The Water Thief

by A M Caturello

  The Water-Thieves were in hysterics in the desert. Davy, Penelope, and Rodney walked through the darkness and met with them.

  They cried to Davy. They questioned what had just happened.

  But Davy wouldn’t tell them the truth. Why would he? Their whole lives were a lie, too. They never knew that the group's founding was always—only, its sole purpose—meant to restore a lake in the middle of nowhere, in the hills. For all this time, they thought it was for power and riches, and survival; not to bring a “spirit” back to life with a refilled lake. Only Penelope knew of this.

  They were pawns and slaves of Davy Bay, and Davy Bay was a pawn and slave of Governor Vendicatore. Vendicatore, the ultimate puppeteer.

  Davy told them, “Vendicatore . . . Vendicatore.” That was all; except, also, he asked for a ride home, at once.

  Rafael pointed his hysterical finger at Rodney.

  “You!”

  The other thieves, following his lead, looked at the fat man with hate. Some readied their rifles.

  “Who are you?”

  Rodney raised his hands. “Damn it! My arms are getting sore holding them up all the time because of all you lunatics.”

  “Save your energy,” Davy ordered his squad.

  They lowered their rifles.

  “Boss, what will we do?”

  “Diego is dead—”

  “We oughta go after Vendicatore!”

  Davy held his head in his hands. What a headache. He wanted to see Namiane. That was all he wanted.

  “Nothing,” Davy said. “We do nothing.”

  “You’re abandoning us, boss? What the hell happened up there?”

  Davy pushed Rodney to the young men. “Want to go after Vendicatore? Meet your new leader. I’m retired.”

  Davy opened the backseat door of the truck as they all watched him with bewilderment. He went in with Penelope. Before one of the thieves could say something else, he shut the door on them.

  The Thieves stood, defeated, in silence. Rafael scanned Rodney’s smiley face and sighed. “Pile in, boys.”

  The Thieves protested, but Rafael shut them up. And the defeated young men climbed over the tailgate of the pickup truck and hopped in.

  Rafael stared at Rodney. “Who are you?”

  “Former palace guard. Who are you, besides some punk?”

  “A thief whose livelihood has evaporated in one night.”

  Rodney chuckled. “Doesn't feel so good, does it?”

  “We’ll talk.”

  Davy rolled down his window. “You need a ride, Rodney?”

  “I got my car. But I do need a place to live now, if you’re offering.”

  “Meet me back at my place tomorrow morning at sunrise. You can have my cottage. Get there before I leave the country.”

  “Your cottage is bugged.”

  “Take it or leave it.”

  “Okay. I’ll take it. I’ll kill the bugs then.”

  Rafael entered the driver’s seat. The truck’s engine roared. It drove off, kicking sand. And Rodney went to find where he parked his car in the desert.

  In the truck, all were quiet. Penelope, though, kept breaking the silence. She needed answers and assurances; her world crumbled around her. Her fate would be awash with uncertainties. She had only her dying mother in her little cottage; Davy gave her purpose.

  The flowers in Davy’s lap made her choke on air enough. They weren’t for her, she knew. She knew Davy was about to abandon her for good. He had already made his mind up. She saw a twinkle in his eyes.

  She was right: Davy saw Hawaii on the horizon. It was a holy place, for sure, if the thousands of Namiane’s paintings gave it justice. There, he thought, he could make amends for his sins, and flush himself of the guilt of all the blood he had spilled over the past two years.

  Now he began to fantasize about it. The volcanoes, the over-abundant green vegetation, the waterfalls. He worried he might turn blind from all the shimmery gold. All the things he had heard about the place—were they true? Was it truly a paradise? Were Namiane’s visions and iridescent paintings of the place an accurate representation? Well, he supposed anywhere else was a paradise—all he knew was the hellscape of South California.

  He began to fantasize not about sailing with his “father” in a lake of lies but about hiking up a mountain with Namiane. Watching those fancy dancers with fire he had heard about. Cliff-diving. Learning to surf? Fun.

