The Water Thief

by A M Caturello

  “Not if he wants all this water for himself. Greed breeds greed. It’s limitless.”

  And this shut Solas up. He shook his head, incredulous. Delusional.

  “I can’t believe you haven’t taken the warnings seriously,” Davy said. “I came here to celebrate with you before the governor’s men invade tonight. Before I said good-bye for good and left for Hawaii. I thought you were ready for it.”

  “Wh-what? Say that again?”

  “I thought you were already ready for it. Mr. Solas, I can’t believe—”

  Solas rose and slammed his fists again. “What did you say?”

  “—come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve seen a single guard on the perimeter, not a single sniper all night. Who’s protecting you? My God, Mr. Solas. My God—”

  Solas grabbed Davy’s necktie and yanked him over the table. All the glasses fell over, lines of wine spilling across the table. The music flooded out the noise of the ruckus, and the dancers continued to dance, and the drinkers continued to drink. Even the other man at the table, so drunk, couldn’t see anything . . . he sat there, laughing and clapping uncontrollably.

  Solas screamed, “What did you say, boy?”

  Davy punched Solas. “Let go!”

  Solas did not need to let go, for Davy freed himself with that wallop.

  Solas collapsed back onto his chair, massaging his wound, eyes watering.

  Penelope reached the other side of the reservoir, emerging over the shore. Soaking wet, she turned to a statue, as the cold wind frosted her over. She squeezed her dress of the water.

  She crouched across the sand and disappeared among the foliage, climbing deep inside, until running into something hard—the metallic pump. She stood over it, examined it for a moment, and pulled down on the lever. It jammed. She pulled with her might, and it finally gave to a loud clang; she turned it as it squeaked in the silent night.

  Not long after, in the middle of the reservoir, a small vortex appeared and gurgled.

  Penelope looked at the black desert and gave a thumbs up in the hopes that Rafael and the rest saw her. She held the pose for a moment . . . but the dirt by her feet kicked and sprayed all over her legs, and made her fall to the ground.

  She screamed. More bullets sounded. She dove into the water.

  Davy sat and panted, glaring down Solas from across the table. “Now I have no pity for you,” he said. “I’ll say it loud and clear: Tidewater is happening tonight. Tonight. You allowed denial and delusion to cloud your judgment. I have no pity. You own over half the country’s legally obtained water supply. You’re a dead man by dawn.”

  Solas’ eyes widened.

  “I have no pity. None. I hope Vendicatore ruins you, the same way he ruined my father.”

  Solas shook. He lifted Davy’s glass, wiped it with a napkin, and refilled it with wine. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I—”

  Davy watched Solas tremble and he fought back a smile.

  “When is it happening tonight? What are the details of it? Who is coming for me? How many? What time?”

  “I don’t know.” Davy rose with his refilled glass of wine and took a sip. “But I don’t care anymore. I’m leaving now. Penelope is outside in the cold waiting for me.”

  Solas watched Davy take another sip.

  And before Davy could place his glass of wine back on the table and walk away, the sounds of gunfire came from outside. He tilted his head to it. His eyes widened. The glass of wine vibrated within his shaking hand—or did it shake from the rumbling outside?

  The firing was faint, muffled from the thick walls. But it was intruding enough to pierce through the classical music, and for everyone in the ballroom to scream atop their lungs.

  And Davy realized it: indeed, Solas’ had had guards scattered about in the desert. They were in a shootout with Davy’s men, who had failed to find them.

  And another realization bit his heart: Penelope was now a corpse with a thousand bullet holes. The reservoir was now turning red from her blood.

  Solas jumped. The hysterical party-goers ran to the back of the ballroom, barricading themselves behind the piano. They screamed at Solas to do something.

  Solas left his cigar to burn on the table. He eyed Davy. “You weren’t kidding, were you? I wish you goddamn told me when the party started that Vendicatore would be coming!”

  Davy was frozen. He never turned to Solas. He began to sweat.

