Davy saw it. His face painted to rage. His teeth vibrated as his eyes leered. He turned his head and saw Rodney chasing after the flying papers, trying to catch them.
Davy ran after him and threw him the ground. He beat him until his eyes bled and his nose broke. He spat on his face and peeled his skin with his long nails.
Rodney screamed. Davy got off him.
“Don’t disrespect my father like that again.” Panting, he had to catch his breath mid-sentence.
He saw the papers scatter deep into the crater. “Get your plans. I’ll go deal with Vendicatore.”
Rodney breathed hard against the ground. He nodded and gave a weak thumbs up.
Davy went to the gravestone. He raised it again and tightened it back into the ground. He knelt and said a silent prayer before it.
He returned to the stairs of the crater wall. But he paused: was Rodney telling the truth? Was Vendicatore at his home? He imagined Vendicatore, if he was at his home, would have heard all the ruckus down in the crater. Davy peeked up to see if his eyes would match Vendicatore's. No one was there. So, Davy climbed back up and met the dead grass, to still see not a single person on his property. Evens so, it was true—a black car’s nose poked around the cottage, parked on the street along the curb. And his reaction was to approach it, but as he curved around the house, he realized one thing:
Vendicatore knew his identity.
Vendicatore came with handcuffs, to arrest the Water Thief.
His time was finally up. Why else would Vendicatore be there? To say hello?
No, Davy thought—his identity as the Water Thief safe. This was a fear planted in his mind by Namiane, he thought—she often told him that Vendicatore knew he was the Water Thief. It was one of her strongest arguments for leaving for Hawaii.
But Davy’s heart raced. He wondered why the government was there. He considered it was the governor’s delivery carrier, who would often come by and pick up Davy’s letters to Vendicatore. But the man came the night before. Davy hadn’t contacted the carrier to request a new pick-up.
Vendicatore hadn’t been to the cottage since his father was alive, and his lake still flowed. He came to negotiate over water. So, what purpose could he have in returning? The lake was now empty, and his father was now dead. Davy considered that they were after his father’s secret stash. His father buried water bottles all around the backyard and the woods over the years, to save for drinking. He had a map of their locations. But Vendicatore didn't know of this “secret stash”—if he did, he would have taken it along with the lake.
As he stood trembling behind the cottage peeking at the state car, Davy thought further. More logically, he thought, Vendicatore was after the traitor, the defecting palace guard Rodney Bight. Yes. That was more like it.
Or Vendicatore knew Davy was the Water Thief. After all, what were the odds that Vendicatore came here right before Davy was about to invade the palace? He was plotting to steal Tidewater, Vendicatore's baby! Here came the negative thoughts again.
How could he have found out? Well, Davy botched the whole Frank Solas thing the night before. Solas perhaps snitched on Davy, to distract Vendicatore. Making both his enemies, Davy and Vendicatore, preoccupied with each other, while he made plans to exit. Now that made sense. Never did Davy think about that possibility.
Davy punched the ground. He slapped his head. Delete that idea. Solas was an arrogant old fool. He wasn't smart enough to make such a play. Davy's identity was safe. And Davy realized: if Vendicatore was on his way to arrest him, his father would have warned him ahead of time! His father's ghost was a spy. He trusted his father’s grand plan. If there was a serious threat afoot, Davy would have known about it.
Davy recalled an instance: it was night, and he had finished plundering a corner of the city. The screams of his most recent victims chased him and his gang as they drove off with a pickup filled with bottles of shaking and splattering water in the back.
They came across more to steal. In a patch of land, in the middle of nowhere, they spotted a group of shadow figures drilling a hole into the ground.
They parked a distance and waited for them to finish creating the hole. Then they pounced.
Davy was arrogant, for he didn’t bother to put on his black face mask. He figured he’d make quick work of these people, as he drew his firearm . . .
But there was Governor Vendicatore, turning to see the Water-Thieves come at him. In the dark, it was hard to discern the man—but it was him.
