2
She wore dusty boots, faded jeans, and a denim work shirt, as if she had dressed to go riding but had been detained. Her long hair was tied back in a pony-tail, emphasizing the classic contour of her chin and jaw. But her pulled-back hair also emphasized a severity in her eyes that Malone hadn’t seen before. An anger. Something had happened. Whatever vulnerability hid behind her beauty was definitely not in evidence this morning.
“I’m glad to see you,” Malone said. “When you didn’t show up for breakfast, I got worried.”
Without a word, Sienna walked resolutely toward him, her boots and jeans emphasizing her long legs and tightly belted waist.
“What’s wrong?” Malone asked. “You look as if —”
“I’m late.” Her words were clipped. “We’re wasting time.”
“Wasting time? What are you talking about?”
“Let’s get to work.”
“But what’s the matter? Tell me what —”
Sienna pivoted and crossed the terrace, marching toward the sunroom.
Malone followed, mystified, noting her resolute stride and rigid posture. Although the sunroom was bright, it was less so than outdoors, and his eyes needed a moment to adjust to the difference.
He was twice as mystified and suddenly alarmed as she angrily unbuttoned her shirt and threw it onto the floor.
“Wait a minute,” Malone said. “Why are —”
She jerked off her bra and hurled it past the shirt.
“Would you please tell me what’s going on?” Malone said. “I don’t —”
“I’m getting ready for work!” She yanked off her boots and socks.
“For God sake, stop! What’s happened? Tell me why you’re —”
“I’m doing what my husband wants!” She savagely opened her belt, took off her jeans, and threw them, the buckle clattering across the floor. Her white bikini panties went after the jeans. In a final defiant gesture, she untwisted the clasp that bound her ponytail, freeing her hair so it hung to her shoulders. Outraged, she stood before him, her burnt sienna skin uniform from head to toe.
“What are you waiting for?” she asked. “Get your damned sketch pad! Get started!”
Malone found it nearly impossible to speak. He took a deep breath and forced out the words. “This isn’t what I want.”
“I’m supposed to assume a provocative pose, is that it?”
“No.”
“Then what the hell do you want? Stop confusing me! Tell me what I’m supposed to do!”
“Put on your shirt.” He picked it up, offering it to her.
She glared.
“I mean it,” Malone said.
“You accepted the commission, didn’t you?”
“Obviously.”
“And you knew the second portrait was supposed to be nude.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you think it would have been polite to tell me? All the time you were staring at me, I was flattered. Because it wasn’t like you were staring.” She struggled to order her thoughts. “You were … admiring. Without being predatory. Making me feel good about myself. I thought, Finally here’s somebody who understands me as a person, not an object. And now I find out this was just a job for you. Make the bitch feel at ease, and do what you’re paid for.”
“No,” Malone said. “This wasn’t just a job. Please.” He continued to hold out her shirt.
She grabbed it. Her harsh gaze remained fixed on him, but he never looked away from her eyes, never let his own gaze waver, lest he unwittingly suggest he wasn’t being truthful.
She put on the shirt.
“Listen to me,” Malone said. “At the start, this was just a job, yes. I didn’t know you. The first time we met was uncomfortable. It looked like we might not get along. I figured this was going to be the hardest work I’d ever attempted, and I wished I’d never gotten involved.”
She glared.
“But day by day, we got to know each other,” Malone said. “More important, we seemed to enjoy each other’s conversation. I looked forward to getting up in the morning, to meeting you at breakfast and going to work each day. The project became important to me. I realized that I’d never done better work in my life — because I’d never had a better subject.”
She glared harder.
“And each day, as the first portrait came closer to completion,” Malone said, “I felt increasingly tense because I knew that I’d soon have to do the second portrait. But I didn’t want the first one to be completed. Talking with you, identifying with you, transmitting my imagination through you, had become so meaningful to me that I didn’t want it to end. I knew, of course, it was going to have to end. I couldn’t postpone completing it forever. But I couldn’t adjust to the thought of what it was going to be like painting you under different circumstances, with everything strained and me having to stare at you all over again, getting to know your body as well as I know your face. I can paint whatever I set my mind to. But if it’s going to be the best work I can do, I can’t be objective. What I’m going to say is probably the strangest thing you’ve ever heard a man tell you. Given the relationship we’ve established, the last thing I wanted was to see you naked. I’d have been content just to study your face, and I had no idea how I was going to deal with the problem when I couldn’t avoid it any longer.”
The last of Malone’s words echoed into nothingness. Silence gathered, finally broken by the scrape of his shoes on the flagstones as he walked to her jeans, picked them up, and returned them to her. The shirt, which she had rebutttoned, was long enough to cover her. Even so, he wanted her to feel totally at ease.
A tear trickled from her left eye. “Why does Derek want these portraits in the first place? I don’t understand any of this.”
“The only reason I know is what he told you,” Malone lied. “He wants to preserve your beauty, to make it permanent.”
“Including my body.”
“Including your body.”
“The next thing he’ll have me shot and stuffed,” she said.
Her statement was so close to the truth that Malone fought hard not to react.