  “Stay here and keep everyone calm. Don’t let anyone leave this building!” And with his binoculars, Solas bolted through the exit door; the wind carried the gunfire noise into the room. Much louder pops. Then the door slammed closed, and the sound muffled again.

  The tablecloth of Solas’ table caught fire—Solas’ cigar still burned. The drunkard of the table, forever unfazed, played with the cigar until he flicked it to the ground. Then he passed out as his head slammed against the table.

  Davy hadn’t moved an inch. The wine glass slowly slipped from his hand. It slipped little-by-little as his fingers grew clammy, sticking to it. But it soon let go and disintegrated against the hardwood floor as the wine splashed.

  The smashing of the glass echoed through the ballroom and rang everyone’s attention behind the piano. For a moment they stopped crying in their drunken stupor. With scared eyes, they looked over at Davy, whose sweat dripped off his chin and into the fibers of his tuxedo. And they returned to their cries.

  The classical music continued its melody, trying its damndest to soothe the room. But it never overtook the muffled gunfire. And the blood spilled under Davy’s shoes.

  CHAPTER 5

  Davy ran out of the ballroom as faint pops of gunfire sounded from the desert. He clapped his ringing ears with his hands. He ran across the patio as the strobing lights painted over him. The railing which overlooked the reservoir caught him.

  He climbed over the railing and touched down. He ran down the hill, through the bushes and fruit trees. On the beach, he kicked off his shoes. With Penelope on his mind, he dove into the water without regard for the cold.

  And in an instant, the popping sound stopped. There was near-silence underwater. He heard a calm gurgling noise, like that of a drain, while he floated in the darkness. It seemed calm and safe within the icy water, floating lost in space. But Davy saw, despite the darkness, something of a tornado of swirling water. It was the source of the gurgling—the reservoir’s opened drain. It slowly pulled him toward it.

  He wanted to stay in the safeness of the underwater world forever, but that would require drowning. He emerged and gasped for breath as his teeth rattled until they shed blood. The blood froze over on his lips with the ice-cold breeze. The angry waves, which splashed against his face, could not wash the blood away. He was left to taste it—or was it the taste of Penelope’s blood permeating in the reservoir?

  Davy felt paralyzed in the thick and cold water. He tried to kick his legs and dig his hands through the water, but the freezing would not allow for it. The vortex thwarted any progress he made in swimming across the reservoir, as the draw sucked him toward it.

  His wet hair frosted over. Heavy, he swam in place; his energy depleted.

  He gave in. The draw took him. With the last of his energy he sneaked a look at the land across the reservoir, the spot with the pump. But it was too dark to see any trace of Penelope. Not even a moving silhouette trying to dodge bullets.

  Davy saw no moving figure within sight. She was truly dead, he thought. He imagined that her bullet-pierced body lied on the shore, the crashing waves slapping against her bloodied breasts.

  She was dead, he thought. DEAD!

  He imagined Penelope getting pelted with bullets while operating the pump. He heard the screams of his name; she spent her final breaths on it.

  She had proved to him her devotion for the final time, that she truly did love him. She died for a mere ounce of Davy’s unwinnable affection. He was a psycho, he thought. She had an obsession for him, and he preyed on that, putting her ou
t there . . . because he knew she would do anything for him.

  And as the draw sucked him away, Davy’s final thoughts halted: an all-too-familiar voice bounced off the water into Davy’s ears, overtaking the sounds of the screaming gunfire:

  Davy, my boy . . .

  Though familiar, the voice was not strong enough to raise Davy's spirits to fight—he took it as the quiet voice of God, calling him away to pay for his sins.

  But the voice snapped:

  Davy! Wake up!

  It wasn’t God, the one from above, among the stars. Davy realized the voice. It was his God. And he burst awake.

  He jerked forward to swim against the draw. No resistance—he turned his head and saw that the pull was no longer; the vortex had disappeared. So, he floated in place and awaited the voice to speak once more, with a violent shiver.

  “Wh-wh-what—”

  You failed me, son.

