The Water Thief

by A M Caturello

  Davy could not believe he was about to defend Frank Solas, but: “Frank Solas captured it after that earthquake forty years ago. Fair and square. It was not treated properly before, and he purified it himself.”

  “Rather, he purified it for himself.” Vendicatore, with his glass of water, rose and walked back to the window to watch the crowd outside the gates. “Stolen from the people who need it. And once I unleash my Tidewater plan, Frank Satan will wish he listened to the cries. When he meets his creator, he will wish he had helped us while he's being escorted to Hell. I can’t wait to see his face when my men vacuum it all away from him.”

  Vendicatore took a sip of his water.

  “He will wish he did what’s right.” Vendicatore chuckled. “But guess what? He won’t have a wishing well anymore to make such a wish.”

  “Good one.”

  “Don’t insult me. Remember who you’re talking to.”

  “You know what?” Davy said. “You’re right. I am greedy. I do have a Hoarder’s mindset. How could I be so selfish and stupid?”

  Vendicatore turned and approached Davy. “There. You’re not the only one, David. If you come to grips with your disease, you can cure it.” Vendicatore returned to his desk. He opened the drawer and grabbed the thick stack of papers of Tidewater. Davy gave it a first close look. It must have been at least a thousand pages.

  “And if you don’t cure it,” Vendicatore continued, “then with Tidewater, you will have no choice in the matter.” He slapped the stack on the desk. “This right here will cure the plague known as greed. This will bring North California back to its prosperity. Above all, it will destroy Frank Solas. It'll release his water into South California and ooze it with milk and honey, as that dusty, old Bible says. We will reign in Heaven. Pun intended. North California is destined for greatness.”

  Davy had ignored his rambling long ago. He looked at the stack of papers. He saw the title of it printed in the red ink. Tidewater.

  Vendicatore picked it up and flapped it in the air. He laid a kiss on it. “I will do to Mr. Solas what I did to you and your father. And not only him, but all the other Hoarders he conspires with at those arrogant bashes he throws every weekend. I will kill two, three people if I must, to save ten thousand.”

  Davy considered snagging the plans then and there. He considered holding Vendicatore hostage. But he remembered all the guards who’d wait for him outside.

  Vendicatore dropped the plans back into the drawer. He slammed the drawer shut. “I suggest you cure your disease before tonight, Mr. Bay.” He laughed. “Because if you don’t, God forbid, in the morning . . . you’ll jump off a cliff!”

  And that snapped a thread in Davy. He hated calling himself a thief, but it would prove useful again:

  “What about the Water-Thieves, Governor? The Water Thief?”

  Vendicatore laughed—with a hint of nervousness. He finished his glass of water and put the glass down on the desk. “What about them?”

  Davy detected the nervousness. He tried not to laugh. The governor must have been insecure about his failure to hunt down the “Water Thief,” let alone discover who he was.

  “They have more water than you can even begin to imagine,” Davy said. “And you’re so preoccupied with Solas?”

  Vendicatore cackled. “Well, I have yet to make the announcement, but, okay—I’ll make you privy, since you asked. Don’t tell anyone, but my men captured the blasted Water Thief last week. We found all of that terrorist's water already.”

  Davy tried to fight back laughter. “That’s fantastic news.” He pointed to the window. “I hope all that water will be used for them. Because the drought would end overnight with that little stash alone. I imagine, anyway.”

  “It will be used, Mr. Bay. It will be. On top of Mr. Solas’ stash. Once we attain his reserve, we’ll combine the two, and open the floodgates all at once. And this country will turn into a green paradise.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you'll use it. Every single drop.”

  Vendicatore rose and walked to Davy. He wrapped his arm around his shoulders. “But . . . it will take some time. We must first purify it. All the blood must get removed before it’s drinkable, that water of the Water Thief. Guess how bloody it was? Just guess. I couldn’t believe it, myself, when I saw it. It was like a lake of blood. No hue of drinkable water in the slightest.”

