Some Die Nameless

by Wallace Stroby

  Lukas moved down the hall, the muzzle of the suppressor tracking the penlight’s beam. There was an open door on his left, a dark bathroom. He went past it to the far doorway, aimed the light inside, saw a neatly made bed, a dresser. Street light filtered in through a single high window.

  He shut off the penlight, put it away, felt around with his left hand until he found a wall switch. A ceiling-fan light went on. There was a full-length mirror in one corner of the room, a closet with a sliding door. He lowered the gun, touched the bed’s top cover with a gloved finger, came away with dust.

  “What are we looking for?” Tariq said behind him.

  “Like last time. Notes. A journal. Laptop. Phone. Disks or thumb drives, anything he might have left behind.”

  Lukas opened the closet door. Clothes hanging inside, shoes on the floor. He pushed the clothes aside. Nothing behind them.

  “Here,” Tariq said.

  On the other side of the bed, an olive-green metal footlocker was pushed against the wall. It was padlocked.

  “Can you deal with that?” Lukas said.

  Tariq put away his gun, knelt, and took out his tools. While he worked, Lukas put away his weapon, went to the single nightstand. Inside the drawer was a package of condoms, some loose change, an aspirin bottle, and a cellphone.

  Tariq popped the lock, slipped it out of the hasp, raised the lid. Lukas showed him the phone.

  “That the one Farrow gave him?” Tariq said.

  “Safe bet. Looks like our guy was already off the reservation.”

  Lukas put the phone in a jacket pocket, knelt. Inside the footlocker was a folded silk cargo parachute, a maroon beret, and a set of neatly pressed olive-drab camo fatigues. Beneath the fatigues was a manila clasp envelope.

  He opened it, shook out a set of eight-by-ten color photos. There was a posed color portrait of a pretty black girl holding a baby. A formal shot of a young black man in uniform in front of an American flag, sergeant’s stripes on his shoulder, wearing the same beret.

  “Is that him?” Tariq said.

  “Must be.”

  There were three more photos. In the first, three men in woodland-camouflage uniforms stood on a dirt road, arms around one another’s shoulders. Bell, in the middle, older than in the portrait. On his right, a big man with a shadow beard, holding a can of beer in one hand, giving the finger to the camera with the other. The man on Bell’s left was leaner, dark hair, not smiling. All three wore red-and-white chessboard patches on their shoulders.

  “Those aren’t American uniforms,” Tariq said.

  “They aren’t. But I’ve seen them before.”

  He turned over the photo. “Field op. Osijek Aug. 1991” was written on the back in blue ink.

  “What are they?” Tariq said.

  “Croatian Army uniforms, but these three were professional soldiers. Private hires.”

  “Mercenaries.”

  The next picture was of the three men in a jeep, a machine gun mounted on a crossbar behind the front seats. Desert camo this time, no insignia. Bell was at the wheel, wearing mirror sunglasses, flashing a smile at the camera. Beside him was the big man, half out of his seat, a knee on the dash, arms raised, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in one hand, an M-10 machine pistol in the other. The dark-haired man was leaning on the crossbar next to the .50. There were smears of combat paint on his face, and a cigarette dangled from his mouth. His eyes were deep-set, as if he hadn’t slept.

  The last picture was Bell again, standing in front of a semicircle of Latino soldiers cross-legged on the ground, watching him. He wore jungle camo, held an AK-47 braced against his left hip, a banana clip in his free hand.

  Lukas put the photos back in the envelope, closed the clasp.

  They spent twenty minutes searching the rest of the apartment, opening drawers, dumping their contents out on the floor. The living room furniture was a thrift-store couch and coffee table, a small TV in a wall unit, a shelf with a handful of DVDs and books. Lukas opened the cases, checked the disks, tossed them aside, then shook out all the books.

  A car passed on the street above, threw headlights along the edges of the shades.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Lukas said. “This place is depressing the shit out of me.”

