Burnt Sienna

by David Morrell

  Pausing, he gave Potter a long, hard look, then turned to Yat-Balam, the round-headed, broad-faced, high-cheeked Mayan proprietor. Softening his features, Malone said hello. He had never needed a lot of friends in order to be happy. An only child who had been raised by a single mother and who had been left alone a great deal as a child, he had learned to feel comfortable being alone, to be a good companion to himself. He didn’t feel isolated living away from the only town on this small island off the eastern coast of Mexico’s Yucatán Peninsula. Nonetheless, the restaurant had become important to him. He visited it every day. He had established a warm rapport not only with Yat but also with Yat’s wife, who was the cook, and Yat’s three teenage children, who were the waiters. Along with occasional visitors from the art world and Malone’s former Marine unit, not to mention divers who returned to the area often enough to be regulars, they fulfilled his social needs. Until three months ago, there had also been a woman, but that had ended unhappily, for she had definitely not enjoyed an isolated life, even if it was on a Caribbean paradise, and had returned to Manhattan’s art galleries and receptions.

  After a few pleasantries, Yat said, “There is a man who has been sitting all evening but refuses to order anything except iced tea. He keeps staring at the entrance. He says he is waiting for you.” Yat directed his almond-shaped eyes in Potter’s direction.

  “Yes, I saw him when I came in.”

  “He is a friend?”

  “A nuisance.”

  “There will be a problem?”

  “No. But I’d better get this settled so I can enjoy my meal. What’s the special for tonight?”

  “Huachinango Veracruz.”

  Malone’s mouth watered in anticipation of the red snapper prepared with green peppers, onions, tomatoes, olives, and spices. “Bring him one and put it on my bill. I’ll have the same.”

  “I’ll get another place setting.”

  “No need. I won’t be eating with him. Better bring us each a margarita also. I have a feeling he’s going to want a drink after I’ve finished talking to him.”

  As Malone started past the busy tables toward Potter, Yat put a cautionary hand on his arm.

  Malone gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s okay. I promise, there won’t be trouble.”

  The restaurant had an octagonal design, with thatched walls that stopped at waist level, allowing a view of the ocean. A full moon illuminated the surf. Over the bar next to the restaurant’s entrance hung a painting Malone had given to Yat, depicting the beach. Here and there, posts supported beams that spread out like spindles on a wheel and held up the round, tent-shaped thatched roof. The effect was spacious and airy, no matter how crowded the room was.

  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.”

  4

  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?”

  5

  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.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” Malone demanded.

  Cursing, the driver grabbed harder for the key.

  Malone threw it into the sand.

  At once the cove became silent as the other drivers, having seen what was happening, turned off their machines and jumped to the ground, racing to help their compatriot.

  “Answer me!” Malone said. “What do you think you’re doing? This is my home! You don’t have a right!”

  The other drivers flanked the bulldozer, two on one side, three on the other.

  “Leave my brother alone,” one of them warned.

  “You’re at the wrong place! I live here, for God’s sake. You’ve made a mistake!”

  “The mistake is yours if you don’t get away from my brother.” The man scrambled onto the bulldozer.

  “Listen to me.”

  No. Spinning, the driver from whom he had taken the key aimed a fist at Malone’s stomach. With only slightly less speed than when he’d been in the military, Malone grabbed the man’s arm, yanked him from his seat, and hurled him off the bulldozer into the sand. In the same fluid motion, he ducked, avoiding the punch that the driver’s brother directed toward his face. Surging upward, he plunged his fist into his attacker’s solar plexus and flipped him after his brother. With a painful wheeze, the second man landed next to the first.

  The remaining four drivers gaped, no longer certain how far they wanted to push this.

  “Nobody has to get hurt!”

  “Except you.” The first man struggled to catch his breath and stand.

  “I’m telling you I don’t want to fight! Just stop while we figure this out! You’re not supposed to be here with this equipment!”

  “The man who hired us was very specific,” one of the other drivers said angrily. “He led us to this property. We asked him about the house. He said the land belonged to him. He told us to level everything for a new hotel.”

  “What man? Whoever it was didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Did he give you his name?”

  When Malone heard who it was, his chest heaved with greater rage.

  6

  ROBERTO RIVERA. BANK OFFICER.

  Malone shoved the door open with such force, the frosted glass almost shattered.

