The Water Thief Read online

  Why do you insult me? I already told you what to do. I ALREADY TOLD YOU!

  The roar of that last bit was the sound of a nearby strike of lightning. The sand on the boat’s deck bounced to it. For a second, a biting coldness swept through. Goosebumps festered all over Davy’s body.

  “No!”

  “Quiet, Nam—”

  “Don’t listen to him, Davy! He’s not your father!”

  “Dad, she doesn’t mean that. Please—”

  Ignore her. You will go to the desert. You will meet Frank Solas at his party, in his oasis, and do the heist.

  “Yes. O-of course, Dad.”

  Succeed. Then you can finally leave me in peace.

  “I-I will. Okay. Okay, Dad.” He twisted in a circle to find his father, the green blur of his figure, but he couldn’t spot him. He waited to hear more of his father’s voice, but nothing new came after the final echo faded out of the crater.

  Davy collapsed to his knees against the cushion of sand. His heart pounded out of his jacket. He angered his father—what had he done wrong?

  He had racing thoughts, in the middle of a hurricane of sand. Namiane had made his father angry at him.

  Davy slapped his forehead. Fool! How could he almost allow her to convince him to leave? He was stronger than that. She was a bloody actress!

  Namiane was on the verge of a whimper. She looked up at the red sky. She clasped her hands together in a desperate prayer:

  “Save us from this demon, please . . .”

  When the wind calmed, Davy rose and climbed out of the boat. He slid down the ramp of sand to meet Namiane, who had finished her prayer.

  “He’s angry at me. It’s your fault, Namiane.”

  “God forbid I don’t want you to get killed tonight. God forbid I want us to leave this evil place and go to Hawaii, a paradise!”

  Davy sighed. Namiane didn’t mean to raise her soft voice; she apologized. She closed her eyes and waited for Davy to lay the typical kiss onto her forehead, but after a long moment, it never came. She opened an eye to see Davy walking away, back toward the cottage.

  She opened the other eye, both together now, in disappointment. “Davy?”

  Davy stopped and turned to her. “What?”

  “You promised.”

  “We’re not going to Hawaii right now, Nam. I gotta finish the job. Dad is very, very upset with me. I need—”

  “Okay. But you promised we’d go to the spot today. Can’t I have this one thing?”

  Davy looked at the position of the sun. It began to eclipse with the tips of the mountains. The tips flung sharp knife-shaped shadows over the crater floor. He turned to Namiane. “Fine. Quickly.”

  And the couple walked deeper into the crater, the bowl of dust, with their arms locked together. They fought the sand-flinging wind. The sandy wind grew stronger the deeper they ventured as if they entered a sandstorm. Davy dug her head into his chest and jacket to protect her from the flying sand. But one of Namiane’s eyes managed to peek as she pointed Davy into the correct direction. A great dam was ahead. He followed her pointing finger until they neared the tip of a tall cliff by the dam. Around here, a purple rock protruded from the crater floor.

  The wind calmed for a moment as visibility cleared. Namiane saw the rock. She excitedly skipped to the wall of the cliff. She smiled—she was onto something.

  She backed up five steps, as though searching for the precise location of a buried treasure chest. She backed into the purple rock and fell. She rose and smiled at the rock; she massaged it with her fingers. She looked up at Davy with that smile.

  “This is it. This is where you saved me.”

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  “This is the spot!” She spun in a circle, laughing, and sat on the rock. She swiped her hands along its dry texture. “The rock. It’s the rock, Davy. Remember? I almost hit it with my feet before you grabbed me. I saw it through the bubbles and fish. I’m certain this is the one.”

  Davy took Namiane’s arm, tugging at it. He grew paranoid of the ever-falling sun as more shadows invaded. “We gotta go. It’s getting dark. We’ll get lost out here.”

  Namiane closed her eyes and absorbed the final rays of the sun. She opened them. “And when you saved me,” she continued, pointing to the surface of the cliff, “when you laid me on that cliff. You promised we’d leave for Hawaii.”

  “And we will go very, very soon, Namiane.”

