The Water Thief

by A M Caturello

  He already could hear the bullets. His mind was so accustomed to the sound, that he heard it always, even when lying in his bed, in silence, in the cottage.

  He looked around in a fit of paranoia. No, the paranoia was unfounded—he had rid the oasis of the shooters on the roof, and she had killed the ones of the gates. For they had, all night, yet to see more guards, besides the surviving one standing by the ballroom doors.

  But what if there were more in hiding? If not from within, then throughout the black blanket of the desert, out of sight of Rafael and the rest of the Water-Thieves?

  There must have been guards in hiding in the shadows. It was as if Penelope knew there were.

  Davy remembered what she told him: what if she did get killed? He would miss her beyond suffocation.

  He loved her, but not like that. He was loyal to Namiane. For this, he felt no guilt. He felt no obligation to reciprocate Penelope’s deep love. Many opportunities he had to cheat; but, despite his lust for blood and water, he had never heeded his lust in the sexual realm. He would never cheat on Namiane. And he made that very clear to Penelope. She tried to convince him that Namiane was evil and selfish, when she, Penelope, herself did what she accused Namiane of doing. She tried to manipulate him.

  But Penelope was more beautiful. And her pandering to the dreams of his dead father turned him on. For these reasons, he often cheated in the mind, and for that, he felt guilt. (But had he felt guilt yet for being a blood-thirsty, murderous thug?)

  Of course, he would miss her. But he couldn’t have two lovers. He wouldn’t.

  Okay, Davy, let's go—!

  As Davy stood there in the bushes, he forced his thoughts to linger about Namiane, her homely smile; her crisp smell, that of her skin cooking from the sun. He imagined her soft voice whispering loving teases into his ear, as she tickled his sides. He was ticklish, so she harassed him with it.

  Oh, Namiane. What in the heavens was she doing at this hour?

  Oh, no—what would she do if he died this night, leaving her on her own? The word “abandon” instantly came to mind. She often used it. And he remembered she had used it right before he left.

  Don’t abandon me, Davy . . .

  He just wanted to see her face again. Why didn’t he obey her wishes and leave for Hawaii? Why did his father have to be so misunderstanding and demanding? By this point, Davy imagined he had accumulated enough to fill the lake, about seventy-five percent capacity. Wasn’t that enough?

  No, it wasn’t. You will obey your father.

  Davy slapped his head. Focus, doofus. Get moving! The party’s about to end, and Penelope’s at the pump!

  Doofus. It was Namiane’s favorite word to call him, in a playful way. Even though he deserved to be called much, much worse.

  Davy nibbled on his index finger to quell his mind. He was anxious. In these types of moments, he always procrastinated before making his move. Before he met fire with gasoline.

  But now, amid the greatest heist of his life, it was not the time to allow his mind to wander any further.

  On the beach, Penelope swiped at the water with her fingers, recoiling to the cold. She wet them again and rubbed her skin of frozen goosebumps with the water as she shrieked, losing her breath.

  She shook, but now from anxiety. Anticipation. But an opportunity came about: there were sounds of drunken laughs from the direction of the distant ballroom lights.

  She crawled and entered the water as the laughs masked the lustrous sounds of splashing.

  Floating, her mouth opened, for it wanted to yelp, but she contained herself from doing so and allowed the icy water to shock her, stabbing her like knives. She fought the need to let out a great gasp as she struggled to breathe.

  The water had fully engulfed her body. She submerged her head, saving only the top-half of it from the frostiness. She swam the doggy-paddle toward the land across; while swimming around the unpredictable pattern of the strobing lights, she tried hard not to make a single, ear-perking splashing sound.

  Davy crept to a palm tree and peeked to observe the front of the ballroom. Some folks were leaving—the guard led a pair of laughing drunks along the patio. The guard and the couple disappeared as they began to climb down the steps of the hill.

  Davy dashed through the strobing lights to trail him, and jumped back into the shadows. He watched the guard help the couple down the steps, and to the gates.

  The guard led them out of the compound and closed the gates on them. He stood with his hands to his hips with an expression of confusion; he walked along the fence and called out to the other guards, who were meant to stand by the gates.