  Rivera, a lean man with dark hair and a thin mustached face, jerked his head up. The elderly client on the opposite side of his desk stopped in surprised mid-sentence and inhaled, making a strangling sound, as if he’d swallowed a peach pit.

  “Señor Rivera, I tried to stop him,” the secretary insisted from the doorway behind Malone.

  Malone fixed his gaze on Rivera. “My business couldn’t wait.”

  “I’m calling the police.” The secretary swung toward the phone on her desk.

  “Not just yet.” Rivera faced his client, who had recovered his breath but continued to look startled. “Señor Valdez, I apologize for the interruption. Would you please wait outside for a moment while I take care of this unpleasantness?”

  As soon as the client left and the door was closed, Malone stalked toward Rivera. “You son of a bitch, why did you send those bulldozers to wreck my property?”

  “Obviously there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “Not according to the guys driving the bulldozers.” Malone’s muscles compacted with fury. “They were very clear — you sent them.”

  “Oh, there’s no misunderstanding about that,” Rivera said.

  “What?”

  “I sent them all right.”

  “You actually admit it?” About to drag Rivera from his chair, Malone stopped in amazement.

  “Totally. The misunderstanding I referred to was your reference to the bulldozers being on your property. That section of land isn’t yours any longer.”

  “You bastard, I paid for it.”

  “In a trust agreement with this bank, which kept the title in its name. But we’ve had too many complaints about your eyesore of a house.”

  “What?”

  “And the rumors about drugs being smuggled ashore there can’t be ignored any longer. I spoke to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The trust agreement was revoked. I purchased the property.”

  “Jesus Christ, you can’t do that.”

  “But it’s already happened,” Rivera said. “Obviously, you haven’t picked up your mail yet, or you would have found the bank’s notice of termination.”

  “I paid for that land!”

  “You would also have found a check for the amount that you invested. I added — although I didn’t have to — a modest profit to compensate you for the increased market value of the property.”

  “Compensate? You prick, you’re destroying my home.” Suddenly something one of the drivers had said struck him. “A hotel.”

  “What?”

  “You sold the property to a developer.”

  “It was too good an offer to pass up.”

  “It certainly must have been.” Malone grabbed him. “Well, it’s going to be awfully hard to spend the money when you’re in a wheelchair.”

  “Call the police now,” Rivera shouted to his secretary in the other room.

  Malone dragged him to his feet.

  “Think twice,” Rivera warned. “In Mexico, there aren’t any prisoner rights. You’ll spend a long time in jail waiting for your assault case to go to trial.”

  Malone drew back a fist. “It’ll be worth it.”

  “And when you finally do go to trial, I assure you that Mexican judges take a harsh view of foreigners attacking respected members of the community.”

  The secretary opened the door. “The police are on their way.”

  “Thank you. Now it’s up to Señor Malon
e to decide whether they’re needed.” Rivera’s gaze was defiant.

  “A respected member of the community.” Malone wanted to spit. In disgust, he lowered his fist. “Yeah, it must have been a damned good offer.”

  “Blame the man who negotiated with me. He knows you. He insisted that I pass along his respects.”

  “His respects? I don’t … What’s his name?”

  “Alexander Potter.”

  “Potter?”

  “He said to tell you that his employer also sends his regards.”

  7

  The Coral Reef’s parking lot was empty. A taxi headed away, its passengers looking disappointed. Malone got out of his Jeep, crossed the sand toward the restaurant’s front door, and found a sign that read CLOSED. All the shutters were down.

  He frowned. The silence from inside made the roar of the surf seem extra loud as he told himself that Yat had such a strong work ethic, the only reason he would close without warning would be that something had happened to him or his family.

  He tried the door. It was locked. He pounded on it. No one answered. With long, urgent strides, he rounded the building and reached a back door that led to the kitchen. This door, when he tried it, budged open, leading him into the shadows of the cooking area, where the previous night’s savory odors still lingered. From last night, he emphasized to himself, for the several stoves were cold. There was no sign of any meal in preparation.

  Beyond swinging doors, a troubled voice asked, “Who’s there?”

  “Yat?”

  “Who is it? ” the voice demanded uneasily.

  “Me, Yat. It’s Chase.”

  “Oh.” One of the swinging doors came open, Yat’s round, pensive face peering through. “I thought it was another customer.”

  Malone felt his chest turn warm from the compliment of being considered more than a customer. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong?” Yat assessed the word. “Everything.”