  Davy’s skin crawled. The hairs on his body prickled. He couldn’t make eye contact; now the governor made him insecure. Vendicatore was relentless in guilt-tripping Davy for wanting his original lake back. But now he unwittingly triggered his inner-guilt of his past murders. He was a water thief. It didn't matter how he planned to use the water—he was a thief. The greatest of them. He understood he was a murderer. But he couldn't hide behind the justification of retribution any longer. He had killed, and he had stolen, on behalf of the angry spirit of his dead father. Only now did it hit him, all those he’d killed. He heard the screams of their collective souls.

  That damned painting Namiane made him, of the blood lake . . . he'd be having nightmares that night, for sure. The hotness of the blood, steaming up along the boat . . .

  Davy shivered. His eyes widened, and he shook his head. There was a knot in his throat, and he choked against it.

  He walked to the door and opened it. Vendicatore laughed him out. But Davy held it open as he stood in the frame. He turned his head. He had to hit him right back—for he knew the governor was a hypocrite with his father’s lake still in his possession.

  “Tell me, Governor. How heavy is the guilt on your conscience?”

  That shut Vendicatore up. He stopped laughing.

  “The fact that you started the drought, to begin with. You took rivers and lakes from everywhere, not only my father’s. You pumped all the groundwater available. You were the spark of mass genocide. The mastermind, the creator of thirsty savages. You created the Water-Thieves, who’ve killed thousands. How heavy is your conscience?”

  Vendicatore sat down behind his desk. His face froze and stared at Davy, unblinking. Then he laughed in hysterics. “Yes! Of course. I killed everyone. It’s me! Guards—arrest me!”

  “You can’t joke your way out of it. I know it kills you inside.”

  “It is you who feels the guilt, greedy pig. Don’t put that on me. Everyone, get a load of this boy, who wants an entire lake for himself!”

  “It’s either you're entirely incompetent, or you’re actually brilliant, trying to kill us.”

  “Brilliant, sure. But enough of the conspiracy theories. I’ve heard enough. You must be hanging out with the Hoarders, who spread such slanderous misinformation about me.”

  “It’s my own observations I’ve made since you got elected. Water storages and reserves disappeared completely. The death toll doubled a week after your election. Now that I’ve seen your pool and that fountain downstairs, it all makes sense.”

  “I’m here to save the country, and you lay such insulting blasphemy on me. There’s only one fact. And that’s that the Water Thief committed mass genocide. Undeniable. Hundreds of people write to me every single day, pleading me to hunt down the Thief. They’ve lost everything to the son-of-a-bitch.”

  Davy’s expression stayed flat as he stared at Vendicatore.

  “If I’m the mastermind behind mass murder,” Vendicatore said, “then jolly damn it, he’s done all the work for me!”

  Davy stared off into the distance. He began to sweat hard. He left the room and slammed the door behind him.

  He met Namiane, who sat on a bench down the hall. He took her hand and hurried away with it.

  “Let’s get out of here, Nam.”

  But the guard stomped behind them, approaching, and got between them.

  “Ma’am, the governor would like to speak with you now.”

  “What?”

  “Okay,” Namiane said. She took a deep breath. “Okay.”

  The guard led her back to the office door. Davy followed. The guard opened the d
oor and she went inside.

  Davy watched Vendicatore drool when she entered, and the door closed on him, and he reached for the knob.

  But the guard slapped his hand away, and Davy gave him a stare of death.

  “What is going on?”

  The guard ignored him, staring and standing straight.

  “Tell me what’s going on!”

  The guard motioned for Davy to sit at the bench. And Davy sat on it, trying to hear the muffled discussion within, for what felt like an eternity.

  Until it ended with a scream.

  Davy bolted across the hall, running into the door.

  Namiane pounded on the door from within, screaming Davy’s name.

  Davy reached for the knob. It didn't turn—locked. And the guard pushed him back, pulling his rifle on him.

  But out came Namiane, running into Davy’s arms, as Vendicatore watched them with a creepy smile before slamming the door.

  “Guard! Let them leave!”

  The guard grabbed the couple, but Davy fought back and punched him. He grabbed his rifle, and hit him with it in the head, rendering him unconscious. He dropped the gun.