  A million excited thoughts flowed through Davy’s mind at once. He felt . . . relieved. It was all over. Now, his mouth salivated at the thought of living a normal life. The normal life Namiane had always begged for. There, they could raise a family, and be happy.

  He could not wait to arrive home and tell Namiane. His only fear was that she could die of shock from such excitement of the news she had waited forever to hear.

  But this time, it would not be a false promise to entertain her. This time he would mean it.

  Because he loved her so—and now he realized what, truly, an angel she was. He realized she was right all along. She called his “father” a demon every single day. He blamed her for faking cries and acting. He berated her, calling her a witch, a manipulator, for trying to get him to abandon whom he thought was his father.

  She had such great intuition. He should have listened to her.

  And Davy’s face dropped into his hands. My God! How insufferable have I been!

  All this time he thought the “ghost” was his guiding spirit, his God, and Namiane was the Devil.

  But it was the complete reverse. He realized that Namiane was his guiding spirit all along. And he couldn’t wait to feel the warmth of her embrace on this cold South California night. He would make her plummet with overpowering love; love as deep as the crater.

  CHAPTER 20

  “Namiane! Namiane! I have great news!”

  Davy continued to call her name as he ran across the front and entered the cottage. Inside, he called again.

  He stopped as the door shut behind him. What was he thinking? It was still dark out; an hour before dawn. She was asleep! Let the angel sleep, he thought. She would need the full rest to prepare herself for the news.

  But as Davy walked through the cottage, he discovered that the bedroom door was open. He saw the toppled chair in the hallway.

  He panicked.

  He called her name again, down the hall; there was no response.

  He saw a small hole in the hallway wall (from when Namiane hit it with her head) across the bedroom door. In the bedroom, the water in the bottle was still untouched on the nightstand as it vibrated to the energy waves of his panic.

  The posy in his hands, Davy scurried and searched all through the house for Namiane, but he couldn't find her.

  He went outside. He couldn't spot her anywhere in the orange bleakness of the five-a.m. air.

  His heart plummeted. He froze in place; he thought the worse. Before he tilted his head to the crater, he called her name, one last time.

  “Baby?”

  Davy heard the soft voice. It was faint and weak, and raspy.

  He looked around, but couldn’t find her. But then he saw her on the dock, head turned, smiling at him. On the end, sitting. Like he always used to.

  “Nam?”

  And he got the flashbacks: there was someone on the cliff across the reservoir. Davy was on the bobbing The Spirit of the Lake as he identified the person through his monocular. It was Namiane, naked, with a brick tied to her foot . . .

  Why was she at the end of the dock? She’d never done such a thing before.

  No matter; Davy was so excited and wanted to yell out “we’re going to Hawaii.” But he didn’t want her heart to excite and beat so hard that it’d knock her off the dock. He'd get a firm hold of her first.

  As Davy walked across the dead grass, she carefully pushed up against the wood and raised herself off the edge. She rose with her wobbly knees and faced him.

  “You were gone all night. I hadn’t slept. I thought
Vendicatore had killed you. Oh, thank God!”

  Davy carefully walked onto the dock to a creak of the wood. “Nam, what are you doing?”

  “I was saying a prayer, that you would come back.”

  He met her with a genuine smile. He gave her the flowers; shock struck her face. He had never given her anything, except for all that blood-stained water she never wanted to drink.

  He gave her a big hug, then a kiss on the lips. “I’m here, love. I'm back.”

  She gasped as she saw his wounded forearm wrapped in a bandage. “Davy! Your arm!”

  “It’s nothing.” He tugged at her hand and faced the backyard. “Come on. We’re going to Hawaii.”

  Namiane’s face glowed. But she knew better. Her face turned back to normal. “Davy . . . really?”

  “Really. Let's get packing.”

  Her face filled with skepticism. “Really-really? Or are you lying to me again?”

  “Really-really-really. Let’s go.” He was half-facing the cottage, tugging her arm across the dock with eagerness.

  Her face melted with happiness. She ran into Davy and hugged him. “Baby!”

