The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers. Thomas Mullen

hungry?” he asked.

      “Nope.”

      “Thirsty?”

      “Nope.”

      “Me neither. Christ, this is strange.”

      A hole tore in the cloud cover and there were the stars, informing Jason that he was headed north. He soon passed a sign for the state highway. Ordinarily they would stick to the country roads, but Jason figured there would be no roadblocks if the police thought the Firefly Brothers had already been apprehended.

      “Why couldn’t this have happened to Pop?” Whit asked.

      Jason swallowed, driving even faster now. “I was thinking the same thing.”

      

      The highway took them through farmland so flat and featureless it was as though they were crossing a black, still sea. Jason remembered an old yegg from prison telling stories about the Florida Keys and how he’d planned to retire there after one last job, remembered the man’s stories of a road cutting through long islands where the emerald ocean glittered on either side. If that was a paradise on earth, then Jason felt he was navigating its opposite. He wished it was day, wished there was something to look at, wished he had someone to talk to other than his taciturn brother, who had been struck mute since leaving Points North. He wished Darcy were here; one of the many questions throwing stones in his mind was where she was. Hell, what day was today? How long was the black hole of memory he was carrying inside him?

      Jason could feel a wind chopping at the side of the Pontiac. Clouds had reclaimed the sky. He had been driving for two hours when he realized they were low on gasoline. Didn’t anyone in this damned country keep his tank full? Jason had driven an untold number of stolen cars, sometimes just for a few miles and sometimes for days-long escapes, yet he could count the number of full or even half-full tanks on one hand. And then there were the cars that broke down inexplicably, or stalled out at stop signs, or dropped their fenders, or had no water in their radiators, or had their wheels loosen on rough roads and slide into ditches. If only his fellow Americans would keep better care of their automobiles.

      The brothers had decided their destination was Lincoln City, Ohio, and they had many hours to go. Jason pulled off the highway after passing a hand-lettered sign for a filling station in the town of Landon, Indiana.

      “Jesus,” Whit said suddenly. “Jesus Christ!”

      “What?”

      “Jason! We’re goddamn dead!”

      “Keep yourself together.”

      “What the hell’s going on?”

      Jason pulled onto the side of the road. He turned to face his brother.

      “I don’t know, but I know that losing our heads isn’t going to help things.”

      Whit opened his door and stumbled out.

      “Where are you going?” Jason opened his own door, following. Whit was pacing in quick strides on the dry grass, running his hands through his hair.

      “Whit. Get in the car. All I know is that until the news spreads, most cops still think we’re on the prowl, so if anyone ID’s us we’re in for a gunfight.”

      “A gunfight? Who cares? What’ll they do, kill us again?” Whit stopped moving, his hands on his hips. Behind him cornstalks gossiped in the wind.

      “What do you think would happen if I shot myself right here?” Whit took the pistol out of his pocket and pointed it at his chest.

      “I’d have to clean up one of your messes, as usual.” Jason sighed. “C’mon, brother. It’s late. We need to get some gasoline while we can.”

      Whit was on the verge of tears. “Whit,” Jason said, stripping the impatience from his voice. “Put the gun in your pocket and sit down. Let’s just bandage ourselves up and sit for a while. All right?”

      Whit finally obeyed. Jason reached into the Pontiac and pulled the gauze and dressing out of the glove compartment, then stepped aside so his brother could sit. No cars passed.

      Whit unbuttoned his shirt as Jason unwound some gauze. He dared to glance at his brother’s chest; fortunately, he could barely see the bullet hole in the dark, could pretend it was just a large bruise. He placed the gauze against it. “Hold this here,” he said, and after Whit’s fingers replaced his he taped down its edges. “All right.”

      Then Jason unbuttoned his own shirt, and this time Whit taped the makeshift bandages onto his brother’s chest. The wounds weren’t bleeding and didn’t hurt at all, so the bandages served no purpose other than to remove these monstrous questions from view.

      “Good as new,” Jason said, patting his brother on the shoulder.

      Then he saw headlights, far away but approaching.

      “C’mon, we have to get going,” Jason said.

      They drove another half mile to the filling station, a tiny glimmer of financial life beside a shuttered general store and a collapsed barn.

      “Lean your head to the side like you’re sleeping,” Jason said. “I don’t want you talking to anyone right now.”

      Whit did as he was told, grumbling something his brother couldn’t hear. A moment later, a gangly teenager in overalls yawned as he walked toward the Pontiac.

      “Evenin’,” Jason said after shutting off the engine. “I’d like two dollars’ worth, please.”

      “All righty.” After the kid grabbed the spigot and fastened it to the Pontiac, he asked if they’d heard the news.

      “What news is that?”

      “They killed the Firefly Brothers, late last night.”

      “That right?”

      “S’all over the radio. Local boys did it, not the feds. Caught ‘em at some farmhouse in Points North. Shot ‘em up real good. Brothers took a cop with ‘em, though.”

      “How ‘bout that.” Jason looked down at the pavement. “Radio say if they killed the brothers’ girls, too?”

      The kid thought for a moment. “I don’t remember. That’d be a shame, though,” and he offered a gawky grin. “They’re real lookers.”

      “They certainly are.”

      “Can’t believe they killed the Firefly Brothers, though. Gonna cost me a two-dollar bet to my own brother—I said they’d never be caught.”

      “They’re always caught eventually. Sorry to hear about your two bucks.”

      “Tell me about it.”

      They were silent as the tap clicked every few seconds. The smell of gasoline seeped through Jason’s window.

      “Two dollars’ worth,” the kid said, placing the handle back on the latch.

      Jason handed the kid a five with his un-inked hand and pocketed the change. Then he looked the kid in the eye and extended his hand again. “And here’s your two bucks.”

      “Huh?”

      “For losing your bet. Pay this to your brother.”

      The kid looked at him strangely. “That’s kind of you, sir, but I’ll be all right.”

      “I don’t like hearing about young lads already in debt. Take it and pay your brother.”

      The kid seemed distracted by the way the bills hung in Jason’s perfectly still hand. Then he was looking at Jason again, his eyes spotlights. Jason’s lips curved into the barest smile.

      “Thank you, sir.”

      “You’re welcome.” Jason turned the ignition. “Night.”

      After they’d pulled onto the road,