And Vendicatore's men shot at the Thieves; the Thieves had to retreat, squealing away in their truck. Vendicatore’s men wanted to chase them, but Vendicatore yelled at them to return to the drilling.
The Thieves drove off. Davy sat in the truck with more horror on his face than it had when he discovered his father had killed himself. Vendicatore saw him. It was all over.
Back at home, he barricaded himself in the cottage, standing guard. Vendicatore had seen his face before—he knew where to find Davy. Davy Bay, son of Wesley Bay. The Water Thief.
Davy told his father’s spirit. And his father’s spirit went to spy on Vendicatore, in the palace.
And after a few days of standing guard, Davy’s father appeared, reporting back. He told him that Vendicatore didn’t know a thing. And from that moment, Davy went on, and continued to plunder without fear.
Davy took a deep breath and went to the front yard. There, he met a man leaning against the car in a black suit and black tie. He didn’t recognize this man. The man was static and wore sunglasses, but it was clear he noticed Davy, for he smiled.
“Mr. Bay?”
Davy hesitated. “Yes?”
“Would you come with me, please, sir?”
“Why? Who are you?”
“I am a simple driver for Governor Vendicatore. That is all, sir. The governor wishes to meet with you. He would like to speak with you, about your last letter.”
Davy flinched. “My last letter?”
“Yes, sir. That is all he said.” The driver opened the door of the car. “Now, please, come with me. It is urgent. The governor is very, very busy this afternoon.”
Davy tried to remember the content of his last letter. He knew, of course, that it was about his father’s lake. But he tried to remember how he wrote it. Did he threaten Vendicatore in it? Maybe—it was the eightieth letter he had sent the governor, and he must have gotten impatient. But Davy had lost count by now. All his other letters yielded not a single response. But this one did? Something must have caught the governor’s attention this time, Davy thought. Something he wrote differently. Something different in the content or language, or both.
And Davy remembered—he accused the governor of still being in possession of his father’s lake.
Despite his father’s spirit’s passiveness toward Vendicatore, Davy always felt the governor was a greater thief than he was. Deep down Davy felt Vendicatore killed his father by stealing the lake. Davy always knew the lake was alive and well. Somewhere. He refused to believe the thirsty people drank it—more people seemed to die after Vendicatore tapped the lake. He searched for it, night and day, across South California, but he could not find it. But it existed. He knew of it, despite his father’s statements to the contrary. It was the only thing he disputed with his father. His father told him to never confront Vendicatore about it, but Davy thought a letter every now and then was not inappropriate. He craved the truth. The lake had to still exist, for when Vendicatore took it, the drought never improved. Now was his chance to get answers.
“Okay. I’ll come.” Davy walked to the car.
“Sir, the governor also mentioned a girl.”
“What?”
“He mentioned a girl. She must come as well.”
Davy looked up at the cottage, at the window of the bedroom. There he saw Namiane’s face through the glass, with her wide eyes. She looked down at the state car, whose glossy black paint ricocheted the blinding sun.
She looked at Davy; Davy lo
oked back at the man.
“Namiane?”
The driver smiled. “I believe so. Yes, in fact, that name does sound familiar.”
What in the hell did Vendicatore want with her? Davy thought. How did he even know of her existence?
Davy remembered—one time, Vendicatore came to visit his father. Namiane was present. He remembered that slimy grin he gave her. He repulsed her. He disgusted her so much that she stayed inside the cottage while Vendicatore boarded The Spirit of the Lake with Davy’s father to begin negotiations.
“No,” Davy said. “Absolutely not.”
“The governor insists, sir. He thought her presence would make you feel more comfortable. Get her, please. We are running very late.”
It appeared that Namiane not coming along would be a deal-breaker. Davy had to meet Vendicatore. He wouldn’t miss this opportunity. He had to get her and bring her along, even if it meant she had to endure some creepy looks from Vendicatore's crazy, black eyes.
