarried and believed to be childless, though several young women have made claims to the contrary. Whitman Earnest Fireson, 23, was married and the father of an infant son, though the whereabouts of widow and child are unknown. The Firesons’ mother continues to reside in Lincoln City, where the desperadoes were born and raised, as does a third brother.

Calls to the Fireson residence requesting comment were sternly refused.

The story continued in that vein for many paragraphs, recounting bits of the brothers’ pasts, noting that they were “sons of a convicted murderer,” melding fact with legend and assuming readers were unaware of such alchemy. It offered no more details about the circumstances of their apprehension.

“I don’t remember any of this,” Whit said. “And it says Veronica and Patrick’s whereabouts are unknown—that can only be good, right?”

Yet neither felt celebratory. Reading the story of their death was an experience both disturbing and oddly unaffecting.

“And it says there was an anonymous tip,” Whit added. “From who?”

“Seventy thousand dollars.” Jason shook his head. Then he thought of something. “That means we never paid Owney his share.”

Whit reread the article while Jason peered through the windshield, running different scenarios in his head.

“So today’s Friday,” Whit said, calmly reciting a fact, something definite. Even these were things to be questioned. He finished reading, then sighed and looked at his brother. “What are we going to tell Ma?”

Lincoln City saddened Jason. Idle men and breadlines could be found in any city, but Lincoln City was his—his past, his childhood, his family—and therefore it was more painful to witness all that the depression had wrought there. Better to see unfamiliar street signs standing beside evicted families on sidewalks. Better to see factories where none of his relatives had ever worked falling into disrepair. Better to see perfect strangers in some other town foraging in the dump.

Mostly, though, being in Lincoln City reminded Jason of his father.

The city was waking slowly. Jason, at the wheel now, skirted the factories and spied a few stragglers slowly making their way without apparent purpose. It was unusual to see anyone reporting to work late these days—the last thing a fellow needed to do was give his employer a reason to replace him with some other hungry bastard—and the empty expressions on the men’s faces argued that they hadn’t worked in weeks, or months. The boarded windows of vacant buildings displayed new inscriptions: union now, communism not depressionism, even the weirdly out-of-date hoover go to hell. Lawns were unmowed and sidewalks unswept, as if the inhabitants of these homes had simply vanished, which many of them had.

Upon reaching the intersection at which he would have turned right to reach their mother’s house, Jason slowed down and scanned the street. He couldn’t quite see the house, but he did notice several cars parked on the side of the road. He continued forward, driving another block before cutting down the parallel street. Jason pulled into the short driveway of a small two-story home that had been vacant for more than a year.

“Glad to see the neighborhood hasn’t rebounded,” Whit said. They had pulled in here before, an unexpected benefit of the evictions that plagued this side of town.

The city still spent its scant dollars boarding up windows with plywood to prevent derelicts from breaking into vacant buildings, but Jason had heard of evicted families who merely moved a few doors down, one household squatting in the foreclosed remains of another’s. That couldn’t have been done in the beginning, of course, when the banks were fixing up and reselling the properties, but now that there were so many foreclosures and so few buyers the banks weren’t even bothering. Word was, if a bank hadn’t foreclosed on you yet it probably wouldn’t, because it couldn’t afford to.

It was insane, what had befallen their world. The foundations of normalcy had been revealed as imaginary. Reality had come crashing down on top of them, buried them alive.

“Let’s be quick about it,” Jason said. They weren’t worried about the car being traced; they had stopped in the middle of the night to exchange tags with a broken-down Ford by the side of the road.

They climbed the five steps to the front door. A stray, mangy black dog was suddenly at their heels, sniffing excitedly.

The door was locked, so Whit, as the one wearing shoes, kicked it in. The door swung awkwardly on its loose hinges, which had been busted by past Firefly entrances. Why someone kept fixing the lock was a mystery.

They closed the door behind them, though it wouldn’t quite latch, and the dog gleefully nosed it open as it followed them. At least that allowed the daylight to throw a thin sliver down the long hallway, puddles offering stagnant reflections. The house smelled like piss and something dead.

Jason instinctively unpocketed his pistol. The wood floor was sticky beneath his bare feet, as if the building were sweating.

They had spent time in no small number of vacant houses and barns across the Midwest, some of which had smelled worse. They hadn’t known the family who lived here, had never visited back when it had actually belonged to someone. As Jason moved, he wondered if he heard whispering from upstairs or if he was just imagining things.