  He received no answer. “Strange!” He stood, expectant. But soon headed back up the steps.

  And as he emerged, Davy jumped and choked him to unconsciousness.

  Davy dragged his body along and laid him gently inside a bush.

  He searched his pocket for his handgun—but it was gone. Davy looked out at the compound. It must have slipped out while he ran through the vegetation.

  It was too late to find it now. He had to move as quickly as possible. He couldn’t kill the guard.

  No matter, Davy thought. Penelope would soon drain the reservoir. They’d be long gone before he could awaken and notice.

  Davy ran back to the ballroom doors. He took a deep breath. He opened them and entered back into the blow of the music and the lights of the chandeliers. Several dancers paused to look at him, much like before. Amid their spinning they sneaked a look whenever they could—the looks were of curiosity. Davy was young, and they were old, and this party was for the rich—this is how Davy reasoned. Most likely they still couldn’t figure out why he received an invitation from Solas. He was the son of Wesley Bay—so what? That warranted an invitation for some punk to party with the water elites?

  He glared back, and like matching eyes with someone who crushed on you, they looked away immediately, as if nothing happened.

  Davy paused and smelled a faint cigar; he saw the stream of smoke form from far away in the back, rising to touch the ceiling. Davy walked along the wall to it.

  At a distance, Davy locked eyes with Solas, who smiled and motioned for Davy to come and sit. There at the table now sat another man, much older than Solas, who laughed and slurred nonsense like an absolute drunkard. He spilled wine on the white tablecloth and his white undershirt.

  Davy saw these red stains and cringed. He turned squeamish. Everything seemed to freeze—the bright lights above blinded him for a moment; the room dimmed, and the noise of the laughter and the music turned louder. The dings of glasses in a toast induced a ringing in his ears; sweat seeped from the locks of his hair, and the view turned white.

  Davy held his breath for a moment and gasped.

  Is this what Namiane was talking about? Is this the guilt she had tried to make him feel?

  He recalled the red lake she always spoke of, and imagined it . . . he shook his head to make it fade.

  The view became clear again. Solas puffed on his cigar more and looked at Davy with an odd, confused face. Sweat soaked Davy, over his face and inside his tuxedo, but he regained strength and walked over to sit.

  Solas stood and gathered another glass. He filled it with wine and pushed it across the table. Davy watched the blood—wine!—splash within the glass.

  It rattled in his hands as he faked a sip. Out of nervousness, he copied the old drunkard beside him and spilled the red drink on his white undershirt.

  Solas chuckled. “Uh-huh. Drunk, too?”

  Davy took a napkin and tried to wipe it away.

  “Useless, boy.”

  “No, I’m not drunk,” Davy said. He kept wiping, viciously, out of desperation. But the stain stayed, so he shifted his necktie to cover it. It wasn’t wide enough—he stuffed the napkin underneath to cover the rest. He looked like a fool. “Just—just a bit anxious tonight. That’s all.”

  “Damn it,” Solas said. “That was the plan all along, to get everyone d
runk.”

  “It’s a damn good plan,” the drunkard said. He grabbed Davy’s shoulder and fell onto him. “I tell ya, boy, I do nothing but take a gander at this man’s lake, and the first thing he does is take a funnel and a keg, and he funnels it all down my throat! What a great host—I don’t even need to lift a finger to drink. Not a single finger.” The man lifted his fingers as he said, “Not one, not two, not three, not one. What a great host, don’t you think?”

  “Wonderful,” Davy said.

  “Put your fingers away, would you?” Solas said to the drunkard. He took another puff and blew it in Davy’s face. When the smoke lightly faded, Solas caught Davy’s deathly glare. “So. You been schmoozing, boy? Exchange any contacts?”

  Davy fanned the remaining smoke away. “Not exactly.”

  “What a pity. Where’s the girl?” Solas chuckled. “She drop dead in your company, too?”

  This son of a bitch.

  Davy’s face tensed. He contained himself and spoke through his teeth. “Penelope’s outside waiting for me. We’re heading home soon.”

