The Water Thief

by A M Caturello

  “THE NEW AMERICA, AFTER GOD’S JUDGEMENT” was the title.

  The Central River flowed through the east side of Texas all the way north to fuse with the Great Lakes; the west coast still belonged to California. But a crumbled California. California, which was now labeled as two entities: North California and South California. North California was attached to New America, to Nevada and Oregon. But South California was a small island, lost in the Pacific Ocean, a distance from North California measured by the width of the California Sea.

  On the map of New America, there was only one thing of interest for Governor Vendicatore—his eyes could not resist the draw of North California on the left.

  He touched the map with his fingers, the orange figure of North California, and massaged it.

  Vendicatore focused back out the window and took another sip of water. He opened the window a crack to hear the music of the screams of his people, fused with the wind. And he laughed; the wind carried his laugh down to them, but their ears were not opened to hear.

  Their ears only heard a motor as they turned their heads.

  There was a sighting of the black state car up ahead. It drove up the hills. All the rowdy people caught the sound of the motor. They gravitated toward it.

  Vendicatore watched. He bit his crusty lip as the car weaved its way through the crowd. He saw it drive up the winding, uphill road toward the gates.

  The guards of the gates pushed the people back, and cleared the road, and shot those who refused to move out of the way.

  A man jumped on the windshield of the state car and slapped it with his hands. Vendicatore could hear him, faintly, call his name.

  But the man was likely disappointed to see Davy and Namiane in the car, and not Vendicatore, before getting shot. He slid off the hood, leaving a stream of blood on the windshield.

  The guards rushed to open the gates; the car bolted through, and the guards pushed the gates close them before anyone could pass through.

  Vendicatore walked over to another window to get a clearer view of the car. The car parked in the courtyard, and the driver exited to open the back doors; Davy and Namiane exited.

  Vendicatore smiled at him. He smiled at Namiane, too, until Davy, with a glare, looked up, and returned the look.

  CHAPTER 13

  Davy saw Vendicatore watching him from the tall window above. A staring match ensued. After a moment, Vendicatore gave, and turned away; he whipped out red curtains to cover the window.

  The driver motioned for the couple to come along with him, but Davy looked at Namiane, who trembled.

  “Everything okay, Nam?”

  She had whimpered and shivered since that man got shot on the windshield of the car. She focused on her breathing. The clamor of the people outside kept her uneasy.

  “Yes.” She took a deep breath. “Let’s just go.”

  The driver stood by doors in a small portico, motioning for the couple to come. “Please, come quickly! The governor is very busy.”

  Davy and Namiane held hands and walked through the palace grounds. Nerves prevented them from noticing the great landscape they had entered. They didn’t realize it, but they were in a whole new dimension. The ecotone between the grounds of the palace and the rest of the city was greater than the difference between black and white. The palace world was a tropical rainforest. And all that surrounded it, a desert. Only the concrete walls with a width of a foot separated the two environments from cross-contaminating. Except, of course, the wind—but this was one-sided. The wind managed to carry sand to invade the palace grounds. But there were a handful of landscapers who picked up all the pieces of sand and threw them over the walls to maintain its green luster. The wind blew smoke inside. But to answer the forcefield question: there was a large fan atop the palace, which blew away all the smoke.

  A large fan—was the crazy and old Frank Solas onto something?

  Within the palace walls, there was grass—green grass. Always was it trimmed and moist. Trimmed bushes encompassed. There were hedges, the walls of an endless maze with a tall, pointed gazebo in the center. There were tall daisies and sunflowers all around the base of the palace. The red mulch gave the place its warm aroma. Everything glowed. Birds chirped and washed in the several bird baths about. There were butterflies flying, and chipmunks running into the bushes. The sounds of splashing were the only sounds—besides the singing birds—and the screams of the people from outside couldn't even begin to drown them out.

  Davy spotted an odd bow of red, yellow, green, and blue formed in the cascading sprinklers over the grass. It mesmerized him.

  Namiane too looked at the phenomenon within the sprinklers. She jerked her head away, for the outpouring of water startled her.

