The truck moved out of the natural desert and merged into the desert of Vendicatore’s creation, now far away from Solas’ compound, and into “civilization.” Everyone in the truck was silent. The young driver felt Davy's tension and didn’t dare to speak.
They drove toward the general location of the crater. Then they turned toward Penelope’s cottage across the mountains to drop her off. While sitting in the backseat with the raw, cold Penelope, Davy couldn’t wait to return to the warmth of Namiane.
But the thought of it made him cringe. After all, he failed tonight, and, though she’d be happy to see him alive, she certainly would not take the news well.
CHAPTER 8
On the dead, brown grass, a bunch of dry branches sat in a rock-filled pit, lathered in gasoline in a bundle. There was a trail of gasoline snaking across the dirt, leading into it. A soft chafing sounded, and a match fell onto the trail, and the flames spread into the wood. The fire soared. In an instant the dirty white cottage behind it livened with light; the surrounding yellow grass radiated; the creaky dock felt the warmth of a sliver of light which bolted across it. The crater, though, remained a black hole, empty underneath the starry sky.
The fire cracked. Chickens clucked nearby. The wind whistled through the dead grass and vibrated the clothesline which stretched across the naked trees. The blouses and socks loosened and fell to the dirt of the garden over the unharvested potatoes.
Davy hanged his wine-stained shirt over the fire, and it caught flames. He gently placed it in to die.
He crouched and rubbed his hands together by the fire. He now wore black flannel pants and a hooded sweatshirt.
Warmed up, he walked over to the neighboring woods. He fetched some sticks and gathered a strong couple by a bunch of solar panels. He returned to the fire and took a pocket knife from his pocket. He flicked it open and sharpened both sticks. He took a pair of trout which lied on a plate on the grass. He thrust the sharpened sticks through their mouths. He shoved the sticks into the ground, screwing them in; he leaned them toward the fire for the fish to roast on their own. They sizzled. Davy breathed in the crisp scent. He hadn’t had anything to eat since scrambled eggs in the afternoon, and he resisted the urge to eat anything offered at Solas’ bash. His stomach growled.
Eggs. The thought of them made Davy’s mouth water. He went and gathered some inside the chicken pen by the side of the cottage. He thought he'd need a side to the trout, so he walked over to the small garden and yanked some potatoes from the dirt. He took a watering can and watered the other budding vegetables and fruits.
He returned to the fire and placed the eggs and potatoes on the grass. As the fish cooked, he took a moment to lean back and breathe.
He could hardly allow himself to relax, though. He was out in the open. Out in the open for his father’s scorn. He looked around to find even a blink of green light within the surrounding blackness. He felt his father watched him with a look of disappointment. His father had such hopes that tonight would have been the night of his resurrection, and Davy let him down. Because of him, his father’s tormented soul would continue to burn in the lake of fire.
He couldn’t find a green light of any sort. He kept his eyes on the fire in front of him. The fire cracked. For the longest while he kept his eyes on the wavy flames, his head paralyzed—he felt his father’s presence. Like a scared boy underneath his blankets, Davy feared tilting his head to see the ghost standing beside him. He felt paralyzed.
He jerked his head. There was nothing watching him, after all. And he could finally breathe again.
He had to make things right immediately. After tonight he would search for Rodney Bight, gather Solas, and steal Tidewater. Then steal Solas’ lake once and for all. He couldn’t fail again. He couldn’t take his father’s berating, his disappointment. He’d rather die this time than fail and live on. He’d rather himself burn in a lake of fire than burn in a living, mental hellscape.
He brushed aside these thoughts for a moment and took his face in his hands.
Not long, he jerked his head upright in realization: Namiane. Where was she? He thought he should go inside to meet her, as he’d been home now for an hour. (His night attire was dried on the clothesline when he got home; he had changed, outside, into it.) He was hiding; he had yet to go inside and make any type of ruckus besides the sounds of fire-making.
