She was a stubborn girl, but he persisted. He held the bottle in front of her face. “Come on, Nam.”
“Don’t want. It’s dirty.” She covered her eyes with her hands.
Davy looked at the water in the bottle. It was clear as fine glass.
“It’s red,” Namiane said, an eye peeking through her fingers.
And there lied the subconscious ingraining. Red. Blood lake. She was the reason Davy had nightmares of it. His paradisaical dreams of a blue lake, of a bobbing boat, and his resurrected father—she perverted them into nightmares.
“You need to drink something. Don’t drink for a few days and something might happen to you.”
“Promise? Maybe I’d rather go out that way, and jump off the dock, thinking there was a lake of blood to catch me. Sounds better than that demon leading you to the slaughter.”
Davy looked at her with his scared eyes. There it was.
“I drank a little the night before,” Namiane said.
“The night before! Twenty-four hours ago. No wonder you’re going crazy. Open your mouth, Namiane.”
“No.”
Davy gently took her face, bent it upward, and kept it still. She giggled and allowed him—she knew what he was trying to do. She always loved the silly efforts he’d go through because it showed he cared and didn’t order her to drink for the show of it. He put his fingers in her mouth and pulled her lips apart. He reached for the bottle with one hand and hanged it over her opened mouth, to funnel the water down . . .
There was a clapping sound of the hands from the shadows.
Oh, me next! ——
And the water in the bottle flew like a geyser as it leaped from Davy’s startled hand. The bottle landed flat on the dead grass, and it spilled onto it.
Davy dove onto Namiane, who shrieked.
Davy covered her. He turned his head toward the shadows, outside the range of the fire’s light, from which the voice came.
“Who is it!”
No immediate answer. Pure silence, except for the cracking of the wood of the fire.
But after a moment of careful listening, the couple heard faint, heavy panting. They exchanged scared looks.
Davy scurried for his pocket knife. He snagged it from the grass. It was already opened from sharpening sticks; he pointed it toward the darkness.
“Show yourself!”
And emerging from the shadows: a short, fat man, drenched in sweat. He bounced with a big smile on his face as he came inside the light.
“Davy-boy!”
Horror painted Namiane’s face as the man approached—the man looked at her for a moment and sneaked her a grin. Then he focused on Davy, who, wide-eyed, lowered his knife.
“It’s me!”
Davy saw the man. “Rodney?”
Indeed, it was Rodney Bight, the defected guard of Vendicatore whom Davy’s father spoke of. It seemed that he defected not long ago. He wore a bulletproof vest over a sweat-soaked white undershirt. He held a handgun. He must have been the fattest man of the land. He must have had enjoyed the pleasures of the palace in which he lived for the past two years, from the start of Vendicatore's reign. He sweated more than dry cheese—and he smelled like cheese. His smile exposed all five of his teeth, and his breath was akin to the smell of a shit-littered hamster’s cage.
Davy glared at him. He had almost forgotten how much he hated the man.
“Who’s this ‘Rodney?’” Rodney said. His voice was high-pitched. “You know I prefer ‘Rod,’ David.”
“That’s Davy—”
Rodney dropped his gun and took Davy in his arms, lifting him up for a big hug. Davy squirmed within his stifling grasp. His face puffed to vomit as Rodney’s sweaty face glued to his.
“Boy, did I miss you!”
Namiane forced an innocent-like giggle as she watched. Davy tried to break free. He couldn’t, so he poked Rodney’s arm with the tip of his pocket knife. Rodney squealed and let go, throwing Davy to the grass. Davy rose, pushed Rodney away, and brushed his dirtied pants.
He glared at the pig. He knew his father said he sent Rodney to find him. But he needed to hear it from Rodney himself, that that was his intention for being at the cottage. “What the hell are you doing here, Rodney?”
Rodney laid his back flat on the grass, massaging his wound. Winded, he still panted like a dog. He stunk like stale fish. Namiane pinched her nose—and she was at a good distance from him, on the other side of the fire.
“I asked you a question.”
“So hostile, Davy. So hostile. What’d I ever do to you?”
