Some Die Nameless

by Wallace Stroby

  Bell tried to pull his hand back. Devlin leaned his weight into the door, trapped it. He punched at the inside of the exposed wrist. Once, twice, driving it into the wall, aiming for the fragile carpal bones in the base of the hand.

  Bell fired blindly. The round splintered trim from the wall, ricocheted past Devlin’s head. He punched again, and this time Bell’s hand opened. The gun fell to the floor. Devlin foot-swept it behind him, yanked open the door. Bell pulled away, his arm free, and Devlin stepped out, kicked him hard in the stomach.

  Bell fell back, hit a vertical storage locker behind him, didn’t go down. He bounced off it, used the momentum to bull forward, his hands already a blur. Devlin got his arms up to protect his face, took a shot to the lower ribs that stole his breath.

  Bell crowded in with a flurry of movement, punching and kicking. Devlin tried to push him away, cover up, felt the first surge of panic. He took another blow to the ribs, swung and hit air, lost his balance. Bell roundhoused a knee into him, and Devlin went down hard onto the cabin floor, lights sparking at the edge of his vision.

  He curled up to guard against another kick, but Bell stepped over him, pushed the stall door wider, looking for the gun. He bent to retrieve it, and Devlin saw his chance. He twisted on the floor, caught Bell’s ankles from behind and pulled.

  Bell’s chin hit the rim of the toilet as he went down. He grunted, swiveled onto his back, pulled a leg free, and kicked. His heel hit Devlin’s shoulder, knocked him back. Then they were grappling, the gun forgotten, Bell trying to pin him to the deck, straddle him, and finish it. Devlin slipped a punch, twisted his hips out from under Bell’s weight, swung behind him, and locked an arm across his throat.

  He had control now, knees on the floor, his center of gravity low, Bell in a sitting position in front of him. Bell drove an elbow back into his stomach, but it was too late; Devlin had the choke hold in place. He pulled tighter, forearm across Bell’s throat, left palm behind his head, pushing it forward, cutting off the flow of blood and oxygen.

  Bell reached back, clawed for his eyes. Devlin tucked his head in, tightened his grip, felt the struggles slow. Bell’s hands pulled at Devlin’s forearm weakly, then dropped away. Devlin held him another three seconds to make sure, then let go. Bell slumped to the floor.

  Devlin tried to stand. He pushed Bell aside, stepped over him. There was a ringing in his right ear, and his face felt numb and swollen. At his feet, Bell began to gasp.

  Devlin went into the stall. The gun was against the wall, behind the toilet. He picked it up. It was a Colt .25 with checkered plastic grips. Not much stopping power, but an easy kill at that range. He lowered the hammer.

  Bell coughed. Devlin moved around him, a sour taste rising fast inside him. He lurched to the counter, vomited into the steel sink. He set the gun down, ran water, palmed some into his mouth, spit it out.

  Bell was leaning back against the locker, watching him, chest rising and falling. Devlin showed him the gun, then sat on the top step. His ribs ached. Numbness before, pain now.

  He ejected the magazine. Four rounds left, one in the chamber. He pushed it home again, rested the gun butt on his knee.

  “I think this is the point,” he said, “where we have a conversation.”

  Two

  The rain had stopped. Low thunder sounded, but farther away now.

  Bell rubbed the back of his neck. “You’ve still got some moves. Give you that.” His voice was hoarse.

  Devlin stood, pain in his sides, said, “Stay down.” He went around behind Bell, put the muzzle of the gun against the base of his skull, patted him down with his free hand, looking for other weapons. He pulled a wallet from his back pocket, tossed it on the table. The rest of his pockets were empty. He backed away, went through Bell’s jacket, came up with a pair of car keys on an electronic fob, a cellphone. He put them with the wallet.

  Bell shifted on the floor. Devlin kept the gun on him.

  “I guess I fucked that up,” Bell said. “What happens now?”

  “You tell me.”

  The cabin rocked as a boat went by. Bell’s Dos Equis bottle had been knocked over in the struggle. It rolled across the floor, leaking foam. Devlin stopped it with his foot, picked it up, and set it in the sink. He sat back on the top step. “This isn’t much gun.”

