Some Die Nameless

by Wallace Stroby

He looked out the window. She saw a dark car with tinted windows slow on the street for a moment, then drive on.

  “San Marcos is back in the news this week,” she said. “Did you see that?”

  “No.”

  “Things are going crazy there. Infrastructure’s collapsing, inflation’s out of control. Lots of anger in the streets, most of it aimed at Ramírez, the president you helped install. There’s a strong opposition party now for the first time since the coup, led by a doctor named Emmanuel Cruz. Ramírez had agreed to allow general elections in a couple months, then changed his mind and canceled them.”

  “What goes around,” he said.

  “They’ve had protests and demonstrations, a lot of violence. He’s also been empowering roving bands of paramilitary thugs, the colectivos. They’ve been responsible for most of the killing there. His hold is slipping, but I don’t think anyone in Washington wants to find out what happens if San Marcos goes the way of Venezuela, with food riots and kids tossing Molotov cocktails into police stations.”

  “Ramírez wants help?”

  “Part of his military splintered off, and is backing Cruz. There’s talk of another coup. Cruz left San Marcos a few days ago for Brazil. He’s hiding out there, waiting for things to reach critical mass back home. He knows if he stays in San Marcos he’ll be jailed, or worse.”

  “And when he’s ready, he goes back as a hero.”

  “Unless Ramírez crushes his movement in the meantime. Then he’s a marked man.”

  “You think all this has something to do with Unix?”

  “That,” she said, “is what I need you to help me find out.”

  They’d parked in a loading zone down the street, Tariq behind the wheel, engine running. Lukas had the phone Farrow had given them, loaded with the tracking software. It had led them here, the transponder signal clear and strong.

  Devlin’s truck was hard to miss, parked at the end of the block. Through the coffee shop window, they’d seen him at a table inside, talking with a woman. They’d circled the block twice, then come back around to where they could watch the front entrance.

  “There they are,” Tariq said.

  Devlin and the woman came out, split up. Devlin headed toward his pickup. The woman walked in their direction, got into a blue Toyota parked ahead of them.

  “Who do you think she is?” Tariq said.

  “I don’t know. Maybe he’s banging her.”

  “If he’s lucky. Doesn’t look it, though.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Then what is she?”

  The woman waited for pedestrians to cross, then made a U-turn. Down the block, Devlin had gotten into his truck.

  “They’re headed in different directions,” Tariq said.

  “We can always find Devlin again. Follow the girl.”

  She drove past without looking at them. Tariq swung the car around, pulled out behind her.

  Twenty-Five

  O​n the drive home, she called Alysha’s cell. “I got a name.”

  “That’s a start. Whose?”

  The Toyota hit a pothole that shook the car. The muffler rattle grew louder.

  “Someone named Gordon Farrow.” She spelled it. “Lives in Falls Church, Virginia. Affiliated with a company called Core-Tech Security. Devlin and Roarke worked with him. I should have known that already. I should have dug that up on my own.”

  It was growing dark. She was already out of the city and into farmland. She turned on her headlights.

  “Was your boy ready to go on record?” Alysha said.

  “Not yet. But we’re getting there, I think. It’s coming together.”

  “This may be a dumb question, but are you sharing any of this with Dwight Malloy?”

  “Not yet. Let him read it in the paper first. We work this story right, and it could be our ticket out of here.”

  “Sure,” Alysha said, “but to where?”

  “Keep your distance,” Lukas said. “And leave your lights off.”

  They stayed back. It was full dark now, no streetlights, thick woods on either side. A truck coming the other way flashed its high beams at them.

  They came around a bend and saw the flare of the Toyota’s brake lights up ahead. It made a right turn into a driveway. Tariq slowed, and Lukas saw the stone carriage house there, a bigger house farther back on the property.

  “Go up a little bit, and turn around,” Lukas said. “Head back to the city. I’m getting tired of all this driving around, waiting.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “What we came here for.”

