“Just take the food. I don’t want your blood money.”
“It’s not blood money.”
“Radio says you killed five people today.” The minister was standing closest to Jason; he’d held his ground as the others had backed off. “One was a young mother. Two were police officers.”
“You got your news wrong.” Jason had tried not to dwell on the myriad results of the shootout. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“Do not tell me what to believe.” The minister held his gaze.
Whit started snoring. The congregation gasped again. Hands were raised to mouths or made the sign of the cross.
“Keep those hands where I can see them,” Jason said, more nervously than he’d meant to.
“It’s true,” a woman said.
“Yeah, it’s true,” Jason echoed. “Whatever else it is, it’s certainly true.”
“So even Hell rejects you,” the minister said.
Jason had had enough of the preacher. He walked backward to the driver’s side of the Nash, his eyes keeping watch over the five men of the group, none of whom appeared eager to intervene. Jason apologized for disturbing their cookout and got into the car, leaving Whit’s share of the food behind. He turned on the headlights and pulled onto the road.
Ten minutes later, Whit stirred when Jason hit a pothole. So far Jason hadn’t seen any cops, and he wondered how quickly the picnickers would spread the alarm.
“Where’s supper?” Whit asked.
“They said they only feed Seventh-day Adventists.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Minister was a real jerk about it.”
Jason saw Whit’s foggy eyes in the rearview. Whit took another sip from the half-empty eighth. “Why do you smell like barbecue?”
Jason dodged the question. “You missed your chance to ask a man of God all your deep questions.”
“I have a feeling I’ll have other opportunities.”
Jason thought of the minister’s claim that hell had rejected them. As if he and his brothers were bad checks no bank would cash, left to wander a devalued limbo.
“Yeah,” he said as he stared out at the dark road. “Welcome to the land of opportunity.”
XXIX.
The number of reporters in the hallway had increased. Cary needed to employ much patience as well as elbow work to force his way through the packed hallway to the Bureau’s office door.
He exhaled deeply as he shut the door behind him. It was eight at night but the bullpen was frenetic. Cary had been getting ready for dinner when he received a call from Gunnison telling him to hurry back to the office and to bring a suitcase with a couple days’ clothes.
“The Firefly Brothers are alive,” Gunnison had said. “We think.”
That was all he would say over the phone. As Cary hurried into the bullpen, Gunnison stomped toward him in a shirt stained with coffee.
“What’s happened?” Cary asked.
It was only that morning that they’d driven out to Points North and heard Chief Mackinaw’s admissions. Then they had driven back to Chicago and Cary had filed a carefully worded report for Washington. He didn’t want to sound hysterical by hypothesizing that the Firesons might somehow be alive, but the last thing he wanted to sign his name to was a statement that the Firesons were indeed dead only to find out later that the outlaws were still at large. And here was Gunnison telling him they were larger than ever.
“They were in a gunfight with police in Missouri this afternoon. Started in Sedalia, continued on to Route 50 west of Jefferson City. Two officers and three civilians were killed on the highway, and a few folks in the hospital might get added to the list.”
“Who says it was the Firesons?”
“Numerous witnesses.”
“Why are we believing them?”
“We’re not entirely sure we do. But the Sedalia cops swear to it; they say they got prints from a car the brothers abandoned, and from the scene of another shooting. They’re sending the prints to the Washington lab for final comparisons.”
Cary had dropped his suitcase somewhere. He sank into the chair of whomever was behind him. “What other shooting?”
Gunnison sat on the desk. “Sedalia police got a call from a probate attorney who said he’d stopped by what was supposed to be an abandoned property and saw some dead bodies. Cops find four corpses, one of which they identify as Whit Fireson, and a lot of shell casings but only a few guns. During the drive to the morgue”—and Gunnison chuckled—“the cops claim that Whit started yelling from inside his hearse. They pull over, unwrap him, he jumps up and accosts the officers, who were rather stunned. Then, from out of nowhere, Jason drives up and takes him away. A chase ensues.”