  “Figured it would do.”

  “Yeah, it probably would have. Five rounds left.”

  Bell grinned. “Even without the gun, I had you.”

  “You did.”

  “You want to put it down, try me again?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “You gonna use it?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “I do. You’re not. That’s not how you roll.”

  “You sure of that?” Devlin said. “You think you know me?”

  “Knew you well enough back in the day. And you know me well enough to know I ain’t got shit to say to you.”

  “Maybe I should put a bullet in your leg, get the conversation started.”

  “Do what you feel. But there isn’t gonna be a conversation.”

  Devlin stood. His cellphone was on the chart shelf to his left. Without looking away from Bell, he took it down, flipped it open.

  “Sit there,” he said. “Don’t try to get up.”

  He backed up the steps and onto the deck. The slip on the port side was still empty. The boat that usually moored there had been gone all day. Beyond that, a cabin cruiser was buttoned up tight, no lights inside. TV noise came from a Chris-Craft four slips down. At the far end of the dock, the marina office was dark. Vapor lights illuminated the dozen or so cars and pickups in the parking lot.

  The shots hadn’t drawn anyone. In the confines of the cabin, they would have been little more than muffled cracks to anyone outside. It was why Bell had used a small caliber.

  He went back below. If he called 911 now, the police would be there soon. He’d lose his chance to talk to Bell, try to find out why he’d come. He closed the phone, slipped it in his back pocket. Wind rocked the boat, sent a bolt of pain through his ribs.

  “I didn’t hear you make a call,” Bell said.

  “I didn’t.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  Devlin pointed the gun at him.

  “Not your style,” Bell said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Shoot an unarmed man.”

  “We did worse,” Devlin said.

  “That was then. This is a whole other situation.”

  “Is it? Why’d you come here?”

  “Maybe I wanted to take you off. Steal your boat.”

  “If that were the case, all you had to do was ask. I’d have said, ‘Take it.’”

  He got the wallet from the table, opened it with his left hand. Inside were four fifty-dollar bills and a Georgia driver’s license in Bell’s name, with an Atlanta address.

  “You’re not gonna steal a brother’s money, are you?”

  He put the wallet back, picked up the phone. It was a cheap disposable. No contacts, and the only number in the call history was his. He tossed it back on the table.

  “That proposition you mentioned. You were just trying to sound me out, right? See where my head was at?”

  “I screwed up. I got nothing else to say. You gonna make that call?”

  Devlin sat back on the step. “One thing’s bothering me. We never had a beef between us. Any of us, even with all that happened. And if we did, it was a long time ago. So if you’re not here for yourself, you’re here for someone else. Who?”

  Bell rotated his neck, winced. “Man, I think you cracked something.”

  “It’s funny,” Devlin said. “All the shit we went through together, the bad memories, I was still happy to hear from you, see you.”

  Bell was silent.

  “You took your chances coming here too, a public place. Somebody might have seen you.”

  “A house would have been better, but we play the hand we’re de
alt, right?”

  Devlin felt a sudden stab of anxiety. He thought about Karen and Brendan in Connecticut. He hadn’t talked to either of them in months. Did Bell have that address? Had he been there as well?

  “You shoot me right now, I wouldn’t blame you,” Bell said. “That’s what you should do. What I’d do. But you won’t, will you?”

  “You want to find out?”

  Bell got a leg under him, started to stand.

  “Don’t,” Devlin said.

  Bell rose, put a hand on the locker for support. “Four in the mag. One in the chamber, right? I come at you, you gonna be able to put me down before I reach you?”

  “Don’t do it, man. Please.”

  “Not much choice, is there? You think I’m going to sit here, wait for the police? Deal with that mess?”

  “Don’t.”

  Bell grinned, said, “No choice at all,” and came at him.

  Devlin tried to raise the gun, but suddenly there was no room between them. Bell caught his right wrist with both hands, twisted it outward, and head-butted him. It snapped Devlin’s head back. Pain watered his eyes. Bell tried to pull the gun away from him, and Devlin’s finger caught in the trigger. The gun cracked, and a starboard window shattered.