“If I’m so beautiful, why won’t he look at me?” Sienna’s voice quavered. “Everything I do is wrong, as far as he’s concerned. The disapproving way he treats me. Not just disapproving. He’s contemptuous. Why would he want portraits of someone who disgusts him?”
Tears streamed down her face now, reddening her eyes, bringing out the fire beneath her tan skin. Before Malone realized, she was leaning against him, holding him with a desperation that made him think of someone struggling not to drown. Her shoulders heaved, her deep sobs racking them. He smelled apricots in her hair, nutmeg on her skin. He felt her tears drip onto his shirt. They soaked through, burning his chest. At the same time, he felt her breasts beneath her shirt. They pressed against him, making him terribly aware of the jeans she hadn’t put on. Her legs were bare. So were her hips beneath her shirt. So was —
“Is this a technique they teach in art school?” Bellasar asked from the doorway.
3
With a frightened gasp, Sienna jerked away from Malone and spun toward her husband.
“Some kind of artistic encouragement?” Bellasar asked. “But is the artist encouraging the model, or the model encouraging the artist?”
“This isn’t what you’re thinking,” Sienna said.
“How do you know what I’m thinking? You were expected to take your clothes off, after all. If you’re afraid I’ll think I’ve caught you having an affair, don’t worry. I’ve never once doubted that you’d remain faithful to me. You wouldn’t have the nerve to do otherwise.”
Sienna flinched.
“And I’ve never yet heard of a tryst in which the woman made herself sexually attractive by sobbing all over her lover.” Bellasar approached and drew a hand along the tears that trickled down her cheeks. “You’re a mess, my dear. You look the way you did when I first saw you in Milan. You weren’t pho
tographable then, and you’re certainly not anything I’d like to see a portrait of now.”
Sienna’s sobs came from deep within her.
“Your nose is running. Your mouth is … How on earth is this man supposed to do his work?”
Malone couldn’t help noticing that Bellasar never once looked at him.
“Go to your room and clean yourself up,” Bellasar said. “When you return after lunch, I expect you to have repaired the damage you’ve done to yourself and be ready to pose.”
Sienna’s lips trembled.
“Damn it, what are you waiting for?” Bellasar asked. “Move. For once in your life, do something right.”
Through tear-blurred eyes, she looked at Bellasar, then switched her emotion-ravaged features toward Malone. Abruptly she ran from the room.
It had taken all of Malone’s willpower not to stop Bellasar from humiliating her. The rage that had prompted him to accept Bellasar’s commission seethed twice as strongly in him. More than anything, he wanted to get even. But not here, not now, he kept telling himself. Attacking Bellasar for what he’d just done, breaking his arms and legs and as many other bones as Malone could before the guards rushed in, wasn’t the punishment Bellasar deserved. It wouldn’t help Sienna. It wouldn’t get her safely off the estate. Keep control, Malone urged himself.
As Sienna disappeared beyond the wall of windows, silence gathered. The sunroom seemed to shrink.
“I want to ask your professional opinion about something,” Bellasar said.
“Anything you want to know about painting, I’ll do my best to answer.”
“This isn’t about painting.”
4
The stutter of a machine gun grew louder. As Malone aproached the shooting range, he noted that the shrub-lined path Bellasar had chosen avoided the Cloister. He also noted an increase in guards and remembered that Sienna had told him she had never been allowed to enter this section of the estate.
So why is Bellasar bringing me here? Malone thought. Does he feel free to show me the shooting range because he knows I’ll never live to tell anyone what I see?
The machine gun stopped, then started again. From the force of its bursts, Malone identified the weapon as a .50-caliber one, and its astonishingly rapid rate of fire made him conclude that the problem Bellasar had mentioned weeks earlier — how to compensate for the heat that a faster feeding mechanism generated — had been solved.
The shrubs gave way to an open area in which there were several wooden shooting stalls that resembled roadside vending stands, with the difference that, although each had a roof, there wasn’t a back wall. Where fruits and vegetables would normally be on display, there were spotting scopes and clamps for bracing weapons whose sighting mechanisms needed calibration.
Between two of these stations, a machine gun had been mounted on a tripod. A man in gray coveralls pulled plugs from his ears, leaned over to examine the weapon, then reached for a tool in a box next to it. An ammunition belt, its rounds as thick and long as a finger, fed into the weapon from a large metal bin on the right. Expended brass casings littered the ground, glinting in the sun.
But Malone gave these details only passing notice, too preoccupied by where the machine gun was aimed. That area was spacious: several hundred yards square. It contained a village in which everything had been devastated by explosions and bullets. Huge jagged holes gaped in concrete-block buildings. Walls had toppled, ceilings collapsed. The scorched frames of cars and trucks littered what had once been streets but were now wastelands of rubble and craters.
Movement attracted Malone’s attention back to the man in coveralls, who, at the sound of approaching footsteps, straightened from the machine gun. Behind drab spectacles, Potter’s eyes hardened when he saw Malone.
“You’re more versatile than I thought,” Malone said.
“Oh, you’d be surprised what I can do.” Potter turned toward Bellasar. “He shouldn’t be here.”
“I want to show him something.”
“It’s against your rules.”