  “Oh, Davy!” Namiane cried.

  Davy tried to calm her. “It’s okay, Namiane. It’s okay. Just tell me what happened.”

  “H-he grabbed me—”

  And Davy hugged her tight while glaring a hole into the red door with his raging eyes.

  He led Namiane through the hallway, down the staircases, and through the foyer like a shadow—dodging the sight of the guards—and out of the palace to find the driver who would take them back home.

  CHAPTER 14

  Vendicatore had planted images into Davy's mind during their meeting. They were the same images Namiane had tried planting for years. It seemed that the two had at least one thing in common.

  These images—those of guilt. Davy had obsessed over them all the ride home.

  Now, he sat outside on the dead grass of his backyard, looking out at the crater before him—but now it wasn’t always empty. He was delirious, burning under the rising sun; if he stared long enough at the crater, without blinking, he would see his father’s boat rise as the red waves pounded against its hull. Before it could capsize, Davy would shake his head, and the blood would disappear.

  At this moment, the crater was empty to his eyes. Still, for the first time, he caught a glimpse of what Namiane always claimed to see.

  She wasn’t kidding. She wasn’t acting, like Davy always accused her of doing; she wasn’t making it all up to manipulate him to leave. She was truly a tormented girl.

  Davy's awareness of blood wasn't particularly recent. As of late, he cringed at the sight of a single drop of blood or even spilled wine like he did at Solas’ party. That was because Namiane slowly planted the awareness into him.

  And now, Vendicatore opened the floodgates to it. And all the blood Davy had spilled rushed toward him like a tsunami.

  Now Davy saw what Namiane always saw. It was the mass genocide. His genocide. A deep crater, filled with blood, right outside of his home. Only now did he hear the thousands of souls he’d slain screeching his name—damning his name.

  Davy realized: if his father had turned into a ghost, then ghosts existed. That must have meant there were thousands of ghosts all around him—he only opened his third eye enough to see one of them. There were thousands more ghosts. Which he had created. But he had never opened his ears to hear them.

  With this line of thought, he grew paranoid. Sitting in the dead grass, he wrapped his arms around his legs and shook.

  He recalled the massacres at all the ranches he invaded across South California over the past two years.

  In a flash he relived all the break-ins and the thefts on the streets. He remembered all the traps he had set across the land, even stealing from the most vulnerable and weak people for a single dropper of water.

  That one charity organization which gave water to those in need.

  Oh, bloody hell!

  He felt guilt even for the theft of some of the elites of the land—besides his attempt at Frank Solas, the greatest lawful Hoarder, of course—the great Hoarders, for he spilled blood while stealing their stashes. Even if they were “hoarding,” they were people trying to survive, trying to safeguard against Vendicatore only to fall to a vicious punk kid and his gang.

  At first, Davy loved the blood. He drowned in it along with his father’s praise and approval. Namiane had taken the load of the guilt for him. For his two years as a thief, the guilt had built-up in her on his behalf, and now he understood her pain. He began to finally take it on for himself.

  He would have continued to remember and relive these moments as they replayed on repeat in his mind, but a loud slam sounded behind him, cutting them off. He turned his head.

  Namiane ran out of the house with an easel and a canvas underneath her arms. In a rush, she tripped and fell. She got back up. She set up the easel beside Davy and placed the canvas on it in dire desperation, as though she must save a dying world by getting started on a painting as fast as possible.

  She grabbed a box of small paint tubes. They were near empty, squeezed to all hell. She knelt on the grass beside Davy and focused the crooked canvas in place. She ripped a piece of cardboard from the box and laid it flat on the grass. She took a tube of blue and squeezed it—but only a tiny bit came out. She dug from the box, tossing tubes all about, but there was no blue left. So, she squeezed every single color available out on the cardboard. Davy watched as she mixed yellow, white, and purple together with a paint brush. She yelped at the resulting color. In a panic, she added orange, red, green to the thick puddle . . . Davy knew she was trying to create blue—but it was impossible. There was no way to bring the color back.