  Davy’s eyes popped open, the skin of his eyelids tearing from the cracking of ice. He searched for his father. In the water, he twisted in a circle. Soon enough, he found him, a green blob of light outside the fence, in front of a silhouette of a tall, shaking palm tree. Through his shaking he struggled to speak:

  “Dad, I’m sorry! Forgive me, I-I—”

  Save your apologies. Now that Solas has caught you, you will offer him a deal. Say to him you will be freed, on the exchange that you will steal Vendicatore’s grand plan—Tidewater. To Solas, this is invaluable, for he is desperate and afraid.

  You will go with him to steal Tidewater. Once successful, you will regain the old man’s trust, and he will bring you back here. Then, you will have another opportunity to steal all this water, transfer it into my lake, and bring me back to life . . .

  Davy tried to scream over the gunfire, “He would never take this offer!”

  That made the ghost upset. The green light of the spirit flickered, like a malfunctioning hologram.

  Listen to me, boy! His voice had such a distortion.

  “Y-yes. I’m sorry, father.”

  He will take this offer. Once he realizes you are the Water Thief, he will at the least use you, rather than dispose of you.

  Davy felt himself heat-up inside the icy water. Oh, father, I am not a thief! I don’t want to be known as the notorious “Water Thief.” I am simply taking back what thieves STOLE from you. This is what he always wanted to tell his father . . . but he never spoke against him.

  His father’s spirit continued: Tell him: there is a great secret hidden within those Tidewater plans, that if he had such knowledge of it, he could end Vendicatore’s regime once and for all. And you will tell him: one of Vendicatore’s palace guards, who recently defected, will assist you in stealing the plans.

  “A p-palace guard? D-defected?”

  Yes. Rodney Bight. You remember Rodney Bight?

  “Yes. He is the man who helped Vendicatore steal the lake. Another traitor.”

  It is irrelevant. He has seen the light and rejected the doctrine of Vendicatore. Forget the past and what Rodney Bight has done to us. He will now be of great help. I have instructed him to find you.

  “Yes, Dad. Anything.”

  And as the green light of the spirit faded, Davy called out. The light remained with a flicker.

  “Where’s Penelope? Do you see her?”

  The light of the spirit flung backward. It flung upward, shrinking in the shadowy fronds of the palm tree until fading out.

  Davy didn't hear what his father said last, before he left—if he did say anything at all. So, in a panic he twisted his head in a circle, looking for Penelope.

  “Penelope—”

  The cold water made it difficult to speak any longer. He gasped for air. The Big Dipper, with its glow, looked down on him, shaming him with its downward spotlight.

  As Davy searched for Penelope, the sound of gunfire lightened, and soon completely ended. Davy heard the cries of his men, the Water-Thieves, from outside, yelling to retreat.

  A ray of light hit Davy’s face. A voice yelled at him, “You! Thief!” And commanded, “Return to the shore! NOW!”

  The light warmed Davy’s face. After a moment he mustered the strength to break from his paralysis. He swam toward the beach to meet the source of the light, as it stuck to his face on his way there.

  There were shadow figures on the beach. But Frank Solas, holding a lantern, approached and exposed them with the light: Penelope was one, lying flat on the sand. She shook, bouncing off the ground like a woman possessed by a demon. The other figures were guards, about six, tensed, with rifles pointed at her. They were ready to fire if the demon took hold of her body. The seventh guard had been pointing his rifle—attached with a tactical light—across the reservoir, at Davy, who now emerged from the water.

  Solas got closer. He shined his lantern over Penelope. His face fell into shock at the sight of her face.

  Dripping water, Davy caught his breath. Before a guard could reach him, he ran to Penelope and leaped onto her. He touched her face and saw she was breathing; he massaged her warm.

  “I’m sorry, Penelope,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  Frank Solas took a bite of his fist upon the sight.

  “Grab the thieves! Go on!”

  A guard pulled Davy away from Penelope, and he fought back; Davy saw another guard grab Penelope, who passed out, drooping within his grasp. He slung her over his shoulder.

  “Throw her onto the boat,” Solas said.

  The guard who carried Penelope turned to Solas, puzzled. “The boat, Mr. Solas? This young lady?”