  “It’s a rainbow. I’ve seen it in our books. There’s a lot of them in Hawaii—”

  A rainbow, Davy thought. When it rained, they would sometimes appear; but Davy had not seen one in years. But there it was, in Vendicatore’s oasis, the iridescent facade.

  As they walked to the door which the driver held open, Davy saw a giant garage attached to the palace to the side. It shadowed over them. He wondered what could be inside, besides a monster truck.

  Then Davy heard the vacuum sounds from that traumatic day, and his eyes widened. The monstrous water-vacuum he saw suck away his father’s lake away had to be in there.

  “Please, come along.”

  The couple reached the door and entered as the driver held it open.

  Namiane froze immediately. The carpet on which she laid her feet was a wine red; the walls, a light red. Red, everything. She grew dizzy. Davy helped her stay upright.

  The driver, ahead of them, saw that he lost the couple again, and turned around.

  “Do you need water, ma’am?” “No,” Davy said, answering for her. “She’s fine.” He dug through his pocket and pulled out the waterskin and offered it to her.

  “No,” Namiane said.

  “I assure you our water is clean,” the driver said.

  Davy ignored him. He kept the skin to her face. “Nam, it’s been almost two days without drinking. Please.”

  “I don’t want any. I’m fine.” She focused on her breathing. She continued to walk, hand on the wall for balance; sweat from her clammy hands painted over it.

  Passing underneath a red marble archway, they entered the foyer. It was a grand circle. Six tall and wide pillars, a crimson red, held the weight of the round ceiling. Six chandeliers draped above a pair of symmetrical wine-carpeted staircases. The staircases each had, it seemed, a thousand steps. Candlesticks hanged on the walls, two by each door; there were a variety of paintings of the governor—some only of his profile, and some of his entire figure—whose frames were of glimmering gold; busts of his face sat on opulent mahogany tables trimmed with red marble. Upstairs, on the balcony, lotuses, lilies, and daisies draped all the way to the floor in a kaleidoscope of colors.

  And in the center of it all, a large, round fountain cascaded as the water splashed to create a calming ambiance.

  Davy’s eyes twinkled at the fountain. The bastard governor still has my father’s lake.

  He no longer had a doubt. He now knew that the governor was an undeniable water thief, himself. And his supporters were misled to believe he was a god. A true manipulator. Yet this excited Davy—his father's original lake did live. Somewhere.

  The driver led them to a hidden staircase around a corner. On the wall before the first step was a political map consisting only of North California, painted a green. Davy didn't notice it as he passed by. Namiane noticed it, but she bit her lips, and carried on up the stairs, keeping her balance with the wall and Davy’s hand.

  They climbed and climbed, up three flights of stairs. At the top, they entered a hallway. The hallway was less prosperous than the foyer. It had only paintings of barren lands hanging on the walls, a bench, and a narrow table.

  The driver led them to the very end of it. The closer they got, for some reason, the hotter D
avy felt. He thought it was from climbing higher in the palace, the heat rising with him. Sweat had already festered on his face all day, but it now dripped faster. His heart beats accelerated, and he took a deep breath: now he stood before the red door of Vendicatore’s office.

  The driver passed the couple onto the guard of Vendicatore’s door. The driver bowed to them, wished them a pleasant stay, and left for the staircase.

  The guard opened the door for Davy to enter. He went, holding Namiane’s hand. But the guard pushed her back, and Davy felt a tug; her fingers untied from his.

  “The governor wishes to only see Mr. Bay at this time, ma’am.”

  Davy turned around in time to see the door close on her wide eyes to a clap.

  “Finally.”

  Davy jerked his head. There was Vendicatore, standing by the window, a half-empty glass of water glued to his hand. Davy saw the arrogance: the governor wore damp trunks with a towel wrapped around his head. Water rolled down his inner thighs and dripped from his knees into the wine-red carpet. He was shirtless and barefoot, fresh out of a damn swimming pool!

  “Thirsty, son?”

