The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers. Thomas Mullen

around him, a sociopath medic forcing experiments upon the damned.

      “Officer,” Jason greeted the cop, “we’d like to report a crime. Pants theft. We were hoping we could borrow some clothes while you investigated the crime for us.”

      If the cop’s eyes had been wide at the surprise attack, they were wider still at the sight before him. His mouth dropped open and the color was draining from his face.

      “Uh-oh,” Jason said to Whit. “Better lean him against the wall here, quick.”

      Whit obeyed, and the cop slumped to his knees. His eyes were so wide it didn’t seem possible they could widen further, but they did. Then he gagged and vomited. The brothers stepped back.

      “Actually, Whit,” Jason said as he viewed the mess, “he’s more your size. You can have his clothes.”

      Whit stepped forward. He grabbed the cop’s collar and pressed his back against the locker.

      The cop was thin, about Whit’s size minus a couple of inches. Jason relieved him of his sidearm—a Colt .38 revolver—and checked that it was loaded. He would have put it in his pocket if he’d had any.

      The cop opened his eyes, keeping them aimed at the floor.

      “How…? How could—”

      Whit dangled the scalpel into the officer’s view, nearly trimming his officious mustache. “Find us some clothes.”

      The cop’s eyes remained focused on the ground as he gingerly led the brothers to his locker, which his shaking fingers allowed him to open after two failed attempts. In the locker were a pair of trousers, a white cotton shirt, and a pair of shoes Whit could already tell were too big.

      Jason took a wallet from the cop’s pants pocket. A quick peek revealed a five-dollar bill and two singles, which Jason slid out. “We’ll use this to fund our investigation.”

      Then, like a slug in the gut, Jason remembered how much money had been in their possession when they’d been driving to meet Owney Davis. Jesus Christ, he thought. That money was likely still in this building, but surrounded by cops, not all of whom would necessarily pass out at the mere sight of the Firefly Brothers.

      “Have a seat, Officer,” he said, turning the cop so his back was against the lockers. The man slid down slowly. As Whit dressed, Jason kept the revolver trained on the cop’s chest, continuing to hold the scalpel in his other hand, the seven dollars wrapped around its handle.

      “Look at me,” Jason said, and the cop reluctantly complied. “Point me to the locker of someone my size, and be quick about it.”

      The cop called a number and Jason made sure there wasn’t a round in the Colt’s chamber before hacking at the lock with the gun handle.

      “Making a racket,” Whit chided him, standing above the cop with his scalpel ready.

      Soon Jason was clothed, but barefoot—there were no shoes in the locker. Loudly breaking into another locker would be too risky, so he would have to go unshod.

      “Give us your keys,” Whit said to the cop, who reached into his pocket and obeyed. “Which is your car?”

      “Green Pontiac, out back. Tag number 639578.”

      Whit asked where the armory was, but as the cop told them Jason shook his head—too risky. They’d have to make do with the one Colt.

      “Why is it so quiet in here?” Whit asked.

      “Everybody is out front with the reporters. Announcing your…apprehension.”

      “And were you a part of that apprehension, Officer?” Jason asked.

      “No, no, I was away, at my in-laws’.” His voice slid into a more panicked tone. “I had no idea until I showed up this afternoon. I wouldn’t have gotten involved anyway—I think what you boys have been doing is just grea—”

      “What exactly happened to us?” Jason cut him off.

      The cop’s eyes slowly drifted up to Jason. “You were shot.”

      “No kidding. But how, and when?”

      “And who did it?” Whit added.

      “And where’d they put our money?”

      “You were shot,” the cop repeated, his voice hollow. “You were lying there. I touched you. You were so cold. Doctor said…doctor said you were dead.”

      “It’s amazing what people can get wrong these days,” Jason said.

      “But how did they get that wrong?” Whit asked the cop. “What did they really do to us?”

      “And where’d they put our money?”

      “You were both so cold.” A line of sweat bulleted down his cheek. “And stiff. Chief even pretended to shake Whit’s hand. But it wouldn’t bend.”

      Whit flexed the fingers of his left hand. He made a fist and the tendons popped against one another.

      The cop moaned and lowered his head.

      “Oh Christ, not again,” Jason said. But the cop simply slumped over, his limbs loosening like a released marionette’s. Jason dropped his scalpel and bent down, putting his hand behind the man’s unconscious head and gently lowering it to the floor.

      The brothers stood beside each other in their stolen clothes. Something needed to be said. But neither had any idea what that might be.

      Footsteps from above jarred them, and what had been a faint murmuring from the other side of the building suddenly grew louder. Laughter, or applause. They were having a hell of a time out front. And there were a lot of them. Much as it pained Jason, they would have to leave their money behind. You can’t take it with you, he thought.

      Jason fed a round into the Colt’s chamber and stepped into the empty hallway, checking both directions. Whit followed him to the exterior door. Jason lifted the latch and slid the bolt, then nodded at his brother.

      The door wasn’t as heavy as it had seemed and when Jason threw it open it slammed into a brick wall. The side of the police station extended twenty yards, and before them, above the lot in which a dozen cars were huddled, the redbrick backs of storefronts rose three storys, fire escapes switchbacking past windows laid out with perfect symmetry. All the windows were dark, like the starless sky above.

      Skeletal tree branches spiderwebbed overhead. Midsummer, and the tree was dead. The leafy branches of neighboring elms swayed in the breeze but this one stayed motionless, forlorn.

      They scanned the tags until they found the car. Jason handed Whit the Colt and opened the driver’s door.

      He started the car and pulled out of the lot, headlights illuminating a badly paved road. From here they could see along the side of the station, and it was clear there was quite a gathering out front. The side street and the main avenue were choked with parked cars, and through some of the windows he could see the flashes of news cameras. The room appeared full of men, dark shoulders and hatted heads vibrating with laughter and proclamations.

      “Somebody in that room,” Whit said, unable to finish. He tried again. “Somebody in that room—”

      “Well, congratulations to them. Poor saps can feel like heroes for a few hours at least.”

      He turned left, putting the station in his rearview. The street soon intersected with the town’s main drag.

      “Recognize anything?” he asked.

      “No.”

      Jason tapped the top of the wheel. Driving without a git to guide them felt risky, amateurish. Main Street was dark, the theater marquee unlit and the storefronts displaying nothing but reflections of the Pontiac’s headlights. He thought he’d been through Points North once—stopped for lunch, maybe, or gasoline—but he’d seen so many Main Streets in so many states