The Water Knife

by Paolo Bacigalupi

  Suddenly Maria could feel everything. She laughed, surprised. Her body was alive. For the first time, she was truly alive. She stared at Sarah, wide-eyed.

  “This feels good!”

  Sarah laughed at her surprise.

  Maria felt everything. Every pulse of light. Every beat of the bass. She became hyperaware of the sheath on her body, but where it had previously felt strange and tight and too revealing, now it felt sensual. The dress was a caress when she moved. Everything was a caress. Sarah’s hand on her waist was something to lean into, something to taste, to wrap herself in.

  Maria reached out and stroked Sarah’s cheek, fascinated by the feel of the girl’s skin under her fingers. She could run her fingers across that soft skin for days and never lose interest.

  “It’s good,” Maria said wonderingly.

  “I told you!”

  Sarah didn’t wait for Maria to enjoy the high. She grabbed Maria’s hand and dragged her deeper into the crowds.

  The press no longer felt claustrophobic or intrusive. It was more like a playground. Maria reached out to touch people as she passed. Her hands trailed across the back of a man’s silk shirt. Ran up a woman’s hip. She seized opportunities to press against anyone who passed, and she felt their hands caressing her body in turn. Fingers and hands everywhere, touching, squeezing, pinching. Every connection sent bubbles through her. She was horny, she realized. Desperately turned on. She felt like some sort of starved animal, so primally desperately driven, so ravenous for touch and sex.

  A part of her was embarrassed, horrified at what the drug was doing to her. This wasn’t who she was. It wasn’t what she did. But the rest of her didn’t care. She let herself be swallowed in the needy pleasure of the dancers and lights and the hands and bodies—

  “Will you come on?”

  Sarah was still tugging her hand. Maria felt too good to argue. She let herself be pulled along, reaching out to more people as she passed. Loving them all. Laughing at their hands on her body.

  Abruptly, Sarah dropped Maria’s hand. Maria turned, confused.

  Sarah was wrapping herself around a man, kissing him. The one who’d told her about aquifers—Ratan, the hydrologist. The one who wanted them both, and who Sarah said would take her north when he left. The reason they’d come in the first place…

  Maria lost interest. The music was too good. The DJ was mixing Los Sangre over Daddy Daddy, and the crowds were there for her. Let Sarah do her thing. Maria danced, feeling ecstatic. Feeling free for the first time in her life. Not caring about anything. Not fearing anything.

  Maybe tomorrow they couldn’t pay rent and they were dead. Maybe this was the last good thing that would ever happen to her. Tomorrow would be dust and want and asking Toomie for pity and a loan that he probably couldn’t give, but tonight she was dancing dirty with a man, and then a woman, and then by herself, letting her hands run up and down her hips, feeling the beat as she moved. Bunching the fabric of her sheath in her fists, loving the way it tickled her palms as she swayed to the music. The music wasn’t loud anymore. It was inside her. She moved to it, beats and pulse. Another heart, flooding her with life.

  Maria caught a glimpse of Sarah with her man, the two of them watching her. Sarah looked infinitely older in her miniskirt and high heels and makeup. Just like the makeup that she’d helped Maria apply to her own face, dolling her up so she could earn back everything she’d lost with her joke of a water scheme.

  Sarah waved her over.

  Maria held out her hand to Sarah’s man. Flirting. Liking how it felt when she presented it to him as if she expected him to kiss it. Liking how he took her hand and didn’t let go. Liking how Sarah leaned close, the heat of her breath on her ear.

  “He’s good,” Sarah said. “He’ll pay. He wants to party.”

  “How much?”

  “More than enough. He wants a big old party.”

  Sarah pulled Maria close. They danced together. The bubble was thick in Maria’s skin, rising. The man waved down a waitress in high heels and tight shorts and the shreds of a blouse. The woman came back with tequila. They all drank shots. Sarah had more bubble in her purse.