  He opened the glove box, took out Farrow’s phone, activated it again. The GPS map came to life, the transponder signal a glowing red dot.

  Devlin had parked the Ranchero behind the motel, out of sight from the street. Now he sat on the walkway in the wooden folding chair, thought about what he’d done, what he’d set in motion. The motel sign blinked red, lit the windshields and hoods of the cars below.

  He got out his cell, called Brendan’s number.

  When he answered, Devlin said, “Hey, champ. How’s it going?”

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah. You’re shocked, I know.”

  A pause, then, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Devlin said. “I just wanted to say hello, hear your voice.” There was talking in the background. “Is it a bad time?”

  “No, it’s just…” Another pause. “Vic was about to take us out to get something to eat. They made me an assistant manager at work today.”

  “That’s great,” Devlin said. He felt foolish now. “Go on, I don’t want to keep you.”

  “Can I call you when we’re done?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Have a good time.”

  “We won’t be too long…”

  “No, really, it’s fine. I’ll try you tomorrow. And that’s terrific about the promotion. I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Louder voices behind him now. “I gotta go. Talk to you tomorrow?”

  “Have fun,” Devlin said, but he was already gone.

  Lukas took the Beretta 9 out from under the seat, threaded in the suppressor. They were in the parking lot of a diner, watching the motel across the street. They’d tracked Devlin here, seen him come out of his room. He’d sat out on the walkway for a while, talking on a cellphone, then gone back inside. The curtain was drawn. Lukas looked up at the door, thinking it through, how he would handle it.

  “You need me?” Tariq said.

  Lukas shook his head. “Stay with the car. Go on over once I get inside, be ready to move.”

  He eased the Beretta’s slide back until he saw brass, then slid the gun into the side pocket of his coat and got out of the car.

  Devlin lay atop the sheets fully dressed, remote in hand, channel surfing aimlessly. He thought about finding a liquor store, getting a six-pack or a pint and bringing it back. Skip dinner, watch television, and drink until he fell asleep.

  A knock came at the door. He muted the TV, got up. The knock came again.

  He looked through the spy hole, got a fish-eye view of the man outside. Early thirties, black hair cropped tight to the skull.

  “What is it?” Devlin said.

  “Sorry to bother you. You own that blue pickup?”

  “What about it?”

  “Somebody backed into it, then took off. I saw them. Desk clerk told me this was your room.”

  “When?”

  “Just a few minutes ago. Passenger-side door, but it took a pretty good hit. You want me to call the police?”

  “Hold on,” Devlin said. He grabbed the keys from the table, undid the night latch, and opened the door.

  Lukas slammed a shoulder into Devlin’s chest, drove him into the room, brought up the Beretta. The door shut behind him. He raised the gun in a two-handed grip, trying for a quick head shot. Devlin dove to the side just as he squeezed the trigger. The round hit the mirror above the dresser, shattered it.

&n
bsp; He moved fast around the bed, and Devlin came up from the floor, sweeping a lamp off the nightstand, hurling it at him. Lukas knocked it aside with his left arm, and then Devlin was barreling toward him, head down.

  Lukas sidestepped, chopped at the back of his neck with the gun. Devlin went facedown onto the carpet, and Lukas stepped over and straddled him, touched the suppressor to the back of his head. “Don’t move. Don’t fight me. You’ll make it worse.”

  Devlin lay with his cheek against the carpet, breathing hard. Lukas kept the gun on him, but didn’t fire. Even suppressed, the first shot had been loud. Another might draw attention.

  He saw a pillow on the bed, just out of reach. It would help muffle the sound. He caught the bottom of the comforter with his left hand, yanked it toward him, the pillow coming with it. Another pull and the pillow fell to the floor. He stretched a hand toward it. Too far.

  He took the gun from Devlin’s head, reached for the pillow, and then Devlin was coming up fast beneath him, and Lukas felt himself being lifted. His feet left the ground, and then he was in the air, the floor rising up to meet him.