Cary had to take a few seconds. What Gunnison was saying was impossible, yet he relayed the data in the matter-of-fact tone of a bleacher bum recapping a one-two-three inning for a friend returning from the John.
“Whit was only pretending to be dead?”
“St. Louis agents are interrogating the two cops who claim Whit came back to life. The cops are reportedly being unhelpful and have been quoting Bible verses.”
All around Cary, agents were shouting into phones, running in and out of the bullpen, into the SAC’s office, into the interrogation room. The mood was more panicked than usual.
“I know Mackinaw seemed like a dolt, but still, how can you fake a death and trick the police—twice?”
“We’re rustling every underworld doc we can think of—one of them has to be involved in this. Maybe someone’s come up with a kind of sedative that can knock a fella out so bad it’ll convince an incompetent coroner he’s dead, only to wake up a few hours later. Who knows, I ain’t a scientist. All I know is, when we do find these fellas we need to blow their damned heads off to be sure the job’s done.”
Cary asked about the scene at the farmhouse.
“One of the other bodies was ID’d as Elton Roberts. Apparently the house used to belong to a relative of Brickbat Sanders, though it looks like Brickbat, if he was ever there, made it out alive. Cops found some women’s items and two drafts of notes that are almost verbatim to the ones that had been delivered to one Jasper Windham the last few days.”
“They’re the ones who kidnapped Darcy Windham?”
“Or pretended to. ’Cause it gets even more interesting. We’ve been talking to a limey insurance investigator from Lloyd’s of London. It seems Windham had taken out a kidnap insurance policy on himself and his lovely daughter a couple years back—it’s the thing to do among the moneyed and paranoid, I guess. Policy offers to cover ransoms up to two hundred thousand. But the fine print says that all is null and void if any of the insureds have ‘criminal or unsavory’ associations.”
“So the policy was voided because Darcy ran with the Firesons.”
“One would think. I guess Lloyd’s has been slow about mailing its cancellation notices, ’cause Windham was under the impression the policy still stood. He’s been on the phone all week hollering at the adjusters, saying they need to cover the ransom for him. It seems the finances at Windham Automotive aren’t what they used to be. Windham’s also been receiving some suspicious calls lately from someone who sounds, according to one of our agents, a lot like Jason Fireson. One of the calls was traced to the Sedalia farmhouse.”
“Jesus Christ. They faked their deaths thinking that if Darcy had no underworld associates, at least no living underworld associates, the policy would be good. Then they kidnapped her, or pretended to, thinking they’d collect the ransom either from Windham or the insurer.”
“Give the college boy an A.”
“Is Windham in on it?”
“He’s under questioning at his estate. Started yelling at our agents and saying they were putting his daughter’s life in jeopardy. Then our agents started yelling back, and he asked for his lawyer.”
Some things were clicking, but just as many things seemed unconnected.
“So the Firesons faked t
heir second death at this Sanders family farmhouse, but the other bodies really were dead?”
“Allegedly. We told the Sedalia cops to lock ’em up in the morgue and put ’em under armed guard just in case. Once they stink, we’ll know for sure.”
Cary exhaled. “If this is all an elaborate ruse for a kidnapping, why would the Firesons kill all their partners?”
“So they could get a bigger slice of the pie? Who knows. Windham had agreed to let us tape his calls, so we got Jason on tape—sounds like he was speaking in code or something, talking about angels. And he name-dropped Nitti. We’re trying to figure it all out. I say Windham breaks by the end of the day.”
Cary shook his head and looked around. Every agent at least tangentially involved in the Fireson case or the Windham kidnapping was in the bullpen. Men on the phone held their receivers with white knuckles, as if trying to strangle out confessions.
“Good God. Please tell me Dillinger is still dead.”
“Last we checked. And his old man had him buried under six feet of concrete and scrap iron to keep out grave robbers. So I think we’re safe.”