  “Did I stutter, grunt?”

  “Of course, the boat, Mr. Solas.”

  “And the boy. Onto the boat.”

  Davy continued to resist the grasp of the other guard as the guard tried to take him away. Solas watched with irresistible anger.

  “I take that back, about the boy. Keep him here.”

  The guard contained Davy and held him before Solas.

  “Someone give me a gun. Now!”

  One of the guards handed Solas his rifle.

  “Hold him steady.”

  “We are not bringing him to the boat?”

  “Damn it, guard! Hold him steady!”

  Another guard took part, and the two of them held each one of Davy’s hands, pulling on both sides like a tug of war.

  Davy shivered. The water on his purple face had turned into a sheet of ice; the locks of his hair had turned into sharp knives capable of killing.

  He looked up and saw Solas aiming a rifle right at his chest.

  “You’re making a mistake, Solas,” Davy shivered.

  “Who sent you?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Lies.”

  “I work alone.”

  Solas shook his head. He breathed hard as he clenched his teeth together. “Alone. Oh, I’m sure!” He poked his rifle deep into Davy’s soaked necktie. “I’ll be happy to murder one of Vendicatore’s minions.”

  “I’m not working for Vendicatore,” Davy said, raising his voice. “Don’t dare insult me, you old fool.”

  “Lies!” Solas’ rifle shook within his grasp. “I’m holding a gun to you, and you antagonize me!”

  “You won’t kill me. I’ve got too much to offer you.”

  Solas’ eyes dropped. He lowered his gun as Davy stared him straight in the face.

  “No . . . it can’t be.”

  Davy did not respond.

  “You’re the Water Thief.”

  Davy looked at him, cringing at the name. The wind roared like a beast, and the old man flinched to it.

  The silence was enough confirmation for Solas. He dropped the gun. He snickered and turned around.

  “Throw him onto the boat, with the girl. Wait for me.”

  “Yes, Mr. Solas.”

  Davy made a sudden jerking movement, freeing himself from the guards.

  He leaped for the rifle which Solas dropped, but Solas turned around and kicked him in the face.

&n
bsp; And Davy fell to the sand, knocked out, with a crack of the ice of his bloody forehead.

  “You guards!” Solas screamed.

  “How could you let him free? Utter, insufferable, incompetent nimrods!”

  The guards, embarrassed, moved fast. They took Davy’s body and carried him along the beach to a small dock. They walked along the dock and threw him onto a sailboat to a thud against the deck. He was now rejoined with Penelope, lying on top of her leg.

  The pair lied together, unconscious. They looked dead. They would have been declared as such if not for the cold—the cold exposed their breaths which, rising to the sky, combined to form a cloud which blanketed over them.

  CHAPTER 6

  A trio of spotlights turned on around the compound, forming a triangle of light. They blew the compound over with a blinding glare.

  The spotlights showed the guards Davy and Penelope had killed, their blood yet oozing. They exposed more bodies—some of Davy’s Thieves, some of Solas’ guards—in the desert about a quarter-mile off. There were patches of blood in the sand.

  In the compound, guards escorted all the guests out of the ballroom to the gates. Most of the people were in a panic, hurrying to get out, their drunkenness broken. Some, though, had allowed themselves to drink even more during the shootout. They laughed and tripped.

  Solas' reservoir glowed like an enchanting goo in a shade of turquoise. The three spotlights reflected on the reservoir, creating three balls of light, a near-perfect triangle, on the vibrating surface.

  The water was so clear that Penelope’s throw-away handgun could have been seen at the bottom. All the schools of fish scurried through. Truly the old man had an eye for the highest quality and a habit of preserving its purity.

  Through the clear water, even the drowned bodies of thieves could have been seen, their feet anchored to the floor. Their skin was a ghost-white, shedding. Their bodies expanded like sponges after being there for so long, absorbing the water. Solas did give them the water they sought. And then some.

  On the surface, despite the new peace, the wind still brushed through. The sails of Solas’ boat caught it. The boat pushed toward the center, toward the triangle of reflecting lights.