  “This was two years ago you promised.”

  “Let’s talk about this inside. It’s getting too dark.”

  “Okay. Okay.” She rose, holding out her hand for Davy to take. “Okay. Let’s go to Frank Solas’ party! I want to shake hands with all the rich snobs of South California. Take me with you.”

  Davy took her hand. He walked with her. “No. We’re not going to Hawaii right now.”

  “No, doofus. Listen to me: I want to go to the party tonight!”

  Davy flinched, halting in his steps. He turned to her and arched his eyebrows. “You want to go to the party? Did I hear that right?”

  “Yes! You need a date. I haven’t worn any dresses in God knows long.”

  “Why do you want to go?”

  “So that I can get you drunk to stop you from what you’re planning to do.”

  Davy continued to walk with her. “Penelope will pose as my date. She’s a good swimmer.”

  Namiane’s head dropped. “Oh. Okay. I’ll stay back here all alone and make you a beautiful painting for when you come back, then.”

  He gave her another look. In the corner of his eye, he saw more shadows from the mountains stretch across the crater floor. “Come on.”

  And they went, The Spirit of the Lake a blurry figure ahead of them. It was a long walk; they would need to hurry.

  Darkness closed on them. It devoured the crater behind them. Davy gripped Namiane’s hand and hurried along with it, the blackness stalking them. It poked the two of them; they looked over their shoulders at the creeping blackness as they ran. They tripped over an old, weed-tangled kayak. Namiane giggled, rolling in the dirt with Davy. But Davy fought her, as the blackness swallowed them. Davy rose and ran with Namiane’s hand toward the last of the daylight, until reaching it. They arrived at The Spirit of the Lake, panting. Davy rested his back against the boat as he sat in the sand to relax for a moment. Now, he allowed the blackness to swamp him—the trail to home was straightforward from this point. And, thanks to the dark, Davy would not need to cover his eyes on the way there to avoid seeing that stone.

  In the darkness, Davy emerged over the crater wall. He got on his knees against the sharp grass and helped Namiane over. With the force he fell back, and she fell onto him.

  Davy mustered a laugh. It was rare; Namiane noticed.

  “I swear to you, Nam. This is my final mission. If I succeed, we’ll be sailing to Hawaii the next morning. As soon as I refill the lake, and boat rises again, and my father can finally rest in peace, we’ll leave.”

  “It must be the millionth promise by now. Should I believe you this time?”

  “Yes. But key words: if I succeed.”

  “If you fail, you’ll be dead.”

  “Then I’ll succeed.”

  “And if you die, you’ll abandon me here—”

  And there went Davy’s rare smile.

  “Please, cut it out—”

  “—to turn to dust—”

  “Nam!”

  She stopped her tear-free whimpering. Davy noticed the lack of tears. What a great actress, indeed.

  “When I succeed tonight—not if—we’ll leave the next morning. Okay?” Davy bit his lip. He just made another promise—success was no certainty. Then he realized why he had had made all these promises in the past. Usually, initially, he spoke to Namiane without guarantees. But she would always cry—she forced him to make guarantees to stop her from crying.

  Yet, judging by Namiane’s face, she wasn’t yet convinced. Guarantees from Davy, nowadays, were as thin as pape
r.

  Davy expected greater skepticism on her face, but he saw a sparkle in her eyes. A glimmer of hope yet burned within her soul. If even not a glimmer of a tear.

  An hour later Davy found himself sitting on the porch of the cottage, facing the empty street. He wore a tuxedo and a black necktie. His hair was still very greasy and dirty with specks of sand stuck within the nest—he wouldn’t dare waste water washing himself; he wouldn’t risk enduring the scorn of his father. The water that was not saved for his father’s lake was portioned only for drinking.

  But at least his hair shined with his father’s expired, years-old gel which Namiane helped apply and style for the big night. It shined and even gave off a nice scent to cancel out his smell of dirt and sweat.

  “You have to look good for murder,” she told him, “in case someone is watching you do it on camera. Don’t forget to smile for the big production.”