  Davy smiled. The pain of the truth Rodney spilled a few hours ago had faded; in truth, a million-pound weight fell off from his back. He could live a normal life now with the one he truly loved, Namiane . . .

  “We’ll grab some vegetables and fruits, some water, pack up our clothes, drive to the marina and take a boat for ourselves. If we hurry, we can be there within a month.”

  Namiane beamed. Her dry eyes twinkled. She couldn’t believe her ears. But as she walked with him off the dock back to the cottage, she turned to the crater.

  “But what happened? Aren’t you going to refill the lake first? You must have succeeded, right?”

  Davy hesitated. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “What? Did you fail to steal Tidewater?”

  “No. We had Tidewater.”

  “Then what happened? Solas caught you?”

  “No.”

  Namiane bit her dry upper-lip.

  “You were right, Nam. My father was a demon. All along. I’m sorry for ignoring you.”

  “What? How?”

  Davy revisited it. He twisted his jaw.

  “I found out my father was Vendicatore. All this time. He manipulated me this whole damn time. But it's nothing. Come on.”

  Namiane detached her hand from his. She choked on air with a gasp.

  She backed up, without watching her steps, and entered back onto the dock.

  “Nam?”

  “Then you finally know the truth,” she said, breathlessly. She wheezed, “You know . . . you know . . .”

  Davy’s heart dropped—but he didn’t know why. He couldn’t stomach another sudden shock. What could possibly be next? He breathed hard, too, as he watched the horror on her face.

  “You know I killed your father.”

  This again. But this time, she said it while standing a small slip from death.

  Davy tensed, eyes widened. He reached his hand out.

  He spoke with a soft and calm tone: “It wasn’t you, Nam. I don’t blame you at all. I’ve told you a million times. Please, come back—”

  “It was ME!”

  Davy had no words. That screech of her voice got him good.

  “I can’t hold it any longer. I can’t!”

  “Hold what?”

  Namiane hesitated. She looked down. Her eyes rolled over the dock to see the floor.

  “Hold what, Namiane?”

  Namiane let out a deep breath. She shook her head and smiled at Davy.

  “Your father didn’t kill himself, Davy.” She pointed over the dock. “I pushed him off. When you left for the marina two years ago, I pushed him!”

  Davy’s face had such a lack of emotion. It murdered his heart, but he appeared unaffected. He lacked the physical strength to break down anymore.

  “Vendicatore made me do it. He told me if I did, you’ll want to leave for Hawaii because your father wouldn’t be able to stop us, since he'd be dead . . . but it was all a sick lie. He planted the note on his corpse, and then he blackmailed me . . . and that is why I’ve gone mad, because I’ve watched you kill thousands of people, and I couldn’t say a word. All I could do was ask for Hawaii like a crazy, crazy girl.” She caught her breath after speaking so quickly. She broke down, whimpering without tears. “I thought, maybe I still could’ve convinced you, and get out of this mess, with you.”

  At last, an actual tear.

  “Oh, Hawaii . . . I just wanted a way out!”

  She paused. “Imagine, Davy. For two years I watched you take orders from your father, who was actually Vendicatore . . . and I couldn’t tell you the truth. It was stifling, more than the desert air. Now I see that I am the demon, for not telling you anything. It’s all my fault, Davy. I made you the bloodthirsty monster you are now.”

  She backed away, toward the crater. She entered back onto the dock. Then, she turned to the crater and screamed: “You hear that, Vendicatore? I told him! But you can’t kill me. Because . . .”

  She walked further along the dock, backwards. The dock creaked with her steps. They grew louder the farther she got.

  Davy, frozen in place, was so lost and outside of his body, that he thought he was moving to stop her.

  She managed to stop on her own. She turned to see that she was now at the end of the dock.

  Her heels hanged over the edge.

  She turned her head to Davy.

  “I’m sorry, Davy. I’m sorry. I love you, so much.”

  Davy watched her hold the yellow posy of flowers to her chest. He watched her eyes close. He saw her mouth a prayer. And he watched her fall back . . .

