Governor Vendicatore emerged onto the stage. He buttoned-up his over-sized suit jacket as he walked onto the stage. His people raised him with deafening applause.
With the smirk of the vinyl Solas flapping behind him, Vendicatore bowed to the crowd and raised his arms to the skies, absorbing the rays of the sun, and the energy of the Lord.
And in an instant, if he wasn’t God already, he was now, to these people.
Thunder sounded with each step he took.
He approached the lectern and fixed the microphone to his mouth. He accepted their cheers, drinking them in. He used his hands to simmer the crowd, and they calmed. Then, the light of the sun disappeared: a dark cloud appeared over it, and the people gasped as they saw it.
As Vendicatore uttered his first words, it poured rain. The crowd now saw his true powers. They bowed before him. They rose again and raised their glasses to the sky with their mouths wide open to catch if but one drop.
CHAPTER 16
The rain pelted Davy's back as he lied on his belly on a mountain top. A top of an old hiking trail. He lied beside a broken-down water fountain and a toppled trashcan. His head peeked underneath a rusted green bench, hidden in the shadow which it cast.
Frank Solas lied beside Davy. With his binoculars glued to his face, he watched Vendicatore on the stage at a distance, far below in the city. The rain, too, soaked his back. He hadn't noticed it, for his burning rage for Vendicatore distracted him; the falling water cooled him with a sizzle atop his head. (His wig flew off his head to the roar of the wind, its absence he also hadn't noticed.) He hadn't noticed anything, but Vendicatore on the stage below. The very pores of Vendicatore’s face, which he studied through the binoculars, needed his attention.
He murmured, “I hope that canvas of my beautiful face snaps and suffocates you, you son-of-a—”
Davy’s eyes widened with wonder at the rain. The rain not only sizzled on Solas’ head but on the hot sand in front of them. Davy heard the pitter-patter of it. He heard the slapping of the distant water tanks in the city that collected it. It was the most relaxing thing he’d heard for a long while, that sound of falling rain.
“What in the world?”
Davy looked up at the red sky, peeking around the bench. A single, though great in size, gray cloud hanged over. The source of the rain. It was like the Holy Grail. Large clouds were rare, in these days. And the breeding of rain was even rarer. Whenever people spotted a cloud, they fell to the ground in worship. The people attributed the arrival of a cloud to their loud and dry cries. But usually, it came only to mock them, for rarely did it give—it was usually only a passing cloud.
But this one delivered, even if it wouldn’t last for very long. And, oddly enough, it seemed to drape perfectly over Vendicatore on that stage, and everything within ten miles of his beating heart. It was as though placed there by man. Such odd timing—it arrived on schedule, in time for Vendicatore's speech, for the people to rejoice in its cover.
“It’s raining,” Davy said.
Solas laughed. He still studied Vendicatore. “Raining! As if. Tell me another joke, boy.”
For a second, the rain accelerated, fierce, pounding down. Solas was still unaware of its pelting and the sounds it made. Was his body numb, and his ears pierced off his head? Well, his eyes worked—the lenses of his binoculars got covered with droplets, and Vendicatore disappeared from his sight. Anxious, he swore and pulled the binoculars from his face. He saw the rain drip off from the bench, onto his bald head; he felt it at last. He slapped his head and screamed, “Where’d my hair go?” This, he first noticed. Then, he saw the phenomenon. Upon seeing the glistening drops of water, he marveled.
“What in the world? It’s raining!”
Rodney stood at a distance, eyeing the palace which stood near below them, down the steep, long slope. He now wore a black eyepatch on the eye which Davy battered earlier. He soaked in the rain, but stood, nonchalant, as though it was normal for him. It was as though he expected it to rain, with that unfazed demeanor of his . . .
Strange it was. Just who wouldn't marvel at rainfall? In these days? It was falling gold.
Rodney, yet unimpressed, used his own binoculars. With them, he turned his line of sight to the mountains straight across. From their point-of-view, there was a blob of tan, blending with the terrain. But it was Penelope, lying on her belly.
“This Penelope chick,” Rodney said, peeping at her with his binoculars. “She cute in person? She sure as hell looks hot from here.”