  Devlin fell back against the steps, Bell pinning him there, the gun between them. He felt the hard muzzle against his stomach, Bell forcing the gun into him. He’s going to kill you, Devlin thought. Right here, right now.

  Bell’s finger slipped over his on the trigger, tightened. He leaned into Devlin, his face inches away. Devlin tried to push the gun down and to the side. Their fingers tangled in the trigger guard.

  The shot was muffled. Bell leaped back, bumped into the table. The gun clattered to the deck.

  Devlin rolled off the steps, caught the edge of the sink, and pulled himself up, breathing hard. Bell stayed where he was. He had a hand over his stomach just above his belt.

  Devlin watched him, waiting for Bell to come at him again. Bell took his hand away, looked at the blood on his palm, then at Devlin.

  Devlin raised his fists, got ready. Bell walked past him, up the three steps and onto the deck. He stumbled to one side, then sat down on the port engine cover.

  Devlin picked up the gun, followed him out. Bell had both hands pressed to his stomach now. His face was shiny with sweat, and the front of his pants was darkening with blood.

  “Look at this shit,” he said. Blood was coming through his fingers. He looked up at Devlin, as if for an explanation, a solution. He coughed and there were blood drops on his lips.

  Devlin got the cell from his back pocket, fumbled with it. His fingers were slick with Bell’s blood. He wiped a hand on his pants leg. It didn’t help.

  Three

  Two hours later, Devlin sat in a hard plastic chair in a too-cold room with concrete walls. There was a copy machine in one corner, boxes of copy paper, an open metal supply cabinet. High on one wall was a dark-tinted plastic globe. He could see the camera lens inside.

  The door opened, and a middle-aged black woman came in with a Styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand, a binder under her arm. Behind her was a big crew-cut man in a suit, talking on a cellphone. Detectives, Devlin thought.

  The woman dropped the binder on the table with a thump. The man finished his call, put the phone in a jacket pocket.

  They sat across from him. The woman gave him a frozen smile. The man looked at his watch, crossed his arms.

  “I’m Lieutenant Landreth,” she said. “Riviera Beach Police. This is Detective Byrne, Palm Beach County Sheriff’s. He’s assisting. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  Devlin folded his hands on the table. They’d let him wash some of the blood off in the station men’s room, but his nails were still outlined with it. His arms felt heavy, and it hurt to raise them.

  “Crime Scene Unit’s still at the boat,” she said. “You’ll need to find someplace else to stay tonight.”

  She opened the binder. “I have your statement about what happened between you and Aaron Bell. Anything you want to add to that?”

  He shook his head.

  “Let’s go over it one more time, then, for the detective’s benefit.”

  Byrne took a notebook and silver pen from an inside pocket.

  Devlin told it again, the same story he’d given the responding officers. Most of it was true. Byrne took notes, Landreth only listened.

  “Am I being charged?” Devlin said.

  “With what?” she said.

  “With anything.”

  She flipped through binder pages, didn’t respond.

  To Byrne, he said, “Have you heard anything from the hospital?”

  “Bell’s still in surgery. He took a round in the LLQ, just like you said.”

  “LLQ?”

  “Lower left quadrant.” Byrne touched his own stomach. “Here. Those were hollow-point rounds in that magazine. Even the smaller calibers do a lot of damage.”

  Bell hedging his bets, Devlin thought. Hoping to end it quick.

  Landreth said, “So you have no idea why this Bell fellow shows up at your door, decides to take a couple shots at you?”

  “No.”

  “He trying to rob you? You have anything valuable on board?”

  “Not remotely.”

  “Maybe he thought you did,” Byrne said. “Money. Or drugs.”

  Devlin looked at him. “Neither. And I’m sure you searched the boat, so you know there’s nothing there.”

  “Could be something got tossed overboard,” Byrne said. “There was time before the officers got there.”

  “You’ll have a diver check that too, I’m sure.”