  Davy shook his head. “No.”

  Vendicatore went behind his desk and poured a fresh glass of water from a pitcher with a filter. “I see you’re sweating. I’m sorry for the heat. I like to keep it hot up here. I try to feel the pain you all feel. Dehydration, and all that, and hotness. I know it feels like an oven in here.” He took the glass and offered it to Davy, over the table. “But you must be accustomed to such extreme heat, anyway.”

  Davy allowed the glass to hang in the air in Vendicatore’s hand. “I already told you. I don’t want a drink.”

  Vendicatore reeled the glass back and put it on the desk. “Oh, you did? My apologies. But how strange! That’s the first time someone has rejected a glass of water from me.”

  “You’ve offered someone a glass of water before?”

  Vendicatore chuckled. “Good one, son. Come on. Take it.”

  “Fine.”

  “Now that’s the correct answer. There are thousands who’d kill for such an offer.”

  Vendicatore slid Davy’s glass across the table, by the stack of papers—

  “Oh!” He took the papers and put them inside a desk drawer. He slammed the drawer shut. “You mustn’t be seeing that. I haven’t even announced it to the public yet.”

  Davy replayed what just happened in his mind.

  A thick stack of papers. Red ink. Desk drawer. Vendicatore said Davy must not see it.

  Drawer, drawer, drawer . . .

  Vendicatore, giving a nervous chuckle, pushed the glass to the edge of the desk in front of Davy. “Here. Just drink. I beg of you.”

  Davy looked at the glass. He studied it as the water shook, unsettled from Vendicatore’s handling of it.

  “It’s clean. I assure you.”

  “I’m sure it is, Governor.”

  Vendicatore tapped at the lid of the pitcher—a small green light blinked. “It’s a damn good water filter. It cleans out all the . . . well, the pesky blood.”

  Davy stared at the glass of water before him. With how hot and sweaty he was, it sure looked good. It sparkled with the sunlight. Lustrous. It made his mouth water. But he resisted the urge—he didn’t trust it was safe to drink. He looked away from it and at Vendicatore.

  “You ought to drink, Mr. Bay. You look a little weaker than when I last saw you.”

  “That’s what happens when your water supply is sucked away by thieves.”

  Vendicatore frowned. “My God, son. Don’t tell me the Water Thief got to you, too?”

  Oh, how Davy hated the moniker.

  “You know who I’m talking about.”

  “Well, it’s a legitimate concern. Are you the only person in the entire country to not become a victim of the Water-Thieves, led by a bloodthirsty demon? How strange, indeed.”

  Davy smiled at him. “Me and you, both, I suppose.” He took a hold of the glass of water with his thumb and index finger and rotated it along the surface of the desk.

  “Nonsense. We’ve all felt the barrens of the onslaught of the Water-Thieves. I share the struggle with the people, after all,” Vendicatore said, as the swimming pool water dripped off from his chin. “But, if you really think about it, Mr. Bay—‘thief’ is all about point-of-view. The first thief is the drought, itself. The second thief is the drought’s natural creation: a person who steals water. The third thief is greed. Pure greed. Greed so strong that a thief thieves, then, not out of necessity, but out of pure blood-lust, that they’d steal to become wealthy, while the rest of the land thirsts.”

  Davy squinted at Vendicatore in confusion. What the hell was this old man rambling about?

  And as Davy looked at Vendicatore, water dripping down his cheeks—talk about such arrogance!—he wondered why his father had never spoken ill of him before.

  Him, Vendicatore, the true Water Thief, black eyes dilating like he’s on drugs, who led to his father’s demise. It was apparent that Vendicatore had a great stash of water of his own—he was not a man of the people like he always claimed. A true thief of the people. He was worse than Davy—he was a thief and a skilled deceiver.

  Why hadn’t his father taken notice? Surely, this man still had his father’s lake, on top of a thousand other lakes!

  Davy watched the dripping water until another drop dangled off Vendicatore’s chin. It soon freed and struck the table. He watched it as though it played in front of him in slow motion; it sprinkled like a geyser. Davy leaned in a bit and studied it up-close.