Davy pulled out a walkie-talkie from his pocket. He held a button and spoke into it: “Penelope?”
I’m here, David.
“Well, she sounds hot, that’s for sure,” Rodney said. He still watched her with his binoculars.
“See anything?”
Nope. Just rain. Everyone’s going crazy at the stage.
Indeed, there was an uproar below. Davy hadn’t noticed—the rain filled most of his attention.
He swiped Solas’ binoculars and wiped them with the sleeve of his shirt. He poked his eyes in and looked at the gathering at the stage. The people cheered in a thunder underneath the cloud cover. He saw them bounce together with ecstasy; they collected water with their glasses; they wrestled and brawled. They climbed atop one another for space in the sky for their catch; they smashed the glasses against one another’s head and tore one another’s eyes out. The guards aimed their rifles, pointing at them, yelling; they shot at the sky to deter them, and the bullets pierced the cloud. Then it rained harder, watering the chaos.
But Vendicatore hadn’t yet said a word to his people to calm them. Davy watched him: the old governor stood behind the lectern. A man held an umbrella over him, protecting him from the stuff of life. Davy saw the governor stand there, watching the savages go at it. Davy saw, for even but a second, a smirk underneath that umbrella crease on his face.
Rodney still focused on Penelope through his binoculars. “You wouldn’t mind if I asked her out for a glass of water, would you, Davy? I mean, you do got cuckoo girl at home.” He was talking to himself.
Solas swiped the binoculars back from Davy. He peeked at the chaos down at the stage. “God, look at those animals. Savages! A creation of Satan!”
“It goes deeper than Satan,” Rodney said. “Truth be told.”
“Tell me, Mr. Bight,” Solas said. “As a former right-hand man of Vendicatore, what are the odds it begins to rain when this devil speaks? Coincidence, I’m sure. After all, this must be the first recorded rainfall of this year.” He pointed at the great cloud above. “Look at that cloud and its placement. Such precision! Such timing! First the wind, and now this. What kind of technology is he really capable of using?”
“More than you can imagine, Mr. Solas,” Rodney said in a half-serious tone. “Oversized vacuum cleaners, wind-generating tech, cloud-formation tech, earthquake generators, recording devices that can detect the sound of a blink of an eye, mind control tech.” He chuckled. “Even hologram devices! You name it, he’s got it. They’ve got some serious technology developing up in North California. They say he communicates with aliens, who give him all this technology. I tell you: it's no joke.”
“Are you mocking me, Mr. Bight?”
“I would never dare, Mr. Solas.”
Davy rose. He turned and, from his altitude, tried to spot his crater through the layer of the smoke of the distant wildfires. He thought about Namiane. Was she awake to see the rain? It had been months since rain reached the airspace of the cottage to create a little mud slide in the crater. He loved the rain; it filled the aquifer beneath the crater, and even once stacked enough to squeeze a puddle up above the surface. But then the sun came back out and sucked it away.
Davy felt a sinking in his heart for not sharing this moment with Namiane. Feeling the falling rain together was always an intimate experience.
He detached his water bottle from his belt and popped it open. He held it out in hopes of catching the drops of the ongoing r
ain.
“Be careful, Davy,” Rodney said. “Or you’ll be put on the Hoarder list.”
Solas laughed like a madman. Davy glared at him.
“It’s no joke, Mr. Solas. Vendicatore has a Hoarder list. It’s a list of the most wanted. You should know that you’re number one on that list, by the way.”
“Oh, no, it’s not that. It’s that you assumed Davy wasn’t a Hoarder.”
Rodney gave Davy a look. “Davy is a Hoarder? He is a punk.”
“Why, he’s the Water Thief, you fat dolt.”
Davy sighed. Here we go again with that name.
And Solas had just exposed him. But would it matter? Not one bit, Davy thought. Solas was going to kill Rodney later, anyway, that the fat man wouldn’t have enough time to use that information, if he would plan to snitch. And Davy was planning on killing Solas.
Screw it, Davy thought. Just tell the whole world. After refilling the lake, he would be gone for Hawaii, anyway.