The dog followed them into the kitchen, still sniffing their feet. It licked Jason’s bare toes, and Jason began to fear that the tongue was only a precursor to the teeth.

He looked up at Whit. “We don’t…smell, do we?”

It took Whit a second to realize what his brother meant. “Jesus, I hope not.” He looked at the dog and nudged it with his shoe. “Beat it.” The stray finally turned around and left the kitchen.

Whit reached over the kitchen sink and removed a loose piece of plywood where the window used to be. He could see the backyard. It was small, like the others in the neighborhood, and enclosed by a wood fence five feet high. On the other side of the fence was their mother’s house.

“Curtains are drawn.”

Jason crowded beside him and scanned the side yards. “There’s somebody in the gray sedan there,” he said. They couldn’t make out the man’s face, only his dark suit and tie. Just sitting there.

“I say we do it anyway,” Whit said. “He probably won’t see.”

Jason put the gun back in his pocket while Whit opened the back door. Knee-high grass and weeds twitched, aphids leaped from strand to strand as the brothers crossed the yard. The fence sagged and threatened to topple under their weight as they pulled themselves over.

When they were kids, the back porch would have been safety in a game of tag. They both thought of this as they hurried up the steps. The guy in the sedan could be a reporter or a cop. Were the cops looking to arrest their mother for aiding and abetting? Such persistence beyond the grave seemed sacrilegious, the ungentlemanly flouting of established rules.

They climbed the back steps to the porch that their brother Weston had rebuilt the previous spring. The door was locked, so Jason knocked three times. After half a minute, he knocked again, harder this time.

The window on the top half of the door was concealed by a thin white curtain, and he saw a finger lift a corner. It pulled back as if the window were electrified. Then it returned, parting the curtain further this time. With the morning sun behind him, all Jason could see was his own reflection, his cheeks dark with stubble, his defiled hair hanging limp on his forehead. He winked.

Bolts slid from their works. Then the door pulled open, their mother’s left hand holding it wide and her right hand leaning on the jamb. She was wearing her old white nightgown, and her hair fell behind her shoulders. The veins beneath her caved eyes were visible, pulsing as she stared at them.

“Jason? Whit?” Her voice tiny.

“Hi, Ma.” Jason stepped forward just in time to prevent her from collapsing. She clasped her arms around him, squeezing as she uttered something that was a laugh or a cry. The sound sank into his chest. Whit slipped behind them into the house before she released Jason and transferred her embrace to her youngest son.

“I thought I told you not to believe everything you read about us,” Jason said, stepping into the kitchen. The smells of home came as they always did, coffee and old wood mixed with the sulfur of extinguished matches and a certain dampness. Jason breathed them in deeply.

Ma pulled back from Whit but kept her hands on his shoulders. Her eyes were wet. “But they said…We’ve been getting these calls…The police…”

“I’m sorry, Ma,” Whit said, his voice shrinking as hers had grown. “I’m sorry we scared you. We’re okay.”

One of her hands moved to his cheek as she stared at him, then she buried her face into his shoulder and hugged him again. Jason watched Whit’s hand at Ma’s back, long pale fingers kneading the thin cloth. Eventually she opened her eyes.

“Jason, you’re barefoot,” she said. “And your toes are black.”

He laughed at how easily she’d turned maternal and scolding. But damn if she wasn’t right about the toes, he noticed, hoping it was only dirt.

“Sit down, Ma,” Whit said, an arm around her as he guided her into the dining room. “Take a minute.” Jason scanned the room, as well as the front parlor, to make sure all the curtains were drawn.

They sat at the table and Jason handed her a dishcloth to wipe her eyes. Whenever he saw his mother after a time away, he was struck by the fact that his adulthood was pushing hers further toward senescence. He always thought she had lost weight, but maybe this was just his new awareness of how frail she always had been. Her thin dark hair was laced with gray, and she usually kept it pulled back, a reminder that she no longer had anyone to look pretty for. It amazed Jason that something as inanimate as hair could possess such sorrow.

“What happened?”

“It’s a long story,” Jason said. “Let’s just settle in for a moment.”

The telephone on the wall began to ring. None of them made a motion toward it, and there were no footsteps from above. After seven rings, it stopped.