He did not want Namiane to know the result of the night. He could lie to her, he thought. He could tell her Solas’ water now belonged to him, and his father; but that would mean it was time to pack up and go to Hawaii. But it wasn't true—he had to stay longer and appease his father more. How would he tell her? He could tell her he succeeded. That now he'd go to see the sailboats at the marina, to find one to use for the trip across the Pacific. While she would think he was doing this, he’d be at Vendicatore’s palace, stealing the Tidewater plans. Then he would find a boat immediately after and leave with her, after refilling the lake. It was a perfect plan.
No. He shook his head. Terrible plan. She was too smart. She would know the truth from the start of his moving lips. She no longer believed his lies. Not anymore.
He had to go find her. He got up and brushed his pants free of the loose yellow grass.
But behind him, the sliding door opened. He turned to see Namiane enter onto the grass, closing the door again. She had a big smile. Then she exhaled of stifling joy.
She dashed across the grass and jumped onto him, with a big hug, and kisses, almost bending Davy’s back against the flames.
“You’re alive, baby!” she said. She cried a tear or two. She whimpered hysterically, but there were no more tears beyond two. “Thank Almighty God! I prayed for you all night. All night, Davy, baby. All night I couldn’t breathe!”
Davy stood, blank, staring into the flames, as she drowned him with love.
“You’re alive. That must mean you succeeded. And now we can finally leave because your father is pleased, I’m sure. Please, Davy, tell me it’s true.”
Davy face-palmed. He said nothing and hadn’t even kissed her back.
Namiane backed away—something was wrong. Her face flipped to horror.
“Davy? What’s wrong?”
Davy shook his head. Just lie, idiot. Just lie . . .
He bit his lower lip. He couldn’t lie. He sighed. “I failed, Nam. I got caught.”
“Huh?” She tilted her head, confused. “But you’re alive.”
“I got caught. Solas found out I wasn’t some innocent kid. He found out who I am.”
Namiane gasped, putting her hand over her mouth. “And?”
“He spared me. He . . . he finds me to be useful to him—”
“No!”
Davy sighed of annoyance, despite preparing for such a reaction from her.
“I could lie to you, but I want to be honest. I need to help Solas end Tidewater, so I can weasel my way back into his compound and get another shot at his reservoir.”
“Great. So now you’re going for Vendicatore.” The gravity of such a task struck her, judging by her face. “Vendicatore! The governor, Davy. Just great. Who’s next? God Himself?”
“Sorry, Nam. And I do mean it. When everything is officially finished, we’ll leave. I know my words mean nothing now, but you’ll be in for a surprise, I promise.”
Namiane matched his blank look. Rather, she doubled it; she looked dead. Her face suggested that it was all over—it was dangerous enough to go after Frank Solas. But Vendicatore? The governor of South California . . . this he would not survive.
Her dreams of Hawaii, with Davy, her soul mate . . . were now over, if they weren't already.
But, in truth, she always knew that. From his very first water heist at his “father’s” direction, two years ago.
Her voice turned emotionless, as if she lost her soul: “Would you like to see my painting?”
“Painting? You mean one of the thousand Hawaii ones in the bedroom that you show me every morning?”
“No, Davy. Remember? I told you I’d paint something for you before you left, so you can look forward to something when you got home.”
At this moment, Davy noticed the dry paint on her hands. Red was the main color, a little yellow and black. Before he could reply to her, she got up and went inside the cottage.
Davy turned the sticks in the ground and cooked the other sides of the two fish.
Another painting? He groaned. How many paintings had she made over the years? At least a thousand, without exaggeration. He sighed. The last thing he wanted to see was another goddamned painting of Hawaii in the millionth different shade of blue and gold. But this time, judging by her fingers, she had used red paint. He wondered what was in Hawaii that had red. The hot lava of volcanoes? That didn’t sound much better than here.
The sliding door slammed behind him. He didn’t turn to see Namiane, who walked to him, the surface of the canvas clasped to her chest, hidden. She walked to the fire and sat beside him. Davy looked at the back of the canvas.