  Devlin twisted the man in midthrow, drove him headfirst into the carpet. He stomped down, trying for his throat, but the shooter was already rolling away, raising the gun again. Devlin kicked at it, caught his wrist. The gun hit the wall and fell to the carpet.

  They both went for it. The shooter was faster. He got his hands on the gun, rolled to his feet, spun, and fired. The round passed by Devlin’s cheek, his ear, punched through the curtain and window. He grabbed the empty coffee beaker from the brew pot, flung it. It exploded against the wall near the shooter’s head, showered him with glass. As the man took aim again, Devlin snatched up the desk chair and lunged with it, drove the top rail into his chest. It slammed him back into the dresser, rocked it against the wall.

  The gun came up again. Devlin dropped the chair, got both hands on the man’s wrist, pushed it high. He drove a knee at his groin, missed, hit his thigh, tried to wrench the gun away, couldn’t. The shooter had both hands back on it, was forcing it down, angling it so the muzzle was close to Devlin’s face. At that range, even if the bullet missed, the powder burn would blind him.

  Devlin looked into the black hole of the suppressor. He twisted away, drove a hip into the shooter’s stomach, broke his balance. He kept his grip on the man’s gun hand, pulled it down, and brought his knee up hard into his elbow. The second time he did it, the gun fell to the floor. Devlin kicked it toward the bathroom.

  The shooter broke his grip, swung an elbow to the side of Devlin’s head that sent him stumbling back. Get out, he thought. Trapped in this room you’re an easy target. Stay and be shot.

  The shooter bent, reached for the gun. Devlin went for the door, pulled it open, ducked out onto the walkway. He cut to the left, kicked the folding chair over behind him, headed for the stairs.

  He was almost there when he heard the crack and snap behind him, the sound of a round passing over his head. He looked over his shoulder, saw the shooter in the doorway, steadying the gun as he aimed again.

  You won’t make the stairs, Devlin thought. The next bullet’s in your back.

  He caught the railing with both hands, swung his hips up, felt a blow to his left shoulder. He vaulted over the railing, fell hard onto the roof of the car a few feet below, rolled off and hit the blacktop. The car alarm began to bleat, the headlights flashing.

  When he looked up, the gunman was at the railing, aiming down at him. A round went through the hood of the car; another ricocheted off the pavement. Devlin scrambled behind a pickup truck, ducked low, heard a bullet hit the windshield. The next shot clanged inside the bed, set off the truck alarm.

  Running footsteps. Over the truck bed, he saw the shooter hurrying down the walkway toward the opposite stairs. He heard a car door open and shut, then a squeal of tires. He raised up in time to see a gray sedan, lights off, come fast across the parking lot, bump out onto the highway. He couldn’t read the license plate. Brakes screeched and horns sounded as it pulled out into traffic. He remembered the car he’d seen that afternoon outside the coffee shop.

  Room doors were opening, people coming out. He touched his left shoulder, felt the wetness there, the hole in the sweatshirt. He tagged me after all, he thought. Son of a bitch.

  “Slow down,” Lukas said.

  He was working at the Beretta, trying to disassemble it by feel. Tariq was going too fast, riding hard on the cars ahead, then jerking into the left lane, horns blaring around him.

  “You get him?” Tariq said. His face was shiny with sweat.

  “I don’t know, but slow down, for fuck sake, you’ll cause an accident.”

  Lukas reached over, gripped the wheel with his left hand to steady it. They rattled across the bridge, the city in front of them. Tariq slowed and Lukas took his hand away.

  His elbow ached where Devlin had disarmed him. You’re lucky he didn’t break it, he thought. It should have been a clean kill, as soon as he entered the room, but Devlin had moved faster than he’d expected. There was a chance he’d hit him going over the railing, but it wouldn’t have been a kill shot. He’d had the opportunity and lost it, might never get that close again.

  “Turn left here,” he said. Tariq steered the car into a warren of narrow streets.

  “Pull up by the corner. Stop.”