The Bureau chartered a flight into Jefferson City, piloted by a chatty old man who claimed to have been part of the crew that had shot down the Red Baron in the Great War. He also bragged that he was the only American military pilot to crash seven times and live. He was very good at crashing, he explained. Cary noticed that the plane lacked seat belts.
Cary and Gunnison were traveling with ten other agents, one of whom, Norris, had arrived only two days ago from the Oklahoma City field office. There had been no official announcement, but word was that Norris was going to be installed as the new Chicago SAC, and as such he was taking charge of the newly reformed Fireson Squad. He was as powerfully built as Gunnison but taller. He was bald, and even his scalp looked muscular. He spoke in a dry voice that Cary couldn’t always hear above the sounds of the engine.
“Mr. Hoover has made clear what he expects of us,” Norris said once they were airborne. “People are telling all kinds of wild stories about the Firesons, all because of the mishaps in Points North and now Sedalia. We are being sent to correct those mishaps.” The agents discussed various locations where the Firesons—if this really was the Firesons—might be trying to hide: safe houses they or other Public Enemies had used in the past, nearby addresses of past associates or ex-girlfriends or stepsisters. The nearest mechanics of ill repute, in case they had car trouble, and the nearest underworld physicians, in case they were injured. It wasn’t a long list, and the possibility existed that the Firesons could be attempting to flee to Lincoln City, but the Missouri police claimed to have sealed off the eastern border.
Norris detailed the weaponry he had arranged to have loaded onto the plane: submachine guns, automatic rifles, grenades, and a few things Cary hadn’t heard of and would have to ask Gunnison about later. Now Cary felt even less safe on the plane. More weapons were waiting for them at the St. Louis office, Norris explained.
The plane shook during its descent and Cary glanced out the window. They were already low enough, and the moonlight bright enough, for him to see the patchwork of farms and country roads neatly laid out like the chess set of a bored midwestern God.
“People like to say the Firefly Brothers are bulletproof,” Norris continued. “We’re going to give the brothers an opportunity to demonstrate that ability. The Director wants the Firesons—or whoever these people are— eliminated, dramatically. That was his choice of words. Dramatically. We leave nothing to chance. If we trace them to a building, we blow the building up and burn the rubble. If we see them in a vehicle, we shoot the gas tank and strafe it to ribbons. We let the American people see there is no way these crooks can possibly escape this time. Justice and order prevail. The Director holds a press conference and you-all get to catch up on sleep.”
And then, Cary thought, I return to a safe routine of phone calls and paperwork, and I send my résumé to every law firm I can think of.
XXX.
Darcy woke to the judge standing before her, whispering insistently. The dim bulb was behind him, yet she could see the welt rising from the left side of his face. His hard fall had snapped his chair, and he must have slid his bound wrists through the breaks in the wood to free them, although they were still behind his back. He had wriggled his feet from their bindings as well; loops of rope hung loosely around his ankles.
“I’m going to look for a blade or some glass,” he told her, and she nodded. The gag had pinned her tongue to the bottom of her mouth. The insides of her cheeks felt moldy.
After his beating, the judge finally seemed to have accepted that he was mortal, after all, and had to get out of here. Darcy tried to keep calm, but she could feel herself trembling. Was Brickbat still upstairs? He had mentioned something about an errand—was he still gone?
Something landed on the cement floor, and seconds later the judge emerged from the mess. He stopped in front of the bloodstained pillow and bent down as far as his aged knees would allow, an awkward position with his hands bound behind him. Then he dropped the something onto the pillow: it was a small window frame with four panes of glass. With his feet, he carefully slid the window off the pillow and onto the floor, then nudged the pillow on top of it. He stamped and the pillow crunched.
The judge kicked off the pillow and bent down to pick up a piece of glass. His stiff old body made this a complicated task indeed. Darcy silently, desperately, cheered him on. It was like watching a starving, toothless man bob for apples. Finally, he stood again. His expression as was vacant as before, and sweat ran down his temples.