  He took the envelope with him. They went out into the hallway, and Tariq pulled the door shut as best he could. Concrete steps led up to street level.

  The work car was parked a block down. It was a dark gray Crown Victoria with smoked windows and Virginia plates, the registration clean, but with a false corporate name and address. It would stand a traffic stop, but they could also walk away from it if needed, with no complications.

  The street was dark and empty. They got in the car, Tariq behind the wheel. Lukas looked at his watch. It was a little after midnight.

  As they pulled away, he took out the cellphone, turned it on. No call history or contacts. He punched in Farrow’s number from memory, let it ring twice, then disconnected.

  A few minutes later, the phone buzzed, showed a different number. Farrow being careful.

  “Where did you get this phone?” Farrow said.

  “In his apartment. He wasn’t there. Hadn’t been for a while.”

  “You find anything else?”

  “Not much. Some pictures. The place was a hole. If you were paying this guy, I don’t know what he was spending his money on.”

  “Hold on to this cell, it’ll be easier to reach you. Where are you headed now?”

  “Philadelphia. I want to see what’s what before I make a move.”

  “Don’t screw around with these guys.”

  “I’ll play it the way I think best,” Lukas said. “Like always. You talk to the old man?”

  “I did.”

  “What he say?”

  “Nothing. I told him we were on it, and there was no reason to worry. And there isn’t, is there?”

  “None at all,” Lukas said, and ended the call. He powered down his window and tossed the phone out onto the highway.

  Thirteen

  It always hurt to come home.

  Devlin parked the Ranchero at the curb, looked at the house, the neatly trimmed lawn, the basketball hoop on the garage.

  He’d spent the night at Roarke’s place, then made the three-and-a-half-hour drive up from Philly. When he’d woken that morning, Roarke was already gone. Devlin had locked the apartment behind him, dropped the spare keys through the mailbox slot in the foyer.

  The house looked the same as the last time he’d seen it. You used to live here, he thought. And now you don’t. You had it all, and you lost it. And whose fault is that?

  His cellphone buzzed on the console. When he answered, Vic Ramos said, “Is that you out there?”

  “Yes. Is she home?”

  “You want to explain all this?”

  “I will, let me talk to her.”

  “Talk to me.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” Devlin said. “Come on out. We’ll talk.”

  He ended the call, tossed the phone on the passenger seat, got out, and stretched. A twinge of pain ran through his ribs.

  The front door opened and Ramos came out, started down the driveway. Stocky and muscular, he’d be trouble in a fight, Devlin knew.

  Behind him, the living room curtains opened slightly. Karen in there, looking out. Or maybe Brendan. Watching to see what would happen, but not wanting to leave the house.

  Ramos stopped a few feet away, hands on his hips. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Vic, let’s quit the pissing contest for a minute. I’m not here to cause trouble.”

  “That’s good. Because if you were, you’d get it.”

  Devlin gave that a moment. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

  “What did you want to talk about?”

  “Karen home?”

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  Devlin exhaled. “Vic, you don’t need to worry about me anymore. I’m out of their lives.�
�

  “That’s right.”

  Devlin felt the sting of that, let it go. “I drove up here just to make sure everything was okay.”

  “What’s with the mysterious phone call? And why did you think the call wasn’t enough, you had to show up in person? You in some sort of wet-brain paranoid state? I’ve seen that happen.”

  Devlin’s face grew hot. He wondered if he could take him if it came down to it. Decided he couldn’t. Ramos was in his forties, but had the chest and arms of a gym rat, could probably take a lot of punishment and keep coming. Ten years ago, it might have been different. Still, part of him wanted to try.

  Devlin shook his head.

  “Then say what it is you have to say.”

  “You know I was in the military, right? The Army?”

  “What about it?”

  “Karen probably told you that after that—long ago, before I met her—I did some private work. Security contractor, that kind of thing.”

  “So?”