  But at least she could imagine and work with what she had. She settled with the nasty color and swiped away at the canvas, outlining the shore of the lake. Davy looked at it. Then he looked to the crater; it filled with the color. It was close enough, he thought, and he managed a smile. The water was only murky. Maybe he could purify it, he thought, somehow, and bring it back to its former shimmer.

  He looked away and saw Namiane painting in rushed desperation, as though she had murdered someone and needed to brush the guilt away.

  She no longer used the dirty color—she dunked the paintbrush in the red and painted over her progress. She did it, without realizing it.

  “Nam?”

  She turned her head and stared at Davy with her twitching, red eyes.

  “You’re using red again.”

  She turned back to the canvas. Eyes wide, she gasped and backed away, and collapsed on her back. The red-tipped paintbrush fell onto the dead grass.

  “No! Davy, it was an accident—”

  It was a grave mistake. She had ruined the canvas. The paint brush was now cross-contaminated. She wouldn’t dare to clean the brush in a glass of water—the red would spread and turn it into a glass of blood.

  Davy rushed to help her up, but she was unresponsive. He took the glass of water in the grass and splashed her face with the rest of it.

  Her eyes opened, with a smile. The water cooled her face. It streamed down her cheeks into her mouth, and she had her first taste of it in two days. She swiped her fingers across her face and looked at the water that collected on them.

  She shrieked. “I’m bleeding!”

  Davy looked at her, confused. And as he watched her have a panic attack before his eyes, he thought about what he had done to her.

  No—Vendicatore did all this. The dictator created the drought. He stole the lake. He created everything. If Vendicatore didn’t steal the lake, his father would still have been alive today. His soul would still be in his flesh, not burning in a lake of fire, and nobody would have died in Davy’s path.

  And these thoughts haunted Davy, as rage built up to hate Vendicatore.

  Davy went to the ground to comfort Namiane. He wiped her wet fingers against his shirt, and she calmed for
a moment. She closed her eyes to sleep.

  He moved to lay with her in the grass, but a man grunting came from the edge of the crater. Davy saw Rodney Bight emerge over the wall and topple against the grass, his body vibrating like jelly. He panted like a dog. The papers he lost to the wind earlier were now stuffed between his belt and his fat belly.

  “You lose ‘em?”

  “Lose who?”

  “Vendicatore and his goons.”

  “Oh. Sure. Yeah.”

  Rodney smiled. “What they want?”

  Davy didn’t answer. He sat and rubbed Namiane’s temples.

  Rodney rose and walked to Davy. “So, you ready?”

  Davy shushed him, raising a finger to his lips. He whispered, “Quiet. She’s sleeping.”

  “She’ll have plenty of time to sleep in the pits of Hell if we don’t do this now.”

  Davy cringed at Rodney’s phrasing. His father was already tormented in Hell. He wouldn’t allow Namiane to join him.

  “We need to grab Solas first.”

  Rodney flinched. “Frank Solas? The legend himself?”

  “Yes. He needs—wants—to come. We need to meet him half-way.”

  Rodney rolled his eyes. “Great. We could use a friggin’ tourist, sure. A prissy old Hoarder. I hear he’s a little baby.”

  Davy looked out at the crater. He jerked his head away, closing his eyes. He could no longer fantasize a big blue lake—he could only gather a nightmare.

  Now he only wanted to finish the job. He would steal the plans. Steal Solas’ lake before Vendicatore could. Pour all the water he’d stolen into the crater in a resurrection ceremony with his father. Then he would leave for Hawaii and get out of this place for good.

  Rodney walked into the cottage and returned with a pair of rifles. He offered one to Davy; Davy stared at it and froze.

  Rodney chuckled. “There’ll be no guards for us to fight off, but I brought ‘em just in case. Know how to use one of these?”

  Davy hesitated. He shook his head. “No.”

  “I’ll show ya.” Rodney put one gun down and took his, and demonstrated. “Balance is vital.” He positioned his feet to shoulder width. “Alls you gotta do is relax your legs, and twist one of ‘em towards your target.” He raised the rifle, aligned his shoulder with the butt, aimed . . .