David Morrell: Burnt Sienna

Potter hadn’t taken his gaze off Malone. Approaching, Malone decided that, on the beach, the sunset had made Potter look healthier than he now appeared. The pallor of his skin suggested that he was seldom out of doors. Behind his spectacles, his eyes had a grave expression.

“Join me.” Potter gestured toward the chair across from him.

“Afraid not. But I’ve taken the liberty of ordering for you. A specialty of the house. You’ll find it one of the most delicious meals you’ve ever eaten. This way, you won’t go back without getting something out of the trip.”

Continuing to fix his gaze on Malone, Potter tapped his fingers on the table. “I’m afraid I haven’t made it clear that failure to convince you to accept the commission is not an option. I cannot go back to Mr. Bellasar and tell him you refused his offer.”

“Then don’t go back. Tell him you quit.”

Potter tapped his fingers harder. “That is not an option, either.”

“Hey, everybody’s got job problems. It doesn’t matter how much he pays you. If you don’t like what you’re doing -”

“You’re mistaken. I enjoy my employment very much.”

“Fine. Then deal with his reaction.”

“It’s my own reaction I care about. I am not accustomed to lack of results. You must understand how serious this matter is. What can I give you to convince you to agree?”

“It’s the other way around,” Malone said. “If I took the assignment, I’d be losing the one thing that matters the most to me.”

“And what is that?” Potter’s gaze intensified.

“My independence. Look, I’ve got more than enough money. I don’t have to be at the beck and call of any son of a bitch who thinks he’s rich enough to tell me what and how to paint.”

Malone didn’t realize he had raised his voice until he noticed a silence around him. Turning, he discovered that the diners had stopped eating and were frowning at him, as was Yat, who stood in the background. “Sorry.” Malone made a calming gesture.

He turned back to Potter. “This is an extension of my home. Don’t make me lose my temper here.”

“Your refusal to take the assignment is absolute?”

“Have you got a hearing problem?”

“There’s nothing I can do or say to change your mind?”

“Jesus, isn’t it obvious?”

“Fine.” Potter stood. “I’ll make my report to Mr. Bellasar.”

“What’s your hurry? Enjoy your meal first.”

Potter picked up his briefcase. “Mr. Bellasar will want to know your decision as soon as possible.”

A quarter mile offshore, the occupants of a forty-foot sailboat anchored near the reef were more interested in the lights of the restaurant than they were in the moon’s reflection off the sea. While the four men studied the beach, they listened to a radio receiver in the main cabin. The transmitted voices were clear, despite the murmur of people talking and eating in the restaurant.

“I’m not close enough to hear what Malone told him,” a male voice said from the radio, “but Potter sure looks pissed.”

“He’s standing,” a female voice said. “He’s grabbing his briefcase. He’s in a hurry to get out of here.”

“Back to the airport would be my guess,” the thin-haired senior member of the team on the sailboat said. “We know how suspicious Bellasar is about telephones. He’ll want Potter to use the scrambler-equipped radio on the plane to get in touch with him.”

The female voice continued from the radio. “Rodriguez is posing as a cabdriver. He’ll follow the car Potter rented and find out what he’s up to.”

“In the meantime, Malone’s gone over to the guy who owns the restaurant,” the male voice said. “He seems to be apologizing. He looks annoyed with himself, but more annoyed with Potter.” For a moment, only the drone of the restaurant came from the radio. Then the male voice said, “He’s sitting down to eat.”

On the sailboat, the senior member of the team sighed in frustration. The bobbing of the craft in the water made him queasy. Or perhaps he was queasy from what he’d just heard. “That’s it for tonight, I’m afraid. The show’s over.”

“And Malone didn’t accept the offer,” the heavyset man next to him said.

“Just as you predicted.”

“Well, I was his copilot. I’ve kept in touch with him since we got out of the Marines. I know how he thinks.”

“He’s determined to be his own man? We might never have as good a chance as this. You’re the expert on him. How the hell do we get him to be our man?”

Tensing, Malone heard the roar before he veered his Jeep around palm trees and came within sight of his house, or what under usual circumstances would have been within sight of his house. The dust cloud that confronted him and the mechanical chaos within it were so startling that he braked abruptly to a stop, staring paralyzed at the haze-concealed dinosaurlike shapes of rumbling machines – bulldozers, one, two, three, Jesus Christ, half a dozen of them – tearing up the sand dunes and palm trees around his home.

When he had first seen this isolated cove on the eastern shore of Cozumel, he had known immediately that this was where he wanted to live. The calm waters on the opposite side of the island made that area more attractive for tourists and developers, which was fine with Malone, who wanted to be away from crowds. But the dramatic surf on this unprotected side, not to mention the remote intimacy of this rugged cove with its stretches of white sand punctuated by craggy black limestone, was irresistible to him. According to Mexican law, a foreigner could purchase land only after he or she obtained a permit from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. In the case of beach property, however, the situation was more complicated because the government needed to make certain that so precious a resource would be respected. Thus it had been necessary for Malone to purchase the property through a fifty-year trust agreement with a local bank, which retained the title and acted as a guardian of the beach. He had then hired a prizewinning Mexican architect to design the house. The attractive sprawling one-story structure was made from a normally unattractive substance, concrete, which was less affected by the region’s humidity than the upright wooden poles lashed together that formed the walls of many homes on the island. Every corner and edge of the concrete was contoured, eliminating sharp angles, softening its appearance. It was stuccoed a dazzling white, enhanced by numerous colorful flowering shrubs, and topped with a roof of thatched palm fronds, providing a traditional look. Several arches and courtyards allowed breezes to circulate freely, reducing the need for air conditioning.

But everything was changed now. The house was coated with a thick layer of grit thrown up by the bulldozers. A normally benevolent breeze was carrying the grit into the house. The sand dunes among which his home had nestled were flattened, carcasses of palm trees lying everywhere. And still the relentless bulldozers kept gouging and tearing, savaging the cove.

As Malone stared at the desecration, his paralysis broke. Furious, he leapt from his Jeep and stormed toward the nearest bulldozer, motioning urgently for the driver to stop. Either the driver didn’t see him, or else the driver didn’t care, for the bulldozer rumbled past Malone, ramming down another palm tree. With greater outrage, Malone charged after the bulldozer, grabbed a handhold on the side, pulled himself up, reached for the ignition key, and turned off the engine.

“Damn it, I told you to stop,” Malone shouted in Spanish.

The driver muttered an obscenity and grabbed Malone’s hand to try to get the key back.