  Vendicatore smiled at him. With his hand he rubbed the water against the surface of the desk, spreading it, until it faded, and polished the smooth mahogany.

  “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “Doubt it.”

  “It’s not from the water of your lake, I can assure you.”

  Davy flinched. He leaned back and crossed his arms. Well, well. It seemed Vendicatore did have such alien technology as Frank Solas’ had claimed. The governor could read Davy’s mind!

  “Please, do assure me this water is not from my father’s lake,” Davy said. “Because I don’t believe you.”

  Vendicatore took a deep breath. “Well, that’s why I asked you out here, Mr. Bay.”

  “You can call me David.”

  “David? Last I recall you preferred Davy.”

  “You can call me David. You’re not my father.”

  Vendicatore smirked. “David. Of course. Yes; no, I'm not your father.” He chuckled. “What a funny idea: me, your father! Wouldn’t that be odd? Anyways. Your last letter. That’s why I called you here. I am cutting it close on time, as my country is waiting for me to speak, so I’ll try to get to the point.” Davy leaned closer to listen. “Since it is not obvious to you—as it should be—allow me to tell you in person, and in plain English: tapping your father’s lake was essential to combating this drought. I did what had to be done. You may not like it, nor your father, but it had to be done. Nobody stole your father’s lake except for his greed. His greed gave him the expectation that he should hoard an entire lake, to begin with.”

  “You dishonored your agreement. My father could have given you nothing at all like Frank Solas has, but he compromised with you. And you betrayed him. You took advantage of my father’s kindness.”

  “Never-mind it.”

  “What?”

  “Your father was a greedy pig. He hoarded an entire lake. I don’t care how little he donated. I’m sure he only did it to help him sleep at night.”

  Davy could not believe his bleeding ears.

  “Frankly, I could care less about his death. That’s why I called you here. You write to me like a maniac. How do you still have hands, the way you push that pencil! You really think I’d ever give a shit about your father’s death?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What is one death?” Vendicatore said, raising his voice. “What is one death, son, when a lake has the
capacity to salvage the lives of thousands? And you write to me with such greed-filled nonsense!”

  “I still saw dead people on the street. They died faster once you took it. Do you hear me? They died faster!”

  “Nonsense. You were looking for dead people, so you saw it. Believe it or not, your father’s lake prolonged deaths. People still died, indeed, as the drought was and is too great, but they had a greater chance to live, with that great lake in my possession.”

  Silence swept through. The tension in the room made the water in the glass bounce.

  “I’m sorry, son.”

  “Son?” Davy said. He made the word sound like an obscenity. He finally noticed the governor had been calling him that since he arrived. “You can stop calling me ‘son.’”

  Vendicatore snickered. “Of course, Davy.”

  “Where is my father’s lake?” His voice cracked at the subject.

  “I just told you.”

  “I want a real answer.”

  Vendicatore pointed at one window across the room. “Out there.”

  “In the massive swimming pool that you just came from?” Davy said. “Is that what you mean?”

  “Negative. It’s in the bladders of those folks outside, ready to be pissed out. Then you may collect it back. Then you'll truly have a lake of gold!”

  Oh, the anger in Davy. His clenched his teeth and exercised his jaw. He wanted to rise and punch the stupid smirk off Vendicatore’s face. He rose, but resisted the punch, loosening his fist.

  “Oh, Lord, the greed in you is great, David Bay. Like it was in your father. Even greater, I sense. Your blind flood of desire—I will ask you to dry it away. At once. Your type of mindset has killed millions. Your bloodstain of greed . . .remove it. You don’t, under any circumstance, need an entire lake for yourself.”

  Davy turned around. He wiped the sweat from his face.

  “Do you hear me, boy? You don’t need a lake for yourself!”

  “I hear you, Governor.”

  “And don’t you think Frank Solas won’t have what’s coming to him. I am not favoring any Hoarder. He has killed thousands on his own, just by hoarding that reservoir he stole.”