  Then he leaped across the dock—

  There was the loud thump down below, and his head hanged over the edge of the dock to see the billowing of dust.

  It was now sunset, and Davy had lied on the crater floor by Namiane’s side since sunrise, nearby his father's gravestone. He leaned against one of the dock’s legs. Her head rested on his thigh. The yellow flowers lied on her chest. They were withered from the dry air, but unharmed, not crushed from the fall.

  Davy’s eyes never once left her face. He looked at it as if he’d fallen in love all over again. So endearingly. He stroked her cheek with his fingers, wiping the sand off. He couldn’t think of a more beautiful specimen.

  He held a hand to her cracked skull which leaked blood. Her blood was hotter than the sun-absorbed sand of the crater floor against his calves. But he loved the warmth of her touch.

  “I can’t believe I ever forgot how beautiful you are. I can’t believe it. But from now on I’ll tell you that you’re beautiful every morning, at the crack of dawn of the Hawaiian sunrise, the second my eyes open by your side.” He stroked her face tenderly. “We’ll leave in a few hours, okay, Nam? We’ll leave at night, so we can take a boat while everyone’s asleep.”

  Rodney Bight had come earlier. But he couldn't find Davy. So, he barged into the cottage and fell asleep in his bed.

  His calling of Davy's name when he arrived was the only disturbance the couple had had. Davy had ignored it, keeping his eyes on Namiane's beautiful face.

  But right now, there was another disturbance. A faint honking sounded above—that from a car.

  Davy sighed at it. He looked up at the surface, at the rattling dock.

  “What is it now, Nam?”

  The honking persisted. It went on for the entire time it took the sun to disappear behind the mountains, as it ushered in darkness. Then it ended, and there was only the whistle of the wind.

  “Someone had to disturb our romantic day,” Davy said. He was now whispering. “Who do you think it is, Nam?”

  The honking sounded again.

  Davy, growing impatient, shook his head. “I’m through with it all! Go away!”

  But the honking doubled in frequency.

  Davy turned angry. He looked down at Namiane. “I have to te
ll someone to go away. I’ll be right back, okay? I’ll be right back. I promise. Then we’ll sit here a little longer, and leave for Hawaii. I really mean it this time.” He laid a kiss on her bloody forehead, transferring her blood to his lips and cheeks. “I’ll be right back, love. Stay right here. Sleep. You're so very tired, I think.”

  He removed his hand from the crack on her head. He pushed sand together and created a pillow, and laid her head gently onto it.

  He got up. He headed for the steps of the crater and climbed them to the surface.

  The beeps continued. They were much louder on the surface; Davy had to cover his ears. He moved along the crunchy grass and rounded the cottage.

  And the beeping ended. Parked on the street, Davy saw a black state car, like those of the palace; it spun a whirl of dust as it sped off.

  The mailbox was open. The lid flapped with the wind.

  Davy approached it. He peeked inside and found a letter. He took it. It was blank—no name, no return address. He sliced it open with a sharp nail and yanked out a folded piece of paper.

  He flapped it open and held it steady in the wind as Namiane’s blood painted over it with his fingerprints. He squinted through the growing darkness to make out the words:

  Dear Davy,

  It’s your father . . .

  Ha!

  Come, meet me at the palace. We haven’t much time.

  We’ll take a trip to North California at once.

  We can begin our new lives there, drowning in our new-found wealth, together.

  I will wait for you, my son.

  There was a smiley face at the end. And a heart. Davy noticed that this style of handwriting was familiar. Soon enough, he realized it was the same penmanship used on the “suicide” letter that was planted on his father’s dead body. That blood-soaked letter which Davy treated as his Holy Bible.

  That bloody Vendicatore.

  There was more:

  P.S.

  Thanks for killing thousands so I didn't have to. It certainly put ease on my conscience!

  P.S.S.

  Thanks for killing Solas' men for me. What a steal!

  Davy heard a faint laugh rise from the paper and the dried red ink. It was the hoarse laugh of the man who wrote the letter. It was as if he laughed directly into the envelope and sealed it in there.