Ma’s face had been colorless when she first opened the door, but now her eyes were red and glistening. So this was what her sons did for her: put color in her face, and texture. She shook her head at them, her boys who were supposed to be dead, and her eyes moved from son to son as if wondering when one or the other might disappear.

“I could kill you,” she said.

“You wouldn’t be the first,” Jason replied. Whit shot him a look.

The small dining room’s evergreen wallpaper, dark-stained molding, and west-facing windows contributed to its customary element of morning gloom, made worse by the drawn curtains.

Then the sound of the front door opening, the key and the hinges, and footsteps.

“Ma, what’s—” Jason looked up just in time to see Weston walking into the dining room, stopping midstride. “Jesus…”

“Boo,” Jason said.

“Jesus.” Weston moved back a step. He was gripping a copy of the Sun, rolled tight like a billy club. Jason could just make out the word brothers in the headline, see some blurry part of the photograph shaking in Weston’s tensed fingers.

“You’re…You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“What happened?”

Whit was already out of his chair, grabbing the paper from his shocked brother. He stepped into the kitchen and put the newspaper in the trash bin, burying it deep beneath coffee grounds and napkins. When he returned to the room, Weston was in the same spot.

“Sit down, Wes.” Whit motioned to an empty chair. “I know this is kind of strange.”

“Do you have any idea—”

“I’m sure I don’t.” Whit clapped his brother on the shoulder. “C’mon, sit.”

Jason had always thought Weston looked like someone who couldn’t possibly be related to him. Weston was too bookish; he seemed to have inherited the personality of an elderly man from the moment he turned twelve. And in the past few months Weston had aged at a pace that seemed almost science-fictional. He was naturally slender, closer in physique to Whit than to Jason, and the skin of Weston’s face was even tighter than usual, with dark circles around the eyes. Looking at him made Jason too aware of his skull. Weston recently had started wearing glasses, and Jason wondered if that had less to do with deteriorating eyesight and more to do with a need to distinguish himself from the faces on those wanted posters.

“We wish we could have told you sooner,” Jason said. “But we still don’t trust the phones. Things are a bit crazy at the moment.”

Weston seemed to be crumpling as Jason spoke. His head fell into his hands and then through them, hanging so low his nose grazed the table. His fingers kneaded into his hair for a moment and then stopped, but even at rest they shook. When he sat up, his eyes were wet and his muscles tense. Jason and Whit glanced at each other; they both had been so worried about how Ma would take the news of their death, they hadn’t thought much about their brother, with whom neither had been terribly close the past few years.

Jason stood up and walked to his seated brother, leaning over to wrap an arm around his shoulders. “It’s okay, Wes,” Jason said, guilt pouring in. “I’m sorry we worried you.”

Jason sat back down and Weston nodded, waiting out the tears. “We’ve had police outside, reporters from all over the country,” he finally said. His voice was quiet. “And now everybody’s reading the paper and calling us. What…what happened?”

“Who else is here?” Jason asked.

“June and the boys are upstairs.” Weston took off his glasses as if to make sure his brothers still could be seen by the naked eye. “I called a few folks this morning, so they could hear it from us and not the papers, but…no one’s been able to come by yet. I told them not to, because of…all the ruckus out front. I wasn’t sure if—”

“No, that was good. We’ll need to hide out here a bit, and the fewer people to explain things to, the better.”

Windows were open behind the curtains and flies clumsily patrolled the room. Jason wondered if it was just his imagination or did the insects seem to be particularly interested in him and Whit. He hoped the others hadn’t noticed.

“So…” Weston let the word drag like a broom. “The pictures in the paper…?”

“Not us,” Jason answered.

“But…what happened?”

Whit looked to Jason, who replied, “Look, a lot gets blamed on us that we didn’t do. That may not be fair, but this time it’s worked out in our favor. Looks like somebody saw two fellas they thought were us, and they told the cops out in Points North. Cops ambushed the poor bastards, then got all excited and called the papers. There you go.”

“Didn’t they take fingerprints?” Weston asked.

“You’d be surprised how incompetent cops tend to be,” Jason said.

“So…” Weston again took a while to get his question out. “What happened in Detroit?”

“How did you know we went there?” Whit asked.

“The radio said…something about an ambush?”

