David Morrell - Burnt Sienna

As Fernando smoked one, they discussed the weather, the boat, and other seemingly casual subjects.

When Fernando finished the cigarette, he pinched off the end and pocketed the remnant of tobacco. Pointing toward the tilted trailer partially buried in the sand, he explained something.

“What did he tell you?” Sienna asked.

“That the trailer isn’t as damaged as it looks. He says that with the four-wheel-drive vehicle we have, we can pull the trailer upright, repair it, and live in it.”

“ Gracias ,” she told Fernando.

It was as near to paradise as Malone had ever come: swimming, sailing, fishing, hiking, or merely lying in a hammock, reading. But most of all, it was painting, trying to capture something in Sienna’s eyes that had become his single goal to depict.

Beatrice indeed.

Sometimes, Fernando’s ten-year-old boy came over and looked spellbound at Malone’s images of her.

“Would you like to learn to do this?”

The boy nodded solemnly. One lesson turned into several. The boy went around with a sketch pad, drawing everything he saw, as if he’d discovered magic.

At night, as Malone and Sienna lay in bed together, she whispered, “You have a way with children.”

“With one child, anyhow,” he joked.

“Be serious. It’s a nice thing you’re doing.”

“Well, he’s a good kid.”

“But what you’re teaching him isn’t simple. You know how to get a child to listen. You’d make a good father.”

“Make a… Wait a minute. Are you telling me you want to have a child?”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

“With all the trouble we’re in…”

“I didn’t say right now. But if we weren’t in trouble, how would you feel about…”

“Having a child with you?”

“Yes.”

“If it would make you happy.”

“Happier.”

In the night, they held each other, not doing anything else, just holding.

At his table on the château’s terrace, his coffee and croissant untasted, Potter listened to the roar of the machine gun. His face felt tight. His eyes were gritty. To be expected. After all, the machine gun had wakened him before dawn, as it had on the previous morning and the morning before that. On occasion, it was interrupted by explosions and handgun fire, but mostly it was the machine gun. All day. Every day. Potter’s nerves weren’t the only ones affected. The guards looked on edge, interrupting their patrols to stare toward the shooting range and frown at one another.

Potter didn’t understand how Derek’s body, his hands, arms, and shoulders, could withstand the relentless punishment he subjected them to. The machine gun itself couldn’t sustain it. Derek had already broken one tripod, destroyed two feeding mechanisms, and burned out a dozen barrels. In contrast, Derek’s body showed no signs of wearing down, his fury so great that only if he didn’t vent it would he suffer physically.

Derek’s emotions were another matter. Potter had never seen him so distraught. From the day Sienna had escaped with Malone, Derek had been unable to concentrate on anything except revenge. Important business matters went unattended. He haunted the weapons-testing range, firing every weapon he could get his hands on, reducing the mock village to rubble, ordering his men to rebuild it, then reducing it to rubble again, not a wall or a house remaining. When overuse broke the weapons, he screamed at his engineers to design them better and to bring him others to test. When he tired of firearms, he changed to grenades and rocket launchers, the enraged expression on his face demonstrating the schemes of revenge he imagined.

Potter finally couldn’t bear it. He rose from the table and made his way along a path to the testing range. He saw Derek bent over the machine gun, cursing as he yanked at its firing mechanism but couldn’t get it to eject a jammed shell. Derek wore earplugs, so he didn’t know Potter was in the area until Potter stepped in front of him.

Rage swelled Derek’s body, giving him an even more imposing presence than usual. His huge eyes were dark with fury. “ Have you found them ?”

“No. We’re still looking. You have to stop this, Derek. You’re due in Miami tomorrow.”

“Find them, damn it!” Derek freed the jammed cartridge and fired at a mannequin that moved along a track, blowing it to pieces. “ Find them !”

The restaurant was called El Delfin – the Dolphin. It was a couple of blocks from the beach, on a sandy street: a dingy one-story building with an orange shingled roof and an air conditioner braced in a window. An utterly unassuming place, with the exception that it served the best food in Santa Clara.

At dusk, Malone and Sienna opened the restaurant’s screen door and stepped onto the faded linoleum floor. For a moment, all the tables seemed occupied. Then Malone noticed an empty one in back on the right-hand side. He noticed something else: a Mexican military captain talking with three male civilians. The captain had a lean, sallow, mustached face that reminded Malone of a hawk. He had a pair of mirrored sunglasses, folded, hanging from a shirt pocket by one of the bows.

“Behind you,” Sienna said as she and Malone sat across from each other.

“Yes,” Malone said. “The officer from the roadblock. No big deal. Everybody’s got to eat.”

When the waitress came, they each ordered a beer, then studied the wrinkled single-sheet menu.

Malone reached across the table and grasped her hand. “Hungry?”

“Famished. This shrimp dish sounds good.”

“I recommend it,” a voice said.

They turned.

The captain stood next to their table.

“Then I’ll have it,” Malone said.

“Captain Ramirez.” The man smiled pleasantly as he held out his hand.

Malone shook it. “Dale Perry.”

“Beatrice Perry.” Sienna shook his hand.

“A pleasure.”

Malone noticed that Ramirez looked to see if she wore a wedding ring. They had bought two before they left Yuma.

“I apologize for interrupting, but I like to say hello to our visitors from the United States. It gives me a chance to practice my English.”

“Which is very good.”

Ramirez made a modest gesture.

“Would you care to join us?” Malone asked.

“Perhaps for a minute or two. Una otra cerveza ,” Ramirez told the waitress, then pulled out a chair and sat next to Malone. “Are you enjoying your visit?”

“Very much.”

“You don’t find it a little hot this time of year? Most of your countrymen have left by now.”

“Actually, we like it hot,” Malone said.

“You must have fire in your blood.”

“Only when I was a teenager.”

“Yes, to be a teenager again.” Ramirez chuckled. “Mrs. Perry, most of the Americans who come down here are retired. It’s rare to see a woman from the north who’s so young.” He paused. “And so beautiful.”

She looked uncomfortable. “Thank you.”

“You’re obviously too young to have retired. Perhaps you won the lottery.”

“Don’t we wish. Dale was a commercial artist in Abilene, Texas.” The practiced story accounted for their Texas car plate and driver’s license. “But a couple of months ago, the company went out of business.”

“Unfortunate,” Ramirez said.

“Dale always wanted to be a painter. When the company folded, I told him it was God’s way of urging him to follow his heart. We took our life savings and drove across the Southwest, stopping when Dale saw something he wanted to paint. Eventually we headed down here.”

“You’re an understanding woman – to go along with your husband’s dreams.”