Davy snapped, “What did you ever do? Jesus, I wonder!” He walked to him and pointed his pocket knife at the black crater, then at Rodney’s chest. “You know what you did. Now you have the nerve to come back like this, two years later?”
“Please! I was only taking orders from Satan!”
“I’ll kill you right now if you don’t answer me. What are you doing here?”
“You’ll kill me for giving you a hug?”
“No.”
Rodney wiped his sweaty face with his hands, rubbing the sweat onto the sharp grass. “Kill me for watering your dead grass? I mean, someone ought to have done it. Jesus. I hear they’ve got great landscapers up there in North California. Maybe you ought to consider—”
Davy pointed his knife closer. He jabbed his bullet-proof vest. Rodney squirmed and crawled back.
“Okay! Okay. Sorry, I just needed a little breather, you know. I was chased by Vendicatore’s goons all the way here. I’m like a fried potato without sour cream. God.” He took his breaths; his head tilted with curiosity upon the sight of something in the grass. “Is that an actual potato over there?”
More rage grew in Davy’s face. He hurried to the end of the cottage, into the shadows, and peeked over at the dark, empty street. It was quiet. He turned back to Rodney. “You brought Vendicatore’s men down here with you?”
Rodney laughed. “Nah. I lost ‘em. Don’t you worry.”
Davy returned to Rodney. He pointed the knife again. “I find that hard to believe.”
Rodney rose upright. “Fat jokes! How creative.”
“Fat in the sense that you won’t bite the hand that feeds you. Tell me, Rodney. Why’d you leave Vendicatore?”
Rodney, ignoring the question, walked to the fire. He swiped all that remained of Davy’s fish from the plate and began eating away. He shoved the stick into his mouth and sucked it clean; he threw it into the crater like a javelin. He then took an egg from the plate and cracked on his pointy chin; he opened it over his mouth to a gulp. And he tossed the eggshells into the crater, as well, the black hole.
Namiane—nose still pinched—watched Rodney, egg white dripping from his chin. Her cheeks blew up to puke. She dry-heaved.
Davy had heard the eggshells hit the floor of the crater. “It’s not a dumpster, you fat goon.”
“True, that. More like a dumpster fire.”
Rodney poked Namiane for her attention. He pointed at the opened bottle of water lying sideways in the grass. She had no reaction, other than to crawl away from the man. So, Rodney went ahead and gripped the bottle between his small hands and threw it over his mouth. He connected it with his lips and glugged all that was remaining down in a matter of seconds.
Namiane watched him with horror, the irresistible-to-watch train wreck. Likely, she imagined whom Davy had to murder for that tiny bit of the “stuff of life” to be wasted on such a disgusting man. Likely, she remembered that night Davy came home with his hands painted with blood, with that exact bottle clasped between them. Her face soured so much—she must have run that terrible memory through her mind, just then.
Rodney burped. He tossed the bottle into the black hole. Davy watched, copying Namiane’s face of horror. Rodney slapped his hands together and rubbed them with great appetite.
“Next!”
Davy, as angry at Rodney as he was at Frank Solas earlier, considered grabbing a gun and shooting
this son-of-a-bitch—but he remembered what his father told him while freezing to death in Solas’ reservoir. He took a deep breath and calmed. He returned to the fire and sat close to Namiane and wrapped his arm around her back, for he saw her troubled eyes. She shivered. He massaged her shoulder.
A moment passed. Then Davy looked over at Rodney. “So. What brought you here?”
“You won’t believe it.”
“Tell me anyways.”
“Oh, boy. You’re gonna think I’m a madman.”
Davy lost his patience again. “Rodney, if you don’t tell me in five—”
“Your father sent me!”
Davy paused—he heard that right. “My father?”
“I knew you wouldn’t believe me. I’m not crazy, okay? There I was, right, I was outside by the pool, guarding Vendicatore while he took a swim. Then as soon as he went inside, I heard this ghost-like voice. It said, ‘B-o-o-o-o-o-o-ne, B-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ne.’ I jumped like a frog! I looked around and said, ‘What! What!’ I found him in the mountains, just staring at me, all green and gooey-like. Then, he told me the truth about Vendicatore with such a goose-bumpy-like voice.”