  “One of the people I worked with back then came looking for me recently. Not sure why. There’s a chance someone else may as well. They might find this address somehow, think it was mine, come here.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It’s probably nothing to worry about, I just wanted you to know what was going on, in case you heard anything.”

  “That sounds like a lot of—” Ramos circled a finger near his temple.

  “It’s not.”

  “You see a psych about all this?”

  “Believe what you want, Vic. Blame it all on me, I don’t care. But just listen to me for once. Any odd phone calls, cars driving by, strangers asking about me, anything, let me know. You have my cell now.”

  “You think I’m some idiot, can’t keep my wife and kid safe?”

  “I know you can do that. I’m just asking you to be aware. And I felt like I owed you that explanation, in person.” Wanting to end it, now that he’d said his piece. He looked back at the house. The curtain was closed again.

  Ramos looked off down the street, then back at him. “Long drive, huh?”

  “Long enough.”

  Ramos gestured at the Ranchero. “I used to own one of those, when I was like seventeen. What year is it?”

  “ ’Sixty-nine.”

  “The four-speed?”

  Devlin nodded.

  “Still run good?”

  “Most of the time.”

  “Listen, I don’t mean to come off as a hard-ass,” Ramos said. “But things are going good here. I need to protect that. And you coming here, stirring things up—for whatever reason—that don’t help.”

  “I told you why I came.”

  “I’m sorry things worked out the way they did. I understand how that happens. But life moves on, right?”

  “Trust me, Vic. Nobody knows that better than me.”

  Devlin looked back at the house. “Brendan home?”

  “Nah, he’s at the job. He’s a good kid. A hard worker.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s been saving money since he graduated. He’s looking at colleges for next year, maybe.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I told him if he gets that junior-college degree, right here in town, I can get him into the academy. Be a good move for him. But he has his own ideas, you know? Kids that age, what are you gonna do?”

  Devlin put out his hand. After a moment, Ramos shook it.

  “Anything,” Devlin said. “No matter how small. Something doesn’t look right, call me, let me know. Like I said, doesn’t matter what it is.”

  “And like I said, I heard you.”

  “Then we’ll leave it,” Devlin said. He glanced back at the house, feeling the need to say goodbye to whoever was inside, not sure why.

  He made two wrong turns before he found the street he was looking for. He pulled into the half-full lot of the garden and landscaping center, parked next to a station wagon. A young couple was wandering the fenced-in yard, looking at concrete fountains. Brendan walked beside them, wearing an orange canvas work apron and carrying a clipboard. Taller than the last time he’d seen him, neat beard, hair to his shoulders.

  Devlin rolled down his window. The woman looked over at him, said something to Brendan. He turned then, saw him. Devlin raised a hand.

  The three of them went into the office. After a few minutes, Brendan came back out alone, without the apron or clipboard, crossed the lot to him.

  “Hey, chief,” Devlin said. “How about lunch?”

  In the truck, Brendan said, “How’d you know where I was?”

  “Took a gamble. I was at the house. Vic told me you were at work. I knew you used to work there summers, holidays. Figured it was worth a try.”

  Brendan pushed a strand of hair from his face, looked out the window.

  “Not causing you trouble, am I?” Devlin said. “Coming by like that?”

  “Just surprised to see you, that’s all.” Still no eye contact.

  “I know it’s been a while,” Devlin said, “but—”

  “Two years this Christmas.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s tough getting up here sometimes. And your mom’s not always happy to see me.”

  Silence.

  “If you’re angry at me, that’s fine,” Devlin said. “You’ve got the right. I can’t blame you.”

  “I’m not angry.”

  “Good to hear. I almost believe you. You didn’t eat already, did you?”

  “No.”

  “What are you in the mood for?”

  Brendan shrugged.

  “How about the pancake house over by the mall? You still go there?”

  “Sometimes. Whatever.”

  They made the rest of the ride in silence. Inside the restaurant, Brendan was quiet, fixated on the menu.