  Tariq braked, steered to the curb. Lukas finished wiping down the gun parts with a rag. He hadn’t worn gloves. That might have tipped off Devlin as soon as he saw him.

  He got out, went to a storm drain, threw in the Beretta parts and the suppressor. They’d be found at some point, but it was riskier to keep the gun. He’d left shell casings at the motel, inside and out, hadn’t had time to pick them up. They would match to the gun.

  Back in the car, he felt a tremor in his hands. He squeezed them into fists, then opened them again, held them in front of him until they were still. “Let’s go.”

  You were an amateur back there, he thought. You made amateur mistakes. You can’t blame this on anyone but yourself. You need to assess what happened, what you did wrong.

  Tariq pulled away from the curb. “Where to?”

  “Just drive,” Lukas said.

  Twenty-Six

  W​hen Tracy got to the UPenn emergency room, Dwight Malloy was already there. She’d been home when Devlin called her, told her what had happened. She’d driven as fast as she could back into the city.

  Now Devlin sat on the edge of a treatment table in a curtained cubicle. The bloody sweatshirt they’d cut off him lay half in and half out of a plastic trash can. The ER doctor had sutured the two-inch-long wound on his shoulder, brushed the area with yellow-red disinfectant.

  “What are you doing here?” Dwight said to her.

  “I called her,” Devlin said. “I was worried for her safety.”

  She looked at Dwight. “This yours?”

  “EMTs reported an incoming gunshot wound. Closest trauma unit was here in Philly. I heard the call come in, recognized the name. “

  “Looks worse than it is,” Devlin said.

  “It looks pretty bad.” Her eyes were drawn to the other, older scars on his torso.

  “Just a graze. I got a lidocaine shot, so I’m not feeling much back there.”

  “The man who shot you,” Dwight said. “You sure you didn’t recognize him?”

  Devlin shook his head. “Just the car, and I can’t even be positive about that. I couldn’t see the driver.”

  To Tracy, Dwight said, “Tell me again where you fit into this.”

  Devlin looked at her, letting her decide how much she wanted to tell.

  “We were following up on the Dugan’s killings for a Sunday piece,” she said. “Mr. Devlin here was helping us out, as a source.”

  “And what did you find out?” Dwight said. “Considering this is an active murder investigation?”

  “I reached out to her,” Devlin said. “I read her stories in the paper. I wanted to know
if she had any idea who might have done the shootings.”

  “You wanted to talk about this case, you should have come to me,” Dwight said. “I thought I made that clear in our interview.”

  “I was asking, not telling,” Devlin said. “I didn’t know anything I hadn’t already told you. Still don’t.” Letting her off the hook.

  Dwight frowned. He’s trying to figure out how all this fits together, Tracy thought. And he’s not liking it.

  “He’s telling the truth,” she said. “He contacted me after he read the story in the Observer. We met a couple times, that’s all, including this afternoon. But he didn’t give us anything we didn’t already have.”

  She watched his eyes, wondering if he bought the lie.

  To Devlin, he said, “I’ve been on the phone with the Camden police. They won’t want anything to do with this, especially if they hear it’s connected to one of our cases. You think the motel has any video?”

  “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  Dwight turned to her. “I’m guessing your presence here means you’re planning on writing something.”

  “Have to.”

  “And if I asked you to hold off?”

  “Can’t do it. Shots fired in public. Wounded man turns out to be the friend of another man who was recently murdered, also in public. This isn’t going away.”

  “My concern,” Devlin said, “is if the person who shot at me was watching us this afternoon, he may know about Ms. Quinn here as well. She might be in danger.”

  Dwight looked at her. “He’s got a point. I know the chief in New Hope. I’ll ask him to get a uniform out to your house overnight, just to be safe.”

  He turned back to Devlin. “You were lucky tonight.”

  “I know.”

  He gestured at Devlin’s chest, the scars there.

  “I’m still not sure exactly what it is you’ve gotten yourself into,” he said. “But this might be a good time to start reevaluating your lifestyle choices.”