“About Vendicatore?”
“He told me about the true evil of the man I was serving. I couldn’t believe I never saw it. He told me Vendicatore was out to kill everyone. Everyone! Everyone of South California. It’s his dream, to slaughter us all, like cows. He’s out for revenge for what we did to North California, you know, when we invaded them during the first big drought and took all their water. He’s come to steal it all back! But not before we’re all dead. And I worked for this demon, all this time.”
“Really?” Namiane said. “That’s . . . that’s terrible.”
Rodney smiled at her. “Ain’t it, dearie?”
And she couldn’t help it: “I thought the Water-Thieves have already done all that.”
Rodney laughed. “Well, who do you think created ‘em? Vendicatore. When he got elected, he stole all the country’s water reserves under everyone’s nose. And naturally, thieves were born. People gotta survive, you know?”
He gave her that grin again, and she looked away. Davy took her closer and rubbed her back. He comforted her. Though, he hated what she had just done. “I thought the Water-Thieves have already done all that . . .” But, at least through her statement, Davy knew his identity as the Water Thief was safe. Otherwise, Rodney would have pointed him out when she said that.
“Tell me the rest of the story,” Davy said. “My father told you these things. Then what?”
“Well, he told me to ditch Vendicatore, come here and find you. ‘Cause we’re gonna stop Tidewater. Together!”
Davy smirked—boy, his father was brilliant. But he reversed the smirk. He took on a face of innocence. “Tidewater? What the hell is that?”
Rodney smirked, too. “Oh, please, Davy, boy. Everyone knows.”
“I don’t. Namiane and I don’t ever leave here. I don’t know what’s going on in the city.”
“Then you must be doing well for yourself.”
“My father kept a secret stash that Vendicatore never got his hands on. And we’ve maintained the garden.”
“Good. Good. Well, Tidewater is a complete abomination. I used to support it like a sun-roasted-brain-dead zombie like everyone else, until I realized it’s an elaborate plot to steal everyone’s water and the means to mass genocide. Well, more genocide, on top of what he’s already done.”
Namiane got uncomfortable. She squirmed upon hearing the word “genocide.”
“Okay,” Davy said. He scratched his head. “Now I remember Tidewater. I’ve heard of it. People say it’s gonna stop the thirst. They’re hopeful. It’s gonna bring down the greedy Hoarders.”
“That’s how he sells it,” Rodney said. He swiped Namiane’s burned fish stick from her hand and chewed on it. “Damn disgrace. It’s meant to convince people to give up their water, so he can redistribute it. But it’s far from the truth. They’ll all willingly spill their water into a giant bowl—or face execution. And Vendicatore’ll swim in it and spray us every now and then like one of those killer whales at those ancient water parks, waving at us as we turn to dust under the sun. The greedy bastard.”
“We need to steal the plans,” Davy said.
Rodney rambled on: “So you know what I did, when your father showed me the light? I marched into Vendicatore’s office. He was naked, drying himself with a towel from his swim—man, was he full-on erect! Then he took the wet towel and squeezed the pool water into his mouth to a gulp. Then he sat down, pulled the Tidewater plans out from his desk and started to touch himself to them, using water as a lubricant! Water, Davy. Literally, gold as a lubricant. Can you believe the arrogance?”
Namiane rolled her eyes. Davy fell into a trance listening to the story. Rodney’s face made him want to gag, but he couldn’t deny he was a good storyteller.
“Get it?” Rodney continued. “Tidewater is a giant stack of papers jammed inside his desk. I caught him!”
“Then what?”
“I slammed my fists against his desk and told him he was Satan incarnate. I threw my badge against the floor. Then I told him to go screw himself!”
“No way,” Davy said.
“Way! And he kept doing it! Can you believe the arrogance?”
“Then what happened?”
“I was chased out of the palace by my former alcoholic co-workers, dodging bullets!”
“It all seems a little extreme.”