  Maria didn’t protest as Ratan held a bulb to her nose. Her legs went weak, but he held her close. His erection pressed hard against her belly, thrusting against her, demanding. A promise. Maria smiled up at him, addicted to the touch, the strength of his hands on her. No wonder Sarah did this gig. Maria was flying. She was alive. She’d been dead—maybe she’d been dead all her life—but now she was alive.

  Maria and Sarah danced for him, the two of them, close. Sarah’s lips were on hers, and Maria was surprised that she didn’t mind. Sarah’s tongue, wet and strange and hot on her lips, needy. Maria let her mouth open. Kissed Sarah back, feeling the bubble rising in her.

  Ratan came up behind, pressing against her ass. Maria moaned between them, sandwiched in their embrace and the beats, all of it pressing in on her, hot and fast. His hands traveled her body, fumbling for her breasts. Maria didn’t care that people were watching. Didn’t care that she was exposed.

  She was kissing Sarah again, kissing her hard, chasing after her mouth, wanting Sarah’s lips. A hunger was growing inside her, a need so powerful she didn’t understand it except that she was starved for Sarah, for Sarah’s kiss.

  They left the club, spilling out into the hot smoky night. The char of faraway forest fires and the dust of dead farms roiled around them.

  A boy in a white coat with a black-and-bone-pierced nose emerged from the haze, waving for a car. They piled in, a tumble of laughter and limbs rolling through the streets, moving through the smoky darkness.

  All Maria knew was that she was glad to have found this drug and this feeling and that Sarah was there. Glad that Sarah was holding her again and pulling her close, that she was peeling off the straps of Maria’s sheath, exposing her breasts again.

  Maria arched, wanting to feel Sarah’s lips on her and desperate to do the same, to expose Sarah’s small bright breasts, to devour those pink nipples so different from her own, desperate and hungry for a taste of Sarah’s flesh.

  Ratan could do whatever he wanted as long as Maria had Sarah. Sarah mattered. Only Sarah. Sarah’s hand slid between Maria’s thighs. Maria opened her legs, aching for touch.

  There.

  Maria felt as if her eyes were as wide as the moon, staring into Sarah’s own wild blue gaze. It was more than electric. It was as if she were flying and falling all at once.

  Maria was suddenly terrified of her hunger. She barely noticed that they had left the car, that there were doormen and secure elevators, that they were all being whisked into the sky. All Maria wanted was to touch Sarah. She wanted the bubbling power of the drug and Sarah’s touch to go on forever. She was terrified that it would disappear. That the moment would end and leave her starved and alone and without Sarah.

  Ratan’s bed was big enough for all of them. Maria’s body was slick with sweat and need as she peeled out of her clothes. She fell again into Sarah’s arms. Maria felt Ratan’s hands on her hips, felt his cock hard against her ass, felt him probing her sex with his fingers, pushing, pushing in, then pressing further. It hurt.

  Maria struggled for a moment, but he didn’t let her go, and then Sarah’s hands cupped her face, and she pulled Maria down to her, her eyes understanding.

  Sarah pulled Maria to her, kissing her lips, her cheeks, her eyelids, whispering in her ear as the man thrust and thrust.

  Sarah’s murmured comfort matched his rhythm.

  He’ll pay, he’ll pay, he’ll pay.

  CHAPTER 16

  Lucy Monroe’s house was a low-slung one-story. Thick mud walls and personal solar panels heavily chained to the roof, looking like mental patients in danger of escape. Old-school enviro design with a juniper-beam shade porch, protected by a sagging blue-and-gold rubberized tarp that looked as if it had been stolen from an old Comic-Con, from back when Phoenix had still managed to put on real conventions.r />
  A beat-up Ford was parked at an odd angle across the front yard, rusted wheel wells and jacked-up tires, a beast of a truck, looking as if it had done about a million desert miles and still wanted to road-warrior its way straight out of Hell.

  A couple of chickens scattered, clucking, ahead of Angel’s Tesla as he pulled to a stop. He climbed out and leaned against the car. Most of the other properties around the journo’s home were protected by cinder-block walls, hiding whatever was behind them from prying eyes.