So, he went inside, pocketed a waterskin to bring for the trip, and met Namiane in the bedroom. When he told her Vendicatore wished to meet with him, she told him not to go. For she said what she had always said: the governor knew his identity as the Water Thief, and he would capture him. “And kill you!” she emphasized.
Davy brushed these ideas off, and she moaned on the bed.
But when he told her Vendicatore requested for her to come, too, her attitude flipped. She bolted to change into more appropriate clothing for the lavish palace. And she came along without a fuss.
CHAPTER 12
Wildfires chased the state car with a tsunami of flames as it approached the ashy city of crumbling skyscrapers. Most of the city was dark in the daytime. Smoke from the fires formed a bubble above, resembling a large cloud, to block the sun and the red sky.
Weaving through the city streets, the car dodged falling debris. It drove down a designated path, highlighted by orange cones. This path was the safe one, for the earthquakes buckled most of the roads. The bad roads carried the weight of collapsed buildings and wood, stone, glass. The greatest obstacle on all these streets, though, was the endless spread of dead, squished bodies. These bodies had rotted and disintegrated to all hell—after all, they were old. Most were dead not by drought. They died by the incalculable carnage of the Great Earthquake which struck many decades ago, without a single ripple of warning.
Every now and then there was a body still alive, sleeping in a tent. When a car would drive by (and this was rare), the alive person would awaken and jump on it and slap at the windows, crying. It was always obvious what they wanted, for they would hold an empty drinking glass in the air, with a chewed-up bendy straw spinning to the wind.
The state car, which usually drove the governor, was no exception. As the state car passed, a man had heard the motor. He ran toward the sound. Finding it, he jumped on the windshield and pounded against the glass. He yelled into it for Vendicatore to help him. But his eyes widened—he did not see Governor Vendicatore through the windshield—he saw Davy Bay.
Davy met his eyes. The man’s eyes fell out their sockets upon this, and he screamed at Davy, “Murderer! Murderer! Thief!”
And the driver hit the accelerator and the man slid off.
“These poor people,” the driver said. “Don’t listen to them, sir; they need water to think straight. But not to worry. Governor Vendicatore will solve the crisis very soon. After all, he has a vested interest. He shares the struggle of the people with a thirsty mouth, as we all know.”
As they drove, they came across a sleeping man with his dog. The dog was so scrawny that it made Davy shed a tear. Its head lied in a near-empty bowl.
Davy asked the driver to pull over, and the driver did. He got out of the car with Namiane. She stroked the dog, and it gave her a lick.
Davy took out his waterskin and squeezed most of it into its bowl. The dog drank. He watched the dog as it drank. Dogs were rare in these days—most had died in the drought with their owners. Davy looked at the sleeping man. He was thin as a reed. He hoped he never stole from him before; he appreciated that the man put the dog over himself. How else could it still be alive? No one cared about their pets in these days, and allowed them to die. But this man, it seemed, did care.
“It’s been years since I've seen a dog,” Namiane said. “He’s so cute. We should take him home, Davy. It can survive with us.”
Davy thought about it. He looked at the sleeping man. “He’s not ours. We can’t.”
“Says the thief.”
Davy gave her a nasty look. Not a thief, he wanted to say in defense, but a thief of thieves.
He looked at the state car, the opened door, hoping that the driver didn’t hear her. They soon returned into the car and they were back on their way.
The palace soon came into their view. It was a grand and golden tabernacle perched atop the mountains. It was so up high and so tall that if there were clouds in the sky, the entire top half of the structure would disappear inside them. Wildfire smoke tried to do this. It tried to smother, but for some reason, it never entered the space, as if there was a forcefield protecting it. The smoke bounced off a bubble surrounding the palace. And the smoke deflected; it floated back to where it came from.
They drove up an elevated, winding street to it. More people got in their path, bouncing off the car. This street was a popular camping spot. And the driver hit the pedal, bolting up the hill, leaving behind a trail of zombies.