“You saw me sweating like a pig, didn’t you? I ran all the way here.”
“Did my father happen to ask about his lake?”
“Lake? No.”
“Didn’t mention a word? Considering you had a hand in taking it. I’m curious about why he would choose you, of all people.”
Rodney sighed and took a more serious tone.
“Davy-boy, I did my job. I held Vendicatore away from you guys as long as I could, but I couldn’t forever. It’s not my fault your father didn’t do anything about it. Didn’t take any precautions. He got arrogant.”
Now he sounded like Solas. “My father had an agreement with Vendicatore. He would donate water weekly. You and Vendicatore both went back on him.”
“Look. I’m not proud of what I did under this dictator. I hate it. Give me another chance to make it up to your father. I don’t exactly know why he wants Tidewater to end, what he gets out of it, or any of that, or why he told me to come to you. Maybe revenge. Maybe for the greater good, to impress God and get out of hellfire. Don’t know. But it’s the right cause. He chose me because he forgave me, to give me another chance to make it up to him. I’ve felt incredible guilt. I mean it.”
“Me too,” Namiane mumbled. Davy turned his hand into a fist. He was about ready to punch Rodney. He remembered the day once again . . . when Rodney helped Vendicatore steal his father's lake. He closed his eyes and eliminated the memory, and withheld violence. He took his anger out on a handful of dead grass.
“Your father said there's a grave secret in those plans. On itself, stealing the plans won’t do jack. It’s a friggin’ bundle of papers. Stealing them will buy us a couple of days at most. But your daddy's ghost said there's a code in there that you and I gotta uncover. I'll believe a ghost over anyone. We gotta steal the plans and crack the code. Then, we can end Vendicatore's regime once and for all, and save the whole world!”
Save the world? None of that mattered to Davy—the world killed his father. He viewed Tidewater as bait for the big fish known as Frank Solas, and nothing more. He didn’t care if Tidewater had world-saving content, nor did he care if it consisted only of blank pages with “YOU GOT PRANKED!” written on them. (Okay, that would be problematic.) Regardless of Tidewater’s content, if Solas believed there was a ground-shattering secret hidden within the language—that was all that mattered. And stealing them with Solas present, Davy would be able to stay the night at his compound once again. And that reservoir would, at last, be Davy�
�s—well, his father’s.
Without ears tuning-in, Rodney rambled on. “I’m not sure what the secret is, but at the very least the plans will expose Vendicatore once and for all. We could show the people of South California. Maybe they’ll finally drop their blind worship for him and start a revolution. We can open the floodgates of all that water he’s stolen from them, including your daddy’s lake.”
But about Rodney—Davy felt hurt. He asked himself why his father would appear before another person—especially a man of personal betrayal—other than him. Who else had his father spoken to with his ghostly figure? Davy felt cheated on. Jealousy drowned him; rage festered all over his face as he locked it on Rodney, who picked his nose. He took his finger and his booger and rubbed it against the sharp grass.
“If daddy-man can forgive me,” Rodney went on, “so can you.”
Davy struggled to keep a happy face. He could never forgive him. He remembered that day. He couldn’t ever resist the vivid memory when it took hold of his mind. So, he gave in, and allowed it to play again.
On this day two years ago, it was beautiful, sunny, with a few clouds scattered about. Davy was on the lake, on the boat.
He had his head jerked and his monocular aimed in the direction his father was pointing, at a cliff by the shore of the lake. There was Rodney standing, in his guard uniform, operating a giant, strange machine. This machine generated the deafening vacuum-like screeches that had haunted Davy to this day. And he remembered: he saw Rodney guide a great tube into the water with a metal rod, pushing it down to find the deepest bottom.
But he heard the cries of Namiane on the opposite shore. He jerked his head at the opposite side of the lake; he aimed his monocular at her naked figure. She, too, stood on a cliff above the lake.
And Davy dropped his monocular and dove into the water, as soon as she jumped . . .
Enough! Davy slapped his own head. Namiane saw him and dug her face into her legs. She knew what he was thinking about. And she surely felt great shame and guilt.
The Water Thief Page 9