“Well? Did you paint the Stairway to Heaven in Hawaii this time?”
“No, Davy. I painted your father’s lake. I thought you would’ve appreciated it a lot.”
Davy flinched. He looked at her. “The lake?”
“Yes.”
Davy smiled with anticipation. The only visual representations of the lake came from his memory, and his fantasies on the edge of the dock. “Then let’s see it. Show me.”
“But Davy, I ran out of blue paint.”
Davy looked at her. Ran out of blue paint? Was she joking?
“I had to use another color.”
“What?”
Namiane peeked at the painting, as though she had forgotten. She frowned. Then she turned it, for Davy’s eyes to fill with shock.
He saw it: the blood lake. The tub of blood. The one that appeared in his dreams-turned-nightmares.
His eyes widened at it, and he turned them to Namiane, who smiled.
“Do you like it, baby?”
“Interesting rendition. You chose . . . red . . . for the water.”
She nodded with a crazy-looking smile. She was eager for his approval. “Well?”
Davy turned away. “Good job. I guess.”
And this was further confirmation for Davy: she was trying to manipulate him. For he knew damn-well there was blue paint in stock in her little paint factory. All her paintings of Hawaii had the color of the Pacific Ocean, and she’d never run out of the hue. Not a chance. If she had been even remotely close to running out, she would have grown berries to use the juice as paint long ago—using the water supply to grow them, risking facing Davy’s father’s wrath. Anything to paint that bloody Hawaii.
She frowned and dropped the canvas flat against the grass. “You hate it.”
Was the red supposed to be blood? Was that her intention behind the painting? Of course, to both! She always claimed she saw the crater as a tub of blood, as though she hallucinated it. And that was the reason for his nightmares of it. She planted it into his mind; now, she manifested it into a damn painting. Immortalized it. How could he possibly like it?
He would not allow her to make him feel guilty for his ways . . . what he did was justified; those he killed, ultimately, killed his father; they, the thirsty ones, pleaded Vendicatore to take the lake in the first place.
Oh, Namiane. He was so excited to see her again, too. But now this. What, she thought she could guilt-trip him, that one day he'd just randomly leap out of bed, eager to go to Hawaii?
He heard her whimper. She cried without tears on his shoulder. He rolled his eyes and sighed . . . what was her next card?
“It’s all my fault! I’m the reason for everything.”
“No, you’re not. Stop it, Namiane. How many times must I tell you?”
“The guilt kills me, Davy. The truth is, I had blue paint, but I accidentally dipped the brush in the red and brushed it against the canvas without looking. I ruined it. I had to finish with red! But now that I look at it, it’s fitting, because I’ve caused all this . . . all the genocide. I indirectly created you. But you won’t listen—”
“You’ve done nothing. I killed my father. Vendicatore killed my father. South California killed my father. But not you.”
“I made you choose me over your father that day. You know it! And you resent me because of it.”
Davy sat there, unmoved. He didn’t want to hear it again. He put his hand on his head, as though he had a mega headache.
“I killed him. I killed him, Davy!”
“Enough, please.”
Namiane sobbed. The flames strengthened and burst higher to her cries, and the wood cracked.
Davy gave her a puzzled look. She always “confessed” about killing his father, as if she directly pushed him off the dock herself. But only recently had she cried so loud about it. It appeared that her cries reached a climax; a final call for help. She was a natural dramatist, a terrific actress. She always had been.
Hawaii was no option now. She would have to withstand this environment a little longer.
As the blackness of the crater stared him in the face and the soundless waves haunted him, he thought of his collection of water, the permeable soil and rocks, and crevices of the aquifers across South California. He thought about his main underground reserve about ten miles off. It held the most water, by far, compared to the others. Inside was a glittering, beautiful, lustrous reserve, a lake in its own right. A thousand feet underground, pounding against the soil and rocks. It oozed, ready for drilling, tapping and transferring. Its destiny was to mix with Solas' reservoir and flow underneath the glimmering rays of the sun. Its destiny was to support The Spirit of the Lake for his father’s spirit to sail for an eternity of joy, and not torment.