  Farther down the alley, Angel thought he spied the tin-and-chipboard shacks and Kelty tents of a squatter camp. He wondered if someone had managed to drill into some old Phoenix water main. There weren’t any relief pumps nearby, so it was odd to see the squatter camp. Case would never have let that happen back in Vegas. Couldn’t let people get away with tapping water they weren’t paying for. Another reason Phoenix was dying.

  He put on his sunglasses and waited.

  If Lucy was inside, he figured she’d be watching him, trying to decide what to do. Recognizing him, and probably not liking it. So he waited, giving her time to get used to the idea of a visitor. He’d been an unwelcome visitor enough times before that he’d developed rituals for the process. Delivering bad news to people who were about to lose their water was a special expertise. Running up against denial was always a dangerous business.

  He cataloged the rooftops of nearby buildings by habit, looking for cameras and snipers, but nothing stood out.

  A black-and-gray mange of an Australian shepherd mix lay under Lucy’s truck, pink tongue lolling. Seeming too hot to give a damn about his intrusion. A chicken pecked right in front of the dog’s nose. Mutt couldn’t even be bothered to bark.

  Angel decided he’d given Lucy Monroe enough time. He pushed open the yard gate, scraping dust aside. The dog perked up—not at Angel but at the house door’s simultaneous opening.

  The journo came out, a shadow emerging from under tarped porch into hot sun to stand casually, hip cocked, hands in her back pockets. Her voice was hard.

  “What are you doing here?”

  When he’d seen her in the morgue, she’d been different. Dressed to get some respect from the cops and the ME. More professional. Now she stood in tight faded jeans that showed her hips, and a cutneck T-shirt that hung loose over small breasts. She looked casual, as if he’d caught her doing chores.

  “I was hoping we could talk,” he said.

  She jerked her head toward his car. “I knew you weren’t a cop.”

  “No.”

  “But you pretended you were.”

  She was wary, but still, to Angel, it was just like the last time. The lady might be dressed different, but her eyes were the same. Gray eyes that had seen too much—that knew too much.

  To Angel, her eyes were like discovered pools, found in the deep shadows of a sandstone canyon. Salvation and stillness all in one. Cool waters that, when you knelt to drink, showed your own self looking back at you from the depths. Pure recognition. Something you could drown in and not regret.

  “I think we got off on the wrong foot before,” Angel said.

  “You think?”

  The journalist’s hands came out of her back pockets. A pistol gleamed dully in one fist. Matte black thing, just bigger than her palm. Barely more than an ammo clip with its short barrel, but deadly just the same.

  “I think I know everything I need to know about you.”

  “Whoa.” Angel held up his hands. “You got me wrong. I just want to talk.”

  “The way you talked to Jamie? With a poker up my ass and some electroshock?” She raised the pistol.

  Angel found himself staring straight into the tiny black hole of the barrel.

  “You got me wrong.”

  “I doubt it.”

  She’s afraid, Angel realized.

  The pistol might be steady, but the lady was terrified. The remote chill of her expression—she thought she was dead already.

  Fucking hell. She thinks she’s making a last stand.

  “I’m not looking for trouble.”

  Angel backed up and sat on a low adobe wall, deliberately deescalating. Making himself seem as passive and harmless as possible.

  “No one is,” she said. She squinted down the barrel. “You’ve got five seconds to walk away and make sure I never see you again. You should be glad you aren’t already dead.”

  “I just want to talk.”

  “Five.”

  She wasn’t a natural killer, Angel didn’t think. She was just over the edge. Pushed past right and wrong. He’d seen this look in other people before. He knew the desperation. He’d been there, himself.

  “Listen—”

  “Four.”

  He’d seen it in Texas refugees, when they got pinned down by New Mexican bandits on the long walk out of Texas. He’d seen it in narco mules who’d been so abused that they’d given up and just wanted to hurt someone back before they died. He’d seen it in Nevada ranchers, bent on defending their irrigation head gates when the SNWA came to shut them off.

  Lucy wasn’t someone who lived for killing. But then again, when people lost hope, they sometimes lost their humanity, too. Desperate people did desperate things, became avatars of unexpected tragedy.

