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The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers by Thomas Mullen
Sara Ackerman. Bronwyn Scott. Louise Allen. We'd love you to buy this book, and hope you find this page convenient in locating a place of purchase. We have partnered with Bookshout and recommend using their app as a simple way to read our e-books. Their App is available for download on iOS and Android devices.
You can also access your e-book titles on your desktop or mobile browser. By submitting your email address, you understand that you will receive email communications from Bookperk and other HarperCollins services. You may unsubscribe from these email communications at any time. Books Authors About Us. Format eBook Paperback. About Product Details Reviews Accessibility Jason and Whit Fireson, the notorious, bank-robbing duo known as the Firefly Brothers, wake to find themselves lying on cooling boards in a police morgue.
Other retailers. Recommended Reads. His eyes widened at the grotesque marks on his chest. They looked like boils that had been lanced with dirty scalpels and had become infected, drying out crusted and black as they sank back into his flesh. Two were in his upper chest just beneath his clavicle, another was a couple of inches southeast of his left nipple, and three more were in his abdomen. Jason had always been proud of his physique, and for a moment — a brief one — his thoughts ran to profound disappointment at the way these wounds marred his well-proportioned pectorals and flat stomach.
But he had been shot before — months ago, in his left forearm — and he knew the markings for what they were, even as all rational thought argued the contrary. In a panic he tore the sheet off his body and let it collapse like a dispelled ghost onto the tiled floor. He wanted to touch the wounds but was afraid to.
The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers
He sat there for a moment, then forced his neck to scan the room again. Objects that before had been fuzzy declared themselves. To his right was a third cooling board, which had been obscured from view by a table between them. He thought he knew the face lying in profile upon it — how could he not?
Jason stood, the tile cold on his feet, and stared wide-eyed at Whit. It felt cold, but everything felt cold at that moment. Then his eyes darted down. Eventually his eyes shifted down to his own body, and he lurched back as if shot again, nearly falling from his cooling board. They stared at each other for a long while, each waiting for the other to explain the situation or to bust up at the practical joke. Whit hopped off his cooling board. Jason felt a sudden need to look back at his own cooling board, in case he was a spirit and had left his husk behind.
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Whit started glancing around the room again as if searching for a perfectly rational explanation. Whit pointed to his wound. Keep it down, goddamnit. Whit turned around. Do you think it could have managed to slip out and miss the major organs? Jason waved him off without looking. Jason lightly slapped his own face.
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View all New York Times newsletters. Whit tapped at his chest. Then he closed his eyes for a moment, opened them.
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Are you breathing? How do you feel? Whit nodded. Or maybe they used some new kind of bullets.
Who knows? Jason turned off the radio. A closer inspection of the police hat on the wall informed him that they were in Points North, Indiana. He told Whit. The plan had been to pick up the girls at a motel outside Valparaiso after the cash drop-off in Detroit. So had the drop-off been successful, only to have something go wrong when they tried to get the girls? Jason motioned to the third cooling board at the other end of the room.
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Maybe he has some answers. He walked over to the body, Whit following after bunching his sheet around his waist. The man on the third board was every bit as naked under his sheet and every bit as bad off. He was big, once inflated but now sagging, and a gunshot to the left side of his neck had not only left a large wound but had torn at the loose skin, shreds hanging there.
Jason shook his head. He waited a moment, but the slap went unanswered. This man seemed content enough in his death not to be fighting it.
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Rest in peace. The room had a lone window, small and high on the wall. Twilight was fading, and the clock beside the window called the time quarter past eight. What day was it? Jason had the vague feeling an entire day had passed since his last memory, if not more. The coat barely cloaked him, and it was so thin it was nearly transparent. Jason began opening the drawers that lined the left-hand wall, hoping to find something worth taking.
He had never been comfortable around doctors, and being alone in a medical room rife with their soiled detritus was even worse. He found a roll of surgical tape and some gauze and tossed them to Whit, who gave him a confused look.