  “If we did, would they find anything?” Byrne said.

  “No.”

  Byrne smiled. “Then why bother?”

  “This is what doesn’t click for me,” she said. “You said you were in the Army with this man.”

  “I was.”

  “Then you don’t see him for what, twenty years, and he shows up at your boat and tries to kill you? Doesn’t give you a reason?”

  “Did you question him?” Devlin said. “What did he say?”

  “Not much of anything before he went into surgery,” Byrne said. “He was awake and alert, but disinclined to talk to us.”

  Devlin felt a sudden wave of pain in his ribs, winced.

  “You should go to St. Mary’s, get checked out,” Landreth said. “We’ll have someone drive you over.”

  Devlin shook his head.

  “Up to you,” she said. “Anyway, ballistics report is preliminary, but it looks like it went the way you said. So that part checks out. We’ll see what we find out about the gun.”

  “It wasn’t mine.”

  “I didn’t say it was. At the moment, it plays the way you told it. A struggle over the weapon, self-defense.”

  “More like an accident.”

  “Wouldn’t matter either way,” Byrne said. “Even if you pulled that trigger intentionally, you’re immune under Florida law. Castle Doctrine. You were being assaulted in your own domicile. Self-defense or not, there’s no grounds to charge you.”

  She cut a glance at Byrne. He met her eyes, shrugged.

  “I’m free to go?” Devlin said.

  “What bothers me”—she looked back at him, closed the binder—“is it feels like there’s something missing from your story. So although Detective Byrne is right in that you won’t be charged—tonight, at least—this investigation isn’t over.”

  “There’s nothing missing.”

  She met his eyes.

  Byrne’s phone buzzed. He took it out, answered “Yeah,” then “Hold on.” He left the room.

  “There’s a rental car in the marina lot,” she said. “Probably belongs to Bell. But we didn’t find any keys on him or in your boat, just his wallet and cellphone. Any idea where they might have gone?”

  “No.”

  “We have a call out to the rental company. They’ll come and open it up fo
r us. We’ll take a look, see if we find anything tells us why he came down here.”

  “Sorry I can’t help you more.”

  “So am I.”

  Byrne came back in, phone to his ear, said, “Thanks,” and ended the call. He took his seat again.

  “That was the hospital,” he said. “Your friend didn’t make it.”

  A uniformed officer drove him back to the marina. There were three police cruisers in the parking lot. Some of the other boats were lit up now, owners standing out on their decks, wondering what was going on.

  The police had plugged in the boat’s dockside power, turned on all the cabin lights. Two uniformed Riviera Beach officers stood on the deck with a crime scene tech, a camera around his neck. Pale blue latex gloves, inside out and stained with blood, lay where the EMTs had dropped them.

  The uniform who’d driven him said, “He’s here to get some personal stuff. Landreth says it’s okay.”

  “He the owner?” the tech said.

  “Yeah,” the driver said. “They cut him loose.”

  “Go on,” the tech said to Devlin. “Try not to touch anything you don’t have to.”

  Devlin stepped aboard, went down into the cabin. The shell casings were still on the floor, each with a numbered yellow plastic triangle beside it. There were rust-colored spots on the deck. More blood.

  The tech and one of the uniforms stood in the doorway and watched him. Behind them, the other uniforms were talking. One of them laughed.

  Devlin opened the storage locker, pushed aside a pair of sun-faded orange life vests, took out an empty gym bag. He carried it into the bow, knelt, and opened the top drawer below the bunk there. He took out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, put them in the bag.

  Wind whistled through the broken window. The boat rocked gently.

  “You almost done?” the tech said.

  “Yeah,” Devlin said. “Just a sec.”

  He closed the top drawer, pulled open the bottom one until it overextended and slipped off its rollers. He put three pairs of bundled socks in the bag, then shifted so his back was to the cabin door. Reaching into the space behind the drawer, he felt around until his fingers touched Bell’s car keys. With his body as cover, he dropped them in the bag, then fit the drawer back into place, slid it home. He zipped up the bag and stood. “Ready.”