Rodney burst into laughter. He fell to the ground and rolled, almost falling down the slope. “Water Thief! Davy!” He laughed more. He rose, catching his breath, but he looked at Davy and laughed some more.
Solas looked surprised. “Oh?” He turned to Davy, said, “He doesn’t know?”—to which Davy shook his head.
“Vendicatore already captured the Water Thief. He’s dead. Don’t you guys pay any attention?”
Solas gave a curious look. “Hmph.”
Rodney laughed some more, but soon calmed. “Okay. Okay. I’m done.” He looked at Davy and flinched at his glare. “Uh-oh.” He covered his good eye with his hands. “Please, don’t hit me again!”
“Can we just get back to the job at hand?”
Rodney bowed to him. “Right-o, boss.” He quickly dug into his backpack and pulled out some papers. Judging by the dirtiness of them and how crumpled they were, they were the ones that flew away earlier, in the crater. And now they washed and waned in the rain.
Solas rose. He marched to Rodney and snagged the papers. He read the first page to himself. It had words written in handwriting matching that of a toddler, in giant letters. He skimmed through them.
Solas read them aloud, now. The first page, he read: “Enter the palace.” The second, he read, “Go to Vendicatore’s office.” The third: “Snag Tidewater.” The fourth: “Leave.”
Rodney brushed the dirt with his feet. “It’s a brilliant plan, really.”
“What in the hell is this?” Solas skimmed through the rest of the papers. On them were poorly drawn maps of the interior of the palace, with simple arrows for direction. He looked up from them and frowned at Rodney. “How pathetic is this?” Solas said. He, in a fit of rage, ripped them to shreds, and the wind carried the pieces away. “This is the work of a child! And you are the man to guide us through this operation? Absolute nimrod!”
“Rodney’s got the keys,” Davy said.
And when he said this, Rodney dug through his pocket for the ring of keys and jingled them. “You’re damn right,” he said.
“Keys!” Solas turned to Davy. “I want your men here at once. We are not prepared for this, in the least.”
Davy ignored Solas. He acted as if he had no idea what the old man was talking about.
Rodney turned to Solas. “Belittle me all you want, Mr. Solas. But it really is gonna be simple.” Rodney pointed at the gathering of people afar. “Look at the stage. All the guards are there. Every one of ‘em. There’s not a one in the palace. Believe me.”
“So you say,” Solas said.
“They are.” Rodney pointed to the tip of the palace, to a flat balcony overlooking all the city. “I’ll admit: there’s a couple of guards up there, like I was telling Davy last night, but they’re asleep this very moment. Look for yourself.”
Solas pointed his binoculars to the balcony. Two men slept in chairs.
“They’re absolutely useless,” Rodney went on. “Like I was saying to Davy last night. They’re drunks. Fools, all of ‘em. We can fire a tank and they won’t hear it.”
Davy looked at the palace. The walls were tall. He could only see a sliver of the grounds. But he managed to see a blinding glimmer of the turquoise swimming pool. The rain splashed against it, overflowing the marble pavement. Behind it was a tall, ornate red door.
“We’re going through that red door?” Davy said.
Rodney shook his keys again. “That’s right.”
Solas began to breathe hard. He clutched his chest. “And how do I know this isn’t a trap?”
“Would you like to stay back, Mr. Solas? Be my guest.”
“No! I need to see it firsthand.”
“Then shut your goddamn mouth, before I make Davy knock your eye out. I’m getting tired of your bitching.”
Solas gritted his teeth. He took a deep breath and calmed.
Ladies and gentlemen. . . thank you. . .
The hoarse voice echoed. The three men jerked their heads toward the stage. The crowd followed the chain-smoking voice with a loud cheer. The mountain vibrated beneath the three men’s feet, like the beginnings of a small earthquake.
The rain ceased as Vendicatore began to speak. The three men looked up.
“I told you! He controls the rain! That timing!”
As a response to the cloud fading away, the crowd jeered and screamed. And the vibration of the mountain doubled in intensity; the three men had to get down and hold onto the bench before sliding to their deaths.