Far ahead, there were more skeleton-thin people. These people pounded against the concrete walls of the palace until their hands bled. They painted it red with their pounding. At the gates, others sang in perfect sync, an ode to the governor, a prayer to him. The pounders of the walls and the singers . . . they all did this because they heard a loud splash—a cannonball-jump type of splash—from within the grounds. They saw the water soar from within, taller than the walls, and cascade back down. They gasped upon the sight of it. They felt it was Vendicatore, who made the splashing sound. Yes, he was pouring water into a tank for them to soon sip on, they believed. And they cried his name as if he had generated water from thin air; he was truly worthy of worship.
True, the splashing sound did come from Vendicatore. But it was not the sound of a changing tide.
The splashing came from the governor’s daily jump into the grand swimming pool to cool off after a hard day’s work.
Water! At last!
This was the voice of a man, who tried to climb the wall with a pair of buddies holding his feet. In his deliriousness, he did this despite what happened to another friend moments prior, who also climbed the walls—as his head peeked over, it fell off with a bullet, and his body thudded against the ground.
All around there were giant nets to catch water vapor in the air. Stable buildings held tanks to the cloudless sky. They were empty. But this did not stop the people, who would often climb the buildings and into the tanks to lick the bottom. Once they realized there was nothing to lick, they realized they had trapped themselves inside like ants. They pounded against the glass with their twigs for arms and yelled atop their lungs for help.
But no one cared about their cries. And they died inside, in the tanks.
But who did care? Why, Governor Vendicatore cared. After all, you could have asked him. And he would have told you he cared more than God Himself, as he emerged from his swimming pool, shaking his wet hair.
“Have some of that, my good people,” Vendicatore said, still shaking his hair. Water from his locks sprayed all over. He climbed the gold-trimmed steps of his pool and walked onto the marble pavement.
He stood and waited until a palace guard draped a towel around him and massaged him dry.
“Thank you, my friend.”
“My pleasure, Governor. We are sorry about the ruckus. We have sent twelve more guards to quell the noise outside.”
“No! Never-mind it. I love the noise. It inspires me.” Vendicatore pointed at a small marble table by a bird b
ath. On it: a sparkling glass of water. “Hand me that water, would you?”
“Of course, Governor.”
The guard retrieved it and handed it to Vendicatore. Vendicatore gulped it down. “Delicious,” Vendicatore said. “Purer than a child’s blood. The cleanest imaginable. But anyways—forget the noise. It inspires me. It inspires me to do more, to help these poor people twice as hard. You understand? You must not take that from me.” Vendicatore hanged the glass over his mouth and caught the final drips with his tongue.
The guard took the empty glass. “Yes, of course, Governor.”
“Good. Only, keep your other men out there until our friends arrive, so they can come in peace.”
“Yes, Governor.”
Vendicatore finished drying himself. He wrapped the towel around his head. “Now, where exactly are our friends?”
“They should be arriving any moment.”
“Including the girl, I hope?”
“Yes, Governor.”
Vendicatore snickered. “Very good. Very good, indeed. She’s been acting up recently. I must set her straight at once, before all our grand plans backfire. I worry that she is intent on exposing them to Mr. Bay.”
The guard opened the side palace door for him to enter.
He retreated to his office of a wine-red carpet. There, another glass of water awaited him on his desk. Ample light drowned his office through the four large windows, which displayed the entire city down below. Through the windows, the sun’s rays glimmered with the glass of water, creating a sort of disco ball in the office. Dust particles rained inside the beams of the sun.
On the desk beside the glass of water was a thick stack of clipped papers. On the cover read “TIDEWATER” in blood-red ink.
Vendicatore took the glass of water and walked to a window, the one that faced the crowd. He took a sip. He looked down at the people at the gates and watched them grow angry, as the guards fought back. Vendicatore smiled at the sight.
But he could not resist—he saw the map of New America in the corner of his eye on the wall, and he focused on it.
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