David Morrell - Burnt Sienna

He grabbed Dale’s shoulders and pulled. Dale’s head came through. Seeing the flames reach the bed, Fernando pulled harder. The wind filled his mouth, taking his breath away. Harder! he told himself. But Dale’s chest was caught on something, the pockets of his fisherman’s jacket so full they jammed him. Fernando shoved him back in. Unable to remove the jacket, he yanked its bulging flaps through the gap, then tugged again on Dale’s shoulders, exhaling in triumph when Dale came toward him. Dale’s chest was through. His stomach. His hips. With one last pull, Fernando fell backward, Dale landing next to him, the wind and rain overwhelming them.

But Fernando couldn’t take the time to catch his breath. As the flames reached the gap, he lifted Dale to his feet, doubled him over his right shoulder, and staggered toward the other trailer. When he burst inside, leaving the storm behind, he set Dale on the floor and groped through the darkness to find a candle and light it. What he saw as the tiny flame grew made him moan in sympathy. Dale’s face was raw, swollen with bruises. Not even the fierce rain had been able to wash the blood off. Fresh blood seeped from his nose, and Fernando shivered, not because of his wet clothes but because of excitement as he realized, Corpses don’t bleed.

“My God, you’re alive.”

Pain roused him. It stabbed. It festered. It ached. His entire face was alive with it, pulsing with agony, about to burst. And his scalp. And his stomach, oh, Jesus, his stomach. And the right side of his chest hurt so…

As his nerve ends came back to life, the pain grew and dragged him from his delirium, prodding him into consciousness. His swollen eyelids struggled open, sending the tortured area around them into spasms. Among shadows, he saw a flickering light. The fire. He was lying in the trailer. The flames were about to reach him. Sienna. Where was… Moaning, he squirmed to get away from the flames. Hands grabbed him: Bellasar’s men. A face appeared before him: Bellasar about to hit him again. He thrashed harder to get away, the effort intensifying his pain.

A distant voice said something he couldn’t understand.

He struggled.

“Be still,” the voice said.

In Spanish.

“You’re safe,” the voice said.

Malone opened his eyes a little more, seeing a face with gray beard stubble, wizened from years of working in the sun.

“You’re safe,” Fernando repeated.

Movement made Malone tense until he realized it was Fernando’s wife touching his forehead with a cloth. Other movement made him glance toward a corner, where Fernando’s children huddled, afraid.

Having trouble getting air through his nose, he opened his mouth, his jaw hurting, but when he expanded his chest to take a deep breath, the pain in his upper-right ribs was even worse.

Outside, wind shrieked. Rain lanced against the windows.

“Sienna,” he managed to say. “Where…”

Fernando frowned, as if Malone had spoken gibberish.

Which I did, Malone realized. Not only had he spoken in English, but Fernando had never heard Sienna’s name before. He knew her as Beatrice.

“Beatrice,” Malone said. “ ¿Donde está? ¿Qué pasa ?”

Fernando and Bonita exchanged troubled looks.

“ ¿Qué pasa ?” he demanded.

Fernando sighed and told him what he had heard.

Malone closed his eyes, his emotional pain greater than what his body suffered. He imagined the terror Sienna must have felt when she was forced into the car. The terror would be worse now, as Bellasar prepared whatever hell he had in mind for her.

If she was still alive.

How long ago had they taken her? Straining to clear his thoughts, Malone checked his watch and saw that the time was almost 10:30. Bellasar and his men had arrived at dusk, around 8:45. He had no idea how long they’d remained after he was knocked unconscious, but he doubted it had been long. That meant they had about a ninety-minute head start.

By now, they’re close to the border, he thought sickly. No, I’m wrong. The rain at the window made him realize the storm would have slowed them. They might even have had to take shelter in Santa Clara. There was still a chance.

“Help me stand,” he told Fernando.

“No. You mustn’t try to move.”

“Please.” Malone grimaced. “Help me stand.”

“But…”

Malone shuddered, sitting up. Nausea swept through him as he struggled for the further energy to get on his feet.

“Loco.” Fernando lifted him, holding him steady as Malone wavered.

Malone fumbled at the pockets of his jacket. “Help me open these zippers.”

Confused, Fernando did, his curiosity turning to amazement when he saw the wad of pesos Malone pulled out.

“Half of this is yours,” Malone said.

“What?”

“I’m going to keep some in case I need it on the way to Yuma. Otherwise” Malone waited for a swirl of dizziness to pass. “Your share’s about four thousand dollars.”

Fernando’s wife gasped.

Malone fumbled in his jeans, pulling out the Explorer’s keys. “You’ve been a good friend.”

Fernando’s voice was tight from emotion. “ De nada .”

“If you’ll just do one more thing for me.”

Fernando waited to hear what it was.

“Help me to my car.”

There must have been something in the way Malone said it or in the look he gave. Fernando didn’t argue. With a nod, he put an arm around Malone’s left side, careful not to aggravate the pain on his right.

When Malone pulled the door open, rain shoved them back. He braced himself and stepped into the raging darkness, Fernando going with him, holding him up. Drenched, they staggered toward the gutted trailer. Despite the storm, a few flames struggled to flicker, guiding the way toward the dark outline of the Explorer next to the trailer.

If only the fire hasn’t spread to it… Apprehension made Malone’s heart pound faster. Despite the cold rain, he sweated. He smelled smoke. Lightning gave him a glimpse of the driver’s side. Heat had blistered the car’s paint. He felt along the windows, finding them intact. “Fernando, the tires,” he fought to say in the wind. “Are they all right?”

“Yes.”

“Help me inside.”

Fernando eased him behind the steering wheel. The effort increased the pain in Malone’s ribs and made him see gray for a moment. He fumbled to put the key in the ignition switch.

“Are you sure you can do this?” Fernando asked.

“I have to.”

“We will pray for you.”

“I’ll need it.” Malone turned the key. For a moment, he was afraid water had gotten into the electrical system, but after the briefest hesitation, the engine started. He switched on the headlights. They barely pierced the storm. When he turned on the windshield wipers, he saw Fernando running into the darkness toward his trailer. Then he pressed the accelerator and tore up wet sand, heading toward Santa Clara.

The strength of the wind made the waves higher than usual, thrusting them farther onto the beach. Malone had to steer close to the storm-obscured dunes, forced to reduce his speed so he wouldn’t crash into them. It made him furious.

Just remember, Bellasar had to go through this, too. He had to face the same obstacles, Malone thought. I’m not really losing time.

But they’re still ninety minutes ahead, and the storm wasn’t as bad as this when they left.

He had no doubt that Bellasar’s destination was the nearest major airport, which was in Yuma. The only way Bellasar could have arrived so fast (he must have been closer than his estate in France) was by jet.

But he won’t be flying anywhere in this storm, Malone thought. Bellasar’s ninety-minute head start doesn’t mean anything as long as he can’t take off.