“Look, I know this is all pretty strange,” Jason said, trying to keep a calm front while spinning his lies and taking in Weston’s information. “But what matters is we’re okay, and the folks chasing us are all relaxed right now because they think they got us.”

“Are you boys hungry?” Ma asked, standing up, apparently anxious to conclude talk of her sons’ lesser deeds. “Can I get you anything?”

“Ma, don’t worry about—”

Weston’s rebuke was interrupted by his brothers saying, actually, yes, they’d love a bite to eat. They surprised even themselves with this; after an evening of feeling curiously detached from physical needs, the sights and smells of the family dining room had stirred something within them.

After she had walked into the kitchen, Weston glared at them. “She didn’t sleep all night, for God’s sake. She certainly doesn’t need to be slaving for you two right now.”

Jason shrugged. “You know damn well she’s happiest when she’s doing something.”

“I wish you two could have seen this place yesterday. I wish you could have seen her.” Weston’s shock seemed to be giving way to his normal personality at last; this was the brother Jason knew. “As if she needed a scare like that, after Pop.”

“We didn’t come here to get lectured, Wes,” Whit said.

“What did you come back for?”

“Look,” Jason said calmly, to keep Whit from escalating the matter. “The cops think we’re dead. We’re still trying to figure a few things out, but it seems best to lay low until the commotion dies down. The heat’ll finally be off us, so we can pack up and make our way someplace, start over.”

“And then you can start participating in the fabled straight life. I get it. What’ll it be, law school for Whit, and maybe sales for Jason?”

“Knock it off,” Whit said.

Weston shook his head. “Jesus Christ. My brothers resurrected.” He studied them for a moment. “You both look kind of gray.”

“It was a long night,” Jason said. “So what’s new, Wes?”

“Not much.”

“How’s the job going?”

“They’re still paying me.”

“That’s good. How’s Aunt June?”

Weston paused. “The same.” As if on cue, they heard the floorboards from above. “That’s probably her. Maybe I’ll go up and tell her myself, ease the shock a bit.”

After Weston left, Whit excused himself to the bathroom, and Jason sat there watching the flies.

Whit closed the bathroom door behind him and looked in the mirror. The light wasn’t terribly good, but he did seem to look colorless, as if he hadn’t been in the sun in weeks. Which was largely true, of course, as he and his brother had lived in hiding ever since the Federal Reserve job more than two months ago. He ran his fingers over his stubble. His hair was still growing. But he’d heard that happened with corpses, that undertakers needed to shave the dead, sometimes twice, so that didn’t mean anything, either. He reached into the medicine cabinet for the razor he had left there weeks ago. He stared at himself again, then looked down at his left wrist, turned upward to present its veins. They still looked blue. He rolled up the left sleeve, then turned over his left arm, a few freckles showing through his dark hair. He took a breath, gritted his teeth, and sliced at his forearm with the razor, feeling the burn as it slid across. The opening in his skin seemed to widen for a moment, a yawning release. The air on the wound felt hot, as if oxygen were toxic to his insides. Then the gash flooded red. The viscous shine deepened as the tension of its molecules stood above the skin a bit. He exhaled, unsure whether he should be relieved or frightened to learn that he could still bleed, still feel pain.

He took the wound to his mouth and sucked, then removed his arm and dabbed it with toilet paper, waiting for the bleeding to stop.

Starting with Pop’s arrest four years ago, Ma had taken in boarders to help with the mortgage. Her space for paying customers had shrunk eighteen months ago, when her sister June was widowed and moved in along with her three kids. June shared Ma’s room, and her three young boys were crammed into a second, leaving a third bedroom for a boarder, as well as some space in the attic at an even more discounted rate. But in the past few months the attention surrounding the Firefly Brothers had persuaded Ma against allowing strangers to sleep under her roof. She wasn’t used to turning away those who needed her aid, but there was no way to know whether some random person pleading for a room might in fact be a police agent come to destroy what was left of her family.

Ma walked into the dining room bearing two plates of fried eggs and toast.

“It will be nice to have everyone under one roof again,” she said.

“I’m real sorry we scared you like that,” Jason said between bites. “I wish things weren’t this way. I’m hoping that after the attention dies down we can settle into a regular life.”

He had expressed such sentiments before, and he knew she had embraced them. But each time he said them they were less believable.