Vendicatore’s amplified voice echoed through the mountains: Settle down, everyone, please. It will return, for today’s gift was merely a little taste of what’s to come.
And the crowd settled and cheered again, with a lightning of anticipation.
“Absolute monkeys!” Solas yelled. “Fools! Brainwashed, mind-controlled nimrods—”
Davy slapped him. “Shut up, old man. Do you them to hear us and get shot?”
Rodney chuckled at the slap. “Yeah. Quiet down, old man.”
For too long, God has punished us. But never-mind the shortcomings of God. For tonight, I am proud to announce the unleashing of my grand plan. The plan that will quench your thirst and cure your hunger and utterly destroy the plague of greed . . .
The crowd jeered at the last bit—and they followed it with, “Down with So-las, down with Sol-as. . .”
The chant delivered itself across the mountain and into Solas’ ears. He shook. Panting, he grabbed his pounding chest, once more, and eyed the three rifles on the ground by the trash can. He rushed to them and grabbed one, and wrapped it around his back. He ran to the edge of the mountain, eying the ambitious and narrow slope.
“Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus.” He said a silent prayer with a gesture, and began the climb down.
Tidewater shall unravel tonight! For it is time to turn the tide!
And in response to the long-anticipated announcement was the loudest of the cheers yet. The sand bounced.
Davy and Rodney saw that Solas had disappeared. They looked for him until they heard a grunting sound; they crawled to the edge of the peak and looked down. Solas was sliding down the slope, trying to take hold of the dead bushes, yanking them from the ground. But he failed and he slid on his belly, striking the bottom by the base of the palace walls.
Rodney chuckled. “What a piece of work,” he said. “More water, more problems, I guess. Look at this poor dude!”
“He’s got the right idea,” Davy said. “We gotta move.”
Davy ran to the other two rifles and grabbed them, handing one to Rodney. The rifles had straps. The two men strapped them around their backs.
Davy took his walkie-talkie. “Penelope. We’re heading down. Keep watch.”
He put it back in his pocket. He climbed, carefully, while Rodney kept an eye on the two snipers sleeping atop the palace.
Davy slid. He grabbed a hold of the sharp weeds and bushes, but they did not hold his weight and flung dirt. But he found a stop to take a drink of water. Bugs swarmed him and bit his sweaty ar
ms, so he hurried, and slipped again, until sliding to the bottom, covered in dirt, coughing, spitting. When he reached the bottom, Rodney went, going through a familiar experience. He soon met the other two men, who leaned against the palace walls to catch a breather.
Rodney took his backpack and unzipped it. He pulled out a grapple. He stepped back, swung the grapple, and hurled it over the wall, pulling it tight in place. “Up we go. Who’s first?”
“That would be you,” Davy said.
“Stop wasting time!” Solas yelled. He took the grapple and climbed up the wall. At the top, he laid himself flat and peeked over to see the grounds.
Rodney followed him and climbed, then Davy. They crouched on the top of the wall. Davy peeked over, too, scanning the pool area, and saw that there was not a single guard in sight. He considered that a horde of them might await him in the bushes. And the second Davy touched down on the squishy grass of the grounds, they’d kill him. But he considered the option of retreat to be a much worse fate—his father would condemn him. He looked at Rodney’s smiling face. His father trusted Rodney. So, he had to as well, for now, until he could put a bullet through his head.
He grabbed the grapple and reeled in the rope, and snug it on the opposite end of the wall; he tossed the rope onto the green grass of the palace grounds below. And he climbed down. He fell onto the wet grass; his rear soaked from it, and the rest of his pants.
It was a different point-of-view than that of his when he entered the grounds earlier that day. This time, he felt the grass, as he ran his hands through. His hands lathered with water from the touch—which came from either the recent rain or the palace’s landscapers, or both—and he rubbed his face with it. It cooled his body. He let out a deep breath.
He examined the pool area. The water of the swimming pool sparkled in the corner of his eye, glistening with the gold of the trim of it. And he smelled the chlorine of it. It made Davy's face shrivel in rage. Chlorine in water was one offense. But was it his lake, tainted with chemicals, that Vendicatore swam in every day?
The Water Thief Page 16