Namiane would never make him alter this destiny. After all, her “cries” yielded, almost always, about zero tears. And if she did want to leave, her cries would be genuine, producing tears to refill the lake. That would help speed along the process, Davy thought, with the amount of energy she invested into her so-called crying.
Still, this possibility haunted him: the lake would suffocate in the ground for a century, in its casket. Or worse, it would stay long enough for Vendicatore to discover it, with his metal detector.
Davy envisioned the scenario in which he succumbed to Namiane. After all, he almost did earlier. He was weak; he almost ditched his father after no sighting of him for a few weeks.
He only needed a couple more days to finish his father’s dream. But what if Namiane went as far as threatening to jump off the dock within this period? When he was set to leave for Vendicatore’s palace? What could he do then? After all, she had joked about it many times before to test Davy’s reaction.
“There’s no beating Vendicatore, Davy. Impossible. You will lose. I promise. It’ll all be over. He’s much more powerful than you think he is.”
Davy snapped out of his daze. He turned to her. She had stopped whimpering.
“You’ll die. If we don’t leave now, it’ll be the end of our lives for good—”
“Please. Stop talking.”
“But if we left right now—”
“Namiane!”
Davy could no longer take it. He sighed and allowed her to “cry” again. He studied her face up-close. Where were the tears?
He thought back again to the day it all began. She wanted to go to Hawaii so much, that she attempted to drown herself. She tried to do it with a brick to her foot so loosely tied that a passing fish with its fins could have freed her before water could flow through her veins. She sought pity, Davy thought. And he chose to save her in a staged suicide attempt over saving his father as Vendicatore sucked the lake away.
That distant vacuum sound haunted him. He would not allow her to manipulate him again.
“Fine,” Namiane said.
Davy removed the sticks from the ground. The fish had cooked. He offered one to Namiane. “Hungry?”
Her rib-tight sto
mach growled, but she shook her head. Davy jammed it back in the ground beside her.
“There’s some shrimps inside in the tank ready to eat, and some eggs and potatoes.”
Namiane played with the grass, pulling pieces from the ground.
“No thanks.”
Davy sighed. Her lack of appetite rubbed off on him sometimes, but not tonight. His own stomach roared. He took a huge bite of his fish. He ran his hand through the grass and found one of the three potatoes. He had no patience to cook it. So, he rammed it against a sharp rock, splitting it in half; he shoved the insides against his mouth and enjoyed its rawness.
After a little while, Davy had quite an unfamiliar feeling—that dryness in the throat. He choked and struggled to swallow. He laid his fish on the plate and walked to the side of the cottage. He took a shovel from against the wall. He pushed a rusted grill aside by the bulkhead; he dug a small hole until a clang of the tip. After tossing the shovel he shoved his hands into the dirt and pulled out an old shoe box as dirt flung with it. He brushed it off and opened the top. A plastic bottle with an old, torn, branded label, filled with water, lied inside.
He took it and returned to the fire. He spun the cap off and raised the bottle to his mouth—but he thought about Namiane. He would oftentimes ask if she wanted a sip before he took his own, but she would reject it—every single time. Even so, for some reason, as the bottle hovered over his lips, he felt the need to ask her again. He remembered how raspy her voice had become. He placed the bottle on her lap.
“No,” Namiane said, flicking it. “Get that away from me.”
Davy should have known better. She was more hydrophobic than oil. Water seemed to be one of the only things that could make her face sour, besides the thought of his “demon” father. She was ungrateful. Most would kill to have a single sip. (Davy did kill someone for this particular bottle of water.)
She only drank a few sips a day, to survive. Some days, like today, she drank nothing at all. If she did that for three days in a row—which Davy always feared she would whenever he went away on long trips (stealing sprees)—he’d find her dead, splintering to dust.
The Water Thief Page 8