She asked him again how the papers could have gotten the story so wrong. He sketched a vague tale of mistaken identity that only a woman in extreme shock would have believed. But so many unbelievable things seemed to be happening, he figured, what was one more? What about this cursed family made any kind of sense?

They chatted awhile, neither noticing how long Whit had been in the bathroom. When he finally returned, he looked at his plate of food and thanked her. Then he sat down, gripping the fork for a long moment before digging in.

Ma asked after Veronica and little Patrick, and Darcy. The brothers offered optimistic reports of their loved ones’ health and happiness, failing to mention that they’d barely seen them in the past two months. Jason noticed that Whit’s voice nearly broke when he mentioned his infant son, and he wondered if Ma caught it, too.

Weston finally came downstairs. “June’s going to be a while. She said she’d tell the boys herself.”

“They’ll be fine,” Jason said with a harmless shrug. “She still takes ‘em to Sunday school, right? They should know all about resurrections.”

“And they certainly know about their uncle Jason’s God complex,” Weston said.

Jason raised his coffee in a mock toast. “It’s so nice to be home.”

The eldest of June’s boys, ten-year-old Sammy, was the next to descend the stairs. He walked into the dining room, dark hair still tousled, wearing a white undershirt and denim overalls that Jason recognized as a pair that had been his long ago.

“Wow,” Sammy said. He was barefoot and the legs of the overalls dragged a bit. “It’s really true.”

Jason and Whit were sitting at the table alone as their mother washed the dishes. “Morning, Sammy,” Jason said. He hadn’t lived in town for much of the boys’ young lives, though he always got on fine with them during his visits. In the past year, though, since he and Whit had become famous bank robbers, the kids had acted strangely awed in their presence.

“I didn’t believe it at first,” Sammy said. “About you being caught, I mean. I didn’t think it could happen.”

“That’s ‘cause it can’t,” Jason said. “You’re a smart kid.”

“Did you get in a fight with the police?”

“We don’t like to fight. It was more like a chase. And we’re real fast.”

Sammy smiled, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Jason tried to remember what being ten had been like.

“Kids in the neighborhood are always playing Firefly Brothers. They usually fight about who gets to be the brothers and who has to be the cops.”

“Do they fight about who gets to be Whit and who gets to be Jason?” Whit asked.

“Yeah, that too. Most want to be Jason.”

Jason grinned, looking at his brother. “It does take a certain type to be Whit.”

Then he changed his tone, leaning forward. “We need this visit to be our little secret, okay? Even more so than usual. We can’t have you telling your friends about us being on the loose, no matter how badly you might want to. Can you make sure your little brothers don’t say anything?”

“Yes, sir.” Sammy nodded, honored to have been assigned such a task.

The stairs creaked again, too heavily to be one of Sammy’s brothers. When Jason was younger, he had always figured that Aunt June had a perfectly fine appearance; she was so much younger than Ma that she had seemed more like an older sister to him. But here she was, smelling like cigarettes and looking as if she still regretted not throwing herself onto her husband’s coffin those many months ago. She wore a stained blue housedress and her hair was in a graying bun.

“Sammy, go to the kitchen,” she said. Her fingers grasped the back of one of the chairs, tiny muscles and cracked nails. Once the living room was free of children, she said, “I’m glad you two are okay. But I don’t want you scaring the boys.”

“We didn’t say anything scary, June,” Jason said.

“They’ve had enough experience with death,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “I don’t want you telling them any stories.”

June’s attitude toward them had changed over time. Where others saw the Firefly Brothers’ acts as brazen, heroic counterpunches thrown at a broken system, June seemed to view them as just another symptom of that brokenness. Her husband, Joe, had been a war vet like Pop, but so different from straitlaced Pop in every other way. Joe had sneaked Jason his first sips of beer, tossed a baseball with him at the family gatherings Pop never attended because “someone needs to keep the shop open,” even covered for Jason with a few lies to Pop when Jason started working for a local bootlegger. As a kid, Jason had loved being around Uncle Joe, and it had taken him years to understand why a guy told so many stories, why a guy so desperately needed to hear other people laugh, why the approval of a teenager could be so important to a young man.

Joe lost his factory gig four years ago, about the same time Pop was arrested, so his private battles with underemployment and the bottle had been eclipsed by Pop’s trial. Joe had been more bitter and less sober every time Jason saw him, to the point that Jason wasn’t surprised when he learned that Joe had died in a late-night auto wreck somewhere between Lincoln City and Cincinnati—just one more tragedy to lump in with all the others. The only mystery was whether Joe was killed coming home drunk or while trying to run away.

