David Morrell - Burnt Sienna

“Staying to ourselves is definitely what I want to do.”

A few streets veered to the left, but most led to the right toward palm trees and clapboard bars and restaurants along the sea. Malone ignored these turnoffs, driving straight ahead, passing a row of RV parks, finally stopping when there were no further buildings, only sand. And the sea.

“This is the end of the road,” he said.

“So we’re going to drive back to town and find a place to stay?” Sienna asked.

“Not exactly. Why don’t we get out and stretch our legs.”

Baffled, Sienna followed him across the sand until they reached where the waves lapped at their shoes. Seagulls glided overhead. In the distance, the specks of low motorized fishing boats bobbed in the water. The sun was hot, the sky as blue as the sea.

Malone savored the salt smell. “God, I love living near water.” For a moment, he was reminded of what Bellasar had done to his home on Cozumel.

He calmed himself. “Up this far, near the tip of the gulf, we’re close to Baja California. If you look real hard, you can see the opposite shore. It’s kind of hazy today, but you should be able to see the rocky cliffs. They’re about five miles away. Farther south, the gulf’s a lot wider – as much as a hundred miles.”

Malone pivoted to study the northern shoreline, where pickup trucks hooked cables to fishing boats and pulled them onto the sand. “The town’s bigger than when I was here twelve years ago. Two of those RV parks weren’t here, or that restaurant with the outdoor dining area. But that’s to be expected.”

What he hadn’t expected was that the seaside part of town would look run-down. Sun shelters made of poles supporting palm fronds had toppled, as had a concrete retaining wall. Chain-link fences leaned. Carports had collapsed. What on earth had happened? Then he realized. “They had a hurricane last year. I remember how powerful the newspapers said it was. They’re still digging out from the wreckage. I imagine it’ll take a while.”

But Sienna didn’t look anywhere he pointed. She just stared at him. “What do you mean we’re not going back into town to find a place to stay?”

“We’re going somewhere else.”

“Didn’t you say this was the end of the road?”

“Yes.”

“Then…”

Malone hesitated. He’d prepared her for everything except this. “We agreed that the only way to get away from your husband and Laster is to go to the end of the earth and pull the edges in after us.”

She nodded.

“Down here, American drifters are part of the economy. If somebody wonders where you came from, you can tell whatever lie you want, and nobody’ll think twice or be the wiser. The locals don’t care where your money comes from, and they don’t ask for Social Security numbers. But just to be extra safe…” Malone turned toward the southern shore and the widening gulf. “I wonder if there isn’t an even better edge of the world. When I was here the last time, a villager was renting out dune buggies. One of my buddies and I drove along this shore. There’s nothing for fifteen miles. Then just before the beach runs out, there’s a fishing camp.”

“You mean a village.”

“Smaller. Maybe a dozen trailers. It’s simple. The scenery’s spectacular. The people who live there are loners. There’ll be no one to account to or to bother us.”

For a moment, the only sound was the distant drone of a motorboat.

“That’s where you’d like to go?” Sienna asked.

Malone couldn’t decide if her tone was dismay. “It’s as perfect a place to disappear as I can think of. Then we’ll figure out our next move.”

She seemed lost.

“It’s not forever. A man in your husband’s line of work, there’s a good chance the authorities or one of his competitors will get to him. We just have to survive long enough for that to happen.”

“Surviving is Derek’s specialty.”

A sober moment lengthened. Sienna looked at him. Looked at the sea. Looked east past the sand dunes. “What’s on that hill?”

“A lighthouse. The locals told me it was abandoned.”

“Can we climb to it?”

“Of course, but it’ll take us the rest of the day to get there and back.”

“Not today.”

It was Malone’s turn to look puzzled.

“Later,” she said. “After we get settled.”

“… You’re willing to stay?”

“My life’s been too complicated for a very long time. I kept telling myself I had to simplify.” She took his hand.

“It won’t be like we’re hermits.” Malone squeezed her fingers. “If we want some nightlife, we can go into town. The last time I was here, the restaurants were good. The town has fiestas. People do come here for vacations, after all. Let’s try it. If it doesn’t work out, we’ll find somewhere else.”

The four-wheel-drive Explorer had no trouble on the hard-packed sand. With the windows open and the breeze ruffling her hair, Sienna smiled as they drove along the unmarked beach. “I feel like we’re the first ones to do this.”

“Lewis and Clark.”

She chuckled. “Captain Kirk. ‘Where no one has gone before.’”

To keep the tires from digging into the sand, they didn’t drive faster than twenty miles an hour. The slow, smooth, almost hypnotic ride took forty minutes before they came around a final dune and stopped where a rocky outcrop blocked the way farther south.

The camp didn’t look the way Malone remembered it. The dozen or so trailers he had seen twelve years earlier had been reduced to two, one of which was tilted, partially buried by sand. The other had an awning extending from it. A fishing net hung on a wall, faded shorts, jeans, and other laundry dangling from it. In front, a char-filled fire pit was surrounded by blackened rocks. A motorboat had been hauled up onto the beach. A sun-wizened Mexican man worked on its engine while two children stopped scampering in the waves and looked warily toward Malone and Sienna as they got out of the Explorer. A pensive woman appeared in the trailer’s doorway, assessing the new arrivals.

Malone gestured reassuringly to her and walked with Sienna to the motorboat.

The man’s face was so sun-creased, he might have been anywhere from forty to sixty. His hands were gnarled from years of working with fishing lines. The logo on his baseball hat had faded so much, it was impossible to read.

In Spanish, Malone introduced themselves as Dale and Beatrice Perry. He offered his hand.

The man looked suspiciously at it, then shook it, his calluses palpable. His name was Fernando, he said.

“The last time I came here, twelve years ago, there were more people,” Malone said. “What happened?”

Malone listened, then told Sienna, “He says the hurricane last summer was very bad. The Americans with trailers got away before it arrived. They never came back. It killed one fisherman and scared the others enough to leave. They never came back, either. The hurricane season will soon start again. The other fishermen don’t want to be around when it does.”

“So we’ve pretty much got the place to ourselves?”

“Yes, better than we hoped.” Malone turned toward Fernando. “My wife and I were thinking about camping here for a while. Would you object?”

Fernando seemed pleased that Malone had used usted , the formal word for “you.” People could come and go as they liked, he said.

“But we want to be good neighbors. Maybe you could use some help with the boat. Maybe we could contribute something in exchange for being here.” Malone reached into his shirt pocket and removed a pack of cigarettes. Although he didn’t smoke, he knew they could be handy as gifts.