  “You don’t want to do this—”

  “Three!”

  “Come on!” Angel protested. “It doesn’t have to be this way! I just want to talk!”

  Already he was planning how he’d get close, fast. He could turn. Take the bullet in his ballistic jacket and keep going. He could take her. It would be close, but he could definitely put her down.

  “If you’ll just listen—”

  “Two!”

  Against all his instincts, he spread his arms wide. His ballistic jacket opened, making him even more vulnerable. “I didn’t kill your friend! The only reason I’m here is ’cause you want to know the same things I do! I just want to talk!” He closed his eyes and braced himself for the bullet, arms wide, crucified.

  Here it comes.

  He held his breath, hating that he’d put himself in this position, wishing he’d just taken her out, and now he was stuck praying he’d read the woman right. Jesus, Maria, Santa Muerte…

  No bullets.

  Angel cracked an eyelid.

  Lucy still had the pistol pointed at him, but she wasn’t shooting.

  Angel tried a smile on her. “You done with the gun? Can we talk now?”

  “Who are you, really?” Lucy asked.

  “Just someone who wants to talk to the journo who throws up all the hashtags about murder and water and Phoenix. #PhoenixDowntheTubes, right? That’s you? You ride that one hard.” Angel let some hesitancy show, wanting her to feel powerful, wanting to give her the feeling she was in control.

  She is in control, you dumb pendejo, a cynical voice noted in his head. She’s got you dead with a bullet in the eye if she’s even a half-decent shot.

  Angel pressed. “This isn’t just about your friend getting cut up, is it? There’s something else going on down here that doesn’t smell right, and we both know it. I’m hoping you can steer me a little. That’s all. I just want to talk.”

  “You think I care what you want? Some asshole who pretends to be a cop? What makes you think I’d care about helping you?”

  “Maybe we can trade,” Angel soothed. “Help each other out. You wouldn’t be pointing a gun in my face if you weren’t afraid of something, right? But I swear, I’m not the one who you got to be watching out for. Might be we can help each other.”

  Lucy laughed bitterly. “I’d be insane to trust you.”

  “I come in peace.”

  “You’d be more peaceful if I put a bullet in you.”

  “Can’t learn anything from a corpse.”

  “I could shoot your knees out,” she said. “We could see how much you smile after I blow off your kneecaps.”

  “You could. But I don’t think that’s you. See, I’ve met those people, and I don�
��t think you’re one of them. That’s not how someone like you plays the game.”

  “It’s you, though. Right? That’s exactly how you are.”

  Angel shrugged. “Not saying I’m some saint. Just saying we got mutual interests.”

  “I really should shoot you.”

  “No. You don’t want to be the person who kills in cold blood. Trust me.”

  To Angel’s surprise, Lucy’s shoulders slumped, and she lowered her pistol. “I don’t have any idea what kind of a person I am anymore,” she said, and for a moment her expression looked so exhausted and hopeless that she seemed as if she were a thousand years old.

  “You think someone’s coming for you,” he said.

  She gave a dry laugh. “You can’t write about the bodies and expect to last for long. Not here.” She turned and strode back toward her house. When she reached the porch, she glanced back. Gestured impatiently with the pistol.

  “Well? Come on,” she said. “We’ll try talking.”

  He couldn’t help smiling. He’d been exactly right about who she was. He knew her. As soon as he’d seen her, he’d known her.

  Maybe he’d always known her.

  He followed Lucy into the house. As he passed her dog, still lolling under the truck, Angel grinned at the animal. “I know her,” he said.

  It sounded good to say out loud.

  The dog yawned in response and rolled onto its side, entirely unimpressed.

  —

  The interior of Lucy’s home was neat and spare and cool. Terra-cotta tile floors, Guatemalan-woven curtains, some Navajo pottery on shelves. A familiar hodgepodge of southwestern kitsch.

  On a rough-cut wooden table, she had a tablet and keyboard laid out, cased in military-grade shock shielding. The kind of thing that Angel could throw against a wall and wouldn’t break.