In the early days after Joe’s death, Jason understood yet was annoyed by June’s sudden lionization of her departed husband. The Joe she had once cursed for being lazy and insufficient was now a wonderful husband unfairly wronged by misfortune. Death had bestowed a kind of nobility upon him. More recently, however, her love for Joe seemed to mingle with anger at Jason and Whit, distaste for their ability to succeed in the world where her husband had failed. Joe had been “an honorable man,” she noted one night when the brothers were in town. He had made some mistakes, but at least his had been legal and honest. That had not been a pleasant dinner.

Though June refused to take money directly from her bank-robbing nephews, Jason knew that she took plenty secondhand, through Ma. Poverty deprives its sufferers of the freedom to act on grudges.

“We won’t be here long, June,” Whit said.

She gave them a look, and for a moment Jason could see a flicker of the pain that her anger tried to snuff out. “They’re good kids,” she said. “I don’t want them—”

“Neither do we,” Jason said. “Neither do we.”

An hour later, the three Fireson brothers and Ma were sitting at the table when the telephone rang. Conversation stopped and they all looked at one another, motionless, as if the telephone were a predator.

At the third ring, Jason tried to dispel the tension by telling his mother, “It’s all right, you can answer it.”

She picked up the receiver. “Hello?…Yes, this is Margaret Fireson…Yes, of course, I remember you, Sergeant Higgins.” Jason and Whit exchanged glances, neither of them knowing that name. Their mother was silent a long while, her expression confused. She had been staring at the floor, but now her gaze shifted to Jason and Whit. “Of course,” she said suddenly, as if she hadn’t realized it was her turn. “That’s fine…Goodbye.”

“What is it?” Jason asked after she hung up.

“It was the Points North police. He said that someone has…stolen your bodies. Souvenir hunters—he referred to them as morbids. ‘Some morbids must have taken them.’ He assured me that he would find the…bodies, and have them shipped to the funeral home of my choice. He said he’d call again once he’d tracked them down.”

“Crazy people out there,” Jason said, calmly threading a finger through the handle of his coffee cup. “Poor fools got the wrong bodies.”

It was decided that the Firesons—those publicly known to be alive, that is—should go about their day as they would normally be expected to. June’s boys cleaned the house while June stayed upstairs, sewing and doing needlework for the Salvation Army. Playing the role of grieving mother, Margaret stayed home, too, and as more calls trickled in from friends who’d read the paper she stoically accepted their condolences. At Jason’s behest, she refused their kind offers to visit, deliver food, clean the house. If she sounded somewhat less mournful than the friends had expected, perhaps they assumed she was still in shock. But after the fourth such call she found it difficult to feign sorrow, and allowed herself such comments as “Well, I’m not sure I believe all this, you know. My boys are smart, maybe there’s something fishy about these stories.” Her friends doubtless pitied her for being in denial.

Weston, who seemed to be living at home again, told the brothers he had been given the day off but had some errands to run. On his way out the door, he crossed paths with Jason in the front parlor.

“Listen, Wes,” Jason said quietly, remembering their last conversation a few days ago. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Weston just nodded and seemed suddenly nervous, even scared.

“I’m sorry for some of the things I said that night,” Jason said. He wasn’t good at this. “It was a…a bad time. I didn’t mean all that.”

Weston nodded again, as if he hoped he could nod this all away, all the bad blood between them, without having to utter a word.

“I know you’ve been under a lot of pressure, being the only one who’s home,” Jason continued, “looking after Ma and June. I know I can be a lousy brother sometimes. But what me and Whit do…It’s a little bit easier knowing that you’re here, you know?”

Weston’s eyes filled again. Jason hadn’t known how his judgmental brother would respond to his apology, but he hadn’t expected this. It only made him feel worse.

“You’re a good brother, Wes.”

Weston folded his arms, hugging himself, and his neck hung down for a moment. He wiped at his eyes and looked up again.

“Thanks, Jason. I’m sorry, too.”

“It’s been a hard time, I know.” He put a hand on Weston’s shoulder, squeezed. “But we’re all going to be okay, you understand? We’re going to stick together.”

“Yeah.” Weston stared at the floor. “I know we will.”