“And since they’re my rules, I can break them.” Bellasar pointed toward the machine gun. “If you’ve finished adjusting it, put up some targets.”
“But —”
“Do what you’re told. I don’t pay you to argue.”
Potter’s cheek muscles twitched. With a glance toward Malone that left no doubt whom he blamed for the reprimand he had just received, he went over to one of the shooter’s stations and flicked a switch. Malone momentarily thought his eyes were deceiving him. The ravaged village came to life. Soldiers ran from one building to another. Civilians scurried for cover. Jeeps bumped along the wreckage-scattered streets. To the right, an armored personnel carrier lumbered into view, turning to cross in front of the village. Two large tarpaulin-covered trucks hurried after it.
None of this was what it seemed. The soldiers and civilians were lifelike mannequins dressed for their various roles. They moved in a way that suggested they were attached to a motorized track below ground level. The personnel carrier and the trucks moved on motorized tracks also.
“Impressive,” Malone said.
Bellasar nodded, as if he took for granted that the setup was exceptional. “My clients want weapons demonstrated under as close to lifelike conditions as possible.”
“It’s sort of like your own huge electric train set.”
Bellasar looked puzzled.
“I once went to school with a kid who built electric train sets so he could put firecrackers under the bridges and in the water towers and the boxcars and blow them all up,” Malone said. “I’d never met anybody who liked to destroy things so much.”
“Let’s see how much you like to destroy things.”
“What do you mean?”
“Get over here, and test-fire this weapon. You were in the Marines. Give me your expert opinion on what a .50-caliber gun feels like with a faster feeding mechanism.”
“I’m afraid my opinion wouldn’t be worth much. It’s been ten years since I handled a weapon.”
“A weapon’s like a bicycle.” The statement was a command. “You never forget.”
“Derek,” Potter cautioned.
“Stay out of this.” Bellasar kept his gaze rigidly on Malone.
“Fine.” Malone held up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m not sure what point you want to make, but I’ll go along.”
As Malone approached the machine gun, Potter put his earplugs back in, then reached his right hand beneath the bib of his coveralls — to draw a handgun if the situation got out of control, Malone assumed. Guards unslung their rifles.
“You’ll want these,” Bellasar said, throwing him a set of earplugs, then putting in his own.
Malone pushed the earplugs into place. Noting how wary Potter looked, he made an exaggerated show of keeping the machine gun aimed toward the devastated village. He looked at Bellasar. “Anything special you want me to blow apart?”
“The truck on the right.” Because of Malone’s ear-plugs, Bellasar’s voice was muffled.
When Malone aimed and squeezed the trigger, the sudden roaring assault made Malone feel as if he were trying to control a powerful living thing. He had expected an upward kick. He had braced his arms to compensate. But the force of what he held was far beyond his expectation. The recoil from an unimaginable rate of fire thrust the barrel violently into the air. As Malone shoved it back down, he aimed at the truck on the right, and if he hadn’t been concentrating so hard to control the weapon, he would have gaped at the damage it did, its massive spray of bullets disintegrating the back of the truck, reaching the front and blasting the entire vehicle into pieces. When Malone released the trigger, his hands and arms vibrated. Anyone unfamiliar with a .50-caliber weapon would have dislocated both shoulders, he was certain.
“Have you got extrapowerful loads in these rounds?”
Bellasar shrugged. “What’s your opinion of the modifications?”
“If you don’t find a way t
o stabilize the recoil, nobody’s going to be able to handle this thing.”
“I don’t know what recoil you’re talking about.” Bellasar stepped to the weapon, aimed, and pressed the trigger.
Malone wasn’t prepared.
As the machine gun roared, making a rhythm like a locomotive at full speed, Bellasar controlled it with seeming effortlessness, his arms dominating the weapon’s powerful inclination to jerk upward. Empty shell casings flew through the air with a velocity that made them look blurred. Bellasar’s broad shoulders, muscular chest, and ramrod-straight posture had made Malone suspect that the man exercised frequently, probably with weights, and was in exceptional condition, especially for a man in his early sixties. But what Malone saw now was a bravado demonstration of strength far beyond anything he would have believed. The ease with which Bellasar handled the bucking recoil was awesome. He blew the second truck apart, switched his aim to the Jeeps in the village, blew them apart … and the soldiers … and the civilians … and finally swung the barrel toward the personnel carrier, inflicting what Malone would have considered impossible damage to the armored vehicle, its treads bursting loose, a hatch blowing open, smoke and flames spewing out. Jesus, this ammunition has armor-piercing heads and explosive charges, Malone thought as Bellasar released the trigger and swung the machine gun in Malone’s direction.
Malone’s heartbeat lurched. Apparently, his wasn’t the only one. Seeing the barrel being swung past him, Potter stumbled to keep out of its way. In the background, the guards rushed toward the cover of trees.
Bellasar peered along the barrel toward Malone’s chest. Despite the effort it must have taken to control the weapon during the damage he had inflicted on the village, Bellasar looked as if he had expended no more energy than steering a car.
“I’ll show you what it feels like on the opposite end of the recoil,” Bellasar said. “How would you like a couple of hundred rounds through your chest?”
Burnt Sienna Page 9