  “So soon?”

  “So soon.”

  “Not enjoying your evening?”

  “It’s getting late. We got to start sailing to . . . Hawaii in the morning. We need get going before things start to happen. Before the fireworks.”

  Solas had put the cigar back into his mouth, but he hadn’t puffed. He took it out. His eyebrows rose.

  “Hawaii?”

  Davy sighed. “Yeah. It’s Nam—” He stopped talking. He gulped and corrected himself: “It’s Penelope's dream to get away from this place for good. She’s sick of it. Can’t blame her. I don’t want to leave my father’s land behind, but he has no legacy for me to maintain, anyway. No lake anymore. It’s really time to let go and move on.”

  “Well, good for you,” Solas said. “I’m glad you won’t have to suffer from this drought any longer. Stay long enough you’ll end up like your father.” He chuckled and shoved the cigar inside the side of his mouth. What he did next made Davy burn inside: Solas took one of his crusty hands and flattened it on the table; he used two fingers from his other hand to simulate a man running in air, then falling, on the flattened hand, and . . . clap!

  “Like a pancake!”

  The drunkard laughed with such hysterics that he choked on his own spit. “Boy, that Vendic-Vadicata-nat-atore . . . he’s a pancake-maker!”

  “That he is, Martin. That he is.”

  Davy stared at Solas, and nothing could convince him to drop the glare. He imagined pulling out his gun from his pocket and shooting him straight in his arrogant mouth. But as he dragged his hand around his waist to feel the bulge, he felt nothing of usefulness—he had no gun. He remembered he had lost it. This felt unusual to him to have no gun on hand, given by his sudden reaction to search for one without a single thought. This feeling—an unquenched need to kill—was suffocating.

  Still, the fantasy sufficed, quenching his blood-lust for the moment, and he smiled. He imagined Solas dead for insulting his father more than any other man ever had.

  But Davy remembered: Solas would soon get his. The arrogant shit. Maybe he’d turn himself into a pancake real soon, he thought.

  Davy’s face vibrated; his teeth grinded. Solas was a lucky man, that Davy had no weapon. Lucky for this moment.

  Solas ceased laughter. “You all right there, boy?”

  Davy removed his glare and took an actual sip of wine this time. He slammed the glass down, unsettling it, spilling some onto the white tablecloth.

  Now he regained his love for blood. It splashed onto his hands and he licked it.

  “If you stay long enough, Solas, you may end up like a pancake yourself.”

  “Oh, is that right?” Solas said. He laughed with such arrogance—but Davy detected a hint of nervousness within it.

  “That’s right, old man.”

  “Ludicrous! I ain’t going anywhere with my water,” Solas said. “It’s staying here, and so am I. Forget about it.”

  “Why?”

  Solas slammed the table with his fist; the glasses jumped and splattered wine. He spat, “It’s my orchard. I grew everything myself. It’s my lake. I discovered it during the Water War. I cleaned it. It’s my property. I don’t need to leave. I don’t even need to shove it underground, in a godforsaken, suffocating aquifer. No one will force me. Not you, not that piece of shit dictator, no one.”

  “Vendicatore is watching you, Mr. Solas. What about Tidewater? You won’t even take precautions for that event?”

  Solas’ cigar fell out of his mouth, landing on his lap. He jumped from the burn; he brushed the ashes from his pants and picked it up from the ground. He sat back down and shoved the cigar back inside his mouth so quickly that he wanted to create the illusion that he hadn’t just embarrassed himself.

  “Say it again, I don’t hear so well—Tide-what?”

  “Tidewater. You never heard?”

  “Oh, I heard!” the drunkard said. “I heard it’s a great, old pancake-maker!”

  Davy focused on Solas’ face. “Mr. Solas—you’ve never heard of Tidewater? I can’t believe that someone of your status hasn’t heard of it. I’m surprised you’re not on top of it.”

  “I heard of it, sure,” Solas said. “But you think the garbage is real? It’s propaganda to scare me out of my property. Scare tactics up the ass. Vendicatore wants me to hand my water over willingly! He’s scared. He doesn’t want to face me. He doesn’t have the sack to stick his straw in my liquid gold.”