  “We can go somewhere else if you like,” Devlin said.

  “No, this is fine.”

  Devlin looked at his own menu. “They still have those chocolate chip pancakes you used to like.”

  Brendan didn’t respond. When the waitress came, Devlin ordered first, to give him more time. She smiled at Brendan when she took his order, called him “honey.”

  After she was gone, Devlin said, “You’re lucky. You got your mom’s looks.”

  “I guess.”

  “Vic tells me you’re checking out colleges finally.”

  “That what he said?”

  “Was he wrong?”

  Brendan drank from his water glass. “Vic’s an asshole.”

  “He’s in a tough position.”

  “Fuck him.”

  “Don’t talk like that.” Devlin felt a smile forming, stopped it.

  “Where are you living now?” Brendan said.

  “I moved around for a while. I’m down in Florida now. I have a boat.”

  “That’s what Mom said. She said she hoped you’d drown.”

  “She didn’t mean that.”

  “Then why is she still so mad at you?”

  He thought about his answer while the waitress refilled his coffee cup. “I guess I could have been a better husband. A better father.”

  “You guess,” Brendan said.

  “You were just a kid when things went bad between your mom and me. You’re not a kid anymore. You might see things differently now.”

  The waitress brought their sandwiches. Devlin had ordered a BLT, Brendan a grilled cheese and bacon. Devlin was sorry he’d mentioned the pancakes, knew if he hadn’t, Brendan might have ordered them.

  They ate without speaking. The waitress brought Brendan another Coke. When she was gone, Devlin said, “We all have our reasons. It doesn’t make things right. But sometimes it makes them easier to understand.”

  Brendan put down his sandwich. “She said a lot of it was because of what happened to you in the Army, some of the places you went to.”

  “Maybe she’s right. I don’t know. It’s hard to separate cause and effect sometimes. What’s the disease, what�
��s the symptom.”

  “What war were you in? She’d never tell me much.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “So where were you?”

  Devlin looked down at his sandwich, his appetite fading. “A lot of places.”

  “Just like always, isn’t it? You can’t ever give me a straight answer.”

  Devlin sighed, sat back.

  “I’m not a kid anymore, remember? You just said it.”

  “You’re right,” Devlin said. “I’m sorry.”

  “She told me you were a paratrooper.”

  “I was. Eighty-Second Airborne. Fort Bragg.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “North Carolina. I wanted to try to get into Special Forces, that’s where they were based. You needed jump experience, and back then, most of the SF guys came from the Eighty-Second.”

  “Special Forces, you mean like SEALs?”

  “No, that’s a Navy unit. I was Army. A lot of the men in my unit wanted to go SF, but it was hard to make the cut. I didn’t. I flunked out.”

  “How come?”

  “The final test was escape-and-evasion. You jumped from a C-130 over the forest, out in the middle of nowhere, with a certain amount of time to make it to a designated area. Meanwhile, they sent other guys out to try to catch you. If you weren’t where you were supposed to be at the right time, or if you got caught along the way, you flunked out.”

  “What happened?”

  “There were fire roads all through there. Instructors would ride up and down in jeeps. If they saw you, you were out. But it was easier to run the roads than slog through the woods, especially if you were trying to make up time. So a lot of guys took the chance. They’d run on the road for a while, then cut back into the trees before they got caught.”

  “That what you did?”

  “I tried. First couple times, I got away with it. Third time, they nailed me. Automatic fail. They drove me back to main post in a jeep. I was angry at myself. It was all I wanted, and I’d blown it.”

  “Did you try again?”

  “No. There were other things going on at the same time. A buddy I’d known in the Eighty-Second, Roarke, told me about a private company based near D.C. that was hiring ex-military. It’s common now, but wasn’t back then. He’d gone to work for them when he got out of the service. I was sick of the Army, was going nowhere fast. I was young and stupid. Had all this training, wanted to use it.”