“I’m holding a small piece of glass,” he said as he walked behind her. “When I tell you to, saw your hands back and forth.”
He gave her the cue and she obeyed. She felt a stabbing at her wrist, so she stopped. He adjusted the way he was holding the glass and they started again. She moved her hands slowly, cautiously, her muscles warm as they moved in that awkward position, torsion numbing them. She felt bits of frayed rope tickling her palms, and a surge of excitement caused her to move too fast. Stabbing again, but now she didn’t care. She was so close! Then her hands lunged and she felt an even more painful scrape— but her hands were free.
She pulled them in front of her face. She had seen so little of her hands these many days of blindness and bondage. Ten long fingers, white knuckles, bloody wrists and palms. They were beautiful.
Darcy wrenched the gag down her jaw and moaned with relief. She opened her mouth, unclenching the muscles as she got to work on the judge’s ropes.
She sawed him loose in seconds. Then she leaned over and cut at the bindings on her ankles. It felt so good to stand. She took a few steps to remind the blood that it could flow.
“There are no windows,” the judge whispered. “No exterior door. We’ll need to go up the stairs.”
They stared at the ceiling. Suddenly they could hear Brickbat’s voice, a low murmuring. Had it been there before and they hadn’t noticed? Who was he talking to?
Darcy looked down at the dead body of the doctor. His chest was damp, a stain darkening his gray shirt but not quite reaching his open collar. She wondered what he had in his pants pockets.
She bent down and dared to check. She would not have had the stomach to frisk his jacket pockets—they were likely soaked with blood—but she didn’t need to, because in his right pants pocket she found what she was looking for: a small revolver, nestled there quite unobtrusively.
Then the basement door opened.
Their eyes met in panic. Already Brickbat was walking down the stairs, albeit slowly. Give me the gun, the old man motioned. She didn’t have time to deliberate, only a moment to think that, yes, she probably was not the best one to wield a firearm. She handed him the gun, which he promptly opened.
“No bullets.” She could barely hear his whisper. Then he lay down on the floor, in more or less the same position he’d fallen in before.
Why was he just lying th
ere? Surely he could at least bluff Brickbat into disarming. The footsteps getting lower and closer. She barely had time to find a weapon of her own: there, on the ground in front of her, part of the destroyed window, a five-inch-long sliver of wood with a triangular piece of glass protruding from it. Yes, maybe she could hold the wood and drive it into … Her dazzled mind would go no further. The footsteps louder now.
She sat in her chair and pulled the gag back up to her mouth. She had to bite hard to prevent it from falling off. Then she bent over, picked up her makeshift dagger, and pulled her hands behind her back as if she were still bound.
The judge had moved the pillow back on top of the other pieces of glass, concealing evidence of their movements.
Then a thought: her feet. She had cut her bindings. Brickbat would notice if he looked.
And there he was, standing ten feet away. Watching her. Looking at her ankles? She wasn’t sure. The cocky smile he’d worn before was gone. He seemed ashen. Or determined. He was holding something large and flat.
“Nice nap, kitten?” He stepped a few feet in front of her, bending over and pulling out the legs of a card table he’d carried down. At least now he couldn’t see her feet. He placed upon it a small black sack; whatever was inside it sounded heavy and metallic. Then Brickbat wandered over to her right, deeper into the basement. Darcy looked down at the judge, who was still playing dead. Her fingers were shaking and she wondered if that meant her shoulders were, too.
Brickbat emerged from the catacombs and placed another rickety chair at the table, opposite Darcy. Before sitting on it, he leaned forward and pulled her gag down. If he noticed that it hadn’t been very tight, he didn’t show it.
“Might as well give you a chance for some last words.”
She swallowed. Her throat ached. She wanted to ask what he meant, but she feared her voice would break. He unholstered his silver gun and placed it on the table before him. Then he reached into the sack and pulled out a long, thin metal rod, a small can of oil, two soiled rags, and a coarse brush. Her mind reeled at the possibilities.
The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers: A Novel Page 37