  Davy saw weakness in the old man. Solas had deluded himself to think Vendicatore was afraid of him, and not the other way around.

  “Well, if you’ve heard of Tidewater,” Davy said, “then I’m sure you also heard the other news.”

  “Other news?”

  Davy leaned into the table and smiled. “Vendicatore captured the leader of the Water-Thieves. The legendary Water Thief himself.”

  Davy swallowed after mumbling the moniker. Boy, did he hate it: Water Thief. Who even invented such a dreadful name? Davy was no thief, he thought. He was only taking back what belonged to his father; what was stolen from him.

  He hated the name. The person who propagated it was ill-informed. But, on the flip side, the name had its benefits. Davy would use the moniker to his advantage, here. The name had such great power. And it had mystery—the name was vague for a reason. Nobody (as far as Davy knew) knew the Water Thief’s identity; they just knew that there was a person ravaging and sucking South California dry. Whoever he was, he was a big deal, and number one on Vendicatore’s most wanted list.

  But if Vendicatore had caught the Water Thief, where now would Solas place on the governor’s list?

  The Water Thief’s pillaging freedom was Solas’ cushion.

  And now?

  Davy gave Solas a smirk. Solas’ eyes wandered. Revealing that Vendicatore captured the Water Thief did a number to the old man’s face.

  The script was working, Davy thought. Exactly how his father said it would. He laughed internally. Look at the old man’s face!

  Solas took a calm puff of his cigar and released the smoke from between his lips. “Did he, now?”

  “Yes. He detained the Water Thief last week.”

  “Now that’s certainly news to me.”

  “Really? It was news of the century. Everyone celebrated in the streets. I’m surprised you didn’t hear their roars from here.”

  “Me too. Tell me more.”

  Davy referred to the script in his mind. He spoke like a robot: “Vendicatore caught the Water Thief draining the palace swimming pool. Vendicatore interrogated him for days to find out the locations of his water storages. The bastard finally gave in. He led Vendicatore to all his underground reserves. He thought he’d get off free. But Vendicatore pumped up all the water, stored it in a giant tank, and drowned him in it. In public. I was there to watch it. Down in the city.”

  “Good!” Solas cried. His face glowed with r
elief. “So, if this Tidewater hoax was ever real, then it’s over! Vendicatore has all the water he could possibly need.”

  “There had to have been at least ten-thousand people—well, that’s pretty much everybody left alive—there to watch the execution of the great Water Thief.”

  “What a beautiful thing,” Solas said. “Time to plan for another party!”

  “You know, Mr. Solas, come to think of it . . . after Vendicatore drowned the Thief, everyone chanted something. It was hard to understand it, you know, because they could barely gather a breath, but I was able to hear something.” Davy rubbed his chin to think. “Yes. I’m sure of it. They chanted about you. They said, ‘So-las next, So-las next; kill Solas.’ And Vendicatore himself even joined in on the chant, enabling it.”

  Solas sat, quiet. His face no longer glowed. His eyes dizzied watching the dancers in front of him, allowing them to become distracted. “The Water-Thieves are done for, then,” he said. “Tidewater is not a real thing. Vendicatore’s got enough water now.”

  “My God, Mr. Solas . . .” Davy ran his hands through his hair.

  “What?”

  “You don’t understand Tidewater. Not one bit, do you?”

  “Apparently not.” His voice grew sharp and impatient.

  “Hunting down the Water-Thieves was a separate task. You think he’d stop there?” Davy laughed. “God no. He’s on to Tidewater, now. It’s very, very real, and your greatest threat. It’s water confiscation of all lawful water owners, to redistribute to the thirsty people.”

  “That’s what I heard,” Solas said. “Utter nonsense. A hoax! No man can confiscate water from everyone.”

  “Maybe not everyone. But from you, he can. You alone own most of the water left in this country. Tidewater is designed directly for Frank Solas.”

  “Sounds like crazy talk. If the Water-Thieves are all wrapped up, Vendicatore should have enough water to feed the mindless peasants for a while. He doesn't need me.”