  He had never really understood what this meant—she often said it—but at least tonight he looked presentable to fit in with the water elites of South California.

  The sun had fully set, and the stars rose. There was the Big Dipper creeping across the sky, watching him.

  Anxious, he tapped his fingers against his knee. He took short breaths. The cold of the night exposed them, clouds seeping from his lips.

  A black car drove down the street and pulled over in front of the cottage. A man emerged in a suit and tie. He saw Davy sitting on the porch.

  “Hello, Davy. I will say that this will be the final time I come for you.”

  “You said that last time,” Davy said. He pulled out a crumpled envelope from his pocket. Across it read “To Governor Vendicatore” in the dying red ink of a pen. He handed it to the man, who walked to him and took it.

  “Thank you. I’m sure the governor will enjoy reading this, for the eightieth time.”

  “Who knows,” Davy said. “Maybe he will read it this time. I have hope. There must be a reason why you keep coming back for more.”

  The man laughed. “I’ll plead for you.” And he returned to his car.

  “Stay hydrated!”

  Those were the parting words of these days. Davy smiled—he had no issues staying hydrated, and the mailman—of Governor Vendicatore—thought otherwise. Davy laughed internally—Vendicatore still hadn’t the slightest clue of his identity.

  “Right back at you.”

  The man entered the car. And as he drove off, a dirty pickup truck made a turn, pulling into Davy’s driveway to a halt.

  Exiting the driver’s seat: the fine Penelope, in a shiny wine-red dress. To appear so beautiful, she must have sacrificed a great deal of her water. She must have taken a bath recently to smell so clean in these days. Her hair was blindingly shimmery black as her locks billowed with the breeze. With the clack of her heels and the flicking of her shoulder-length hair, she was a dangerous woman, to be sure.

  She made a whistle to Davy. Davy went to her. A short greeting—he was sure Namiane watched them with glued eyes from the bedroom window. So, he led Penelope to his own pickup truck in the driveway, and they entered it.

  Off they went, to an even more desolate part of the country: the straight desert. The Big Dipper became brighter as it guided them through the dark, smoky streets on their way there.

  CHAPTER 2

  South California lacked light at night, given its widespread scarcity of electricity. But it wasn’t all darkness. Indeed, there was at least one source of light: the wildfires. The wildfires swallowed the land in perpetuity, making it glow red. If one were to look over the country from forty-thousand feet, they would see the swamping infestation of the fires. Not only see: they would feel the burn of the plate of fire at this height, for the raging flames were tall enough to cook the stars.

  But there was another light, secretive and hiding. If one were to look hard, somewhere underneath the smoke, they would see a twinkle of white, red, blue, and green. This creeping light was a sign of life—a scarcity which thirsty thieves spent their days looking for.

  One night, a howl of wind swept through the area of the strange light, in the middle of a desert. For a moment, the wildfire smoke blew away, unleashing this light in all its strength for the whole country to behold. The glittering gaiety of colors strobed, extending miles across the desert, raging about as if there was a party taking hold at where it shined.

  The smoke would inevitably return to dim the light again. But for now, in a rare clearness, one could see the source of the lights, a great compound of hills. The zone was an orchard of palm, peach, and fig trees, among a maze of vegetable allotments in a landmass of a thousand football fields. A great ring of electric-wired fences encircled. The hills towered over the South California Reservoir in the center. There was a gold-plated ballroom—the bearer of the strobing lights which were attached to the exterior—perched atop the highest hill. The ballroom mirrored in the black water below. The gold of the building was a laughable reflection in the liquid gold of one hundred million fluid ounces.

  The South California Reservoir was a display of glass. It had never been disturbed. And on this night, it managed to sleep, even with the blinding lights shining and the noisy party which rocked in the ballroom.

  But on this night, there was an invasion: the wind howled again like a great, roaring beast. The glass of the water shattered. The water first infested with ripples; then, the wind shifted it toward the black desert. Waves grew, like those of the ocean, crashing onto the beach toward the fences in what appeared to be an escape attempt. Droplets of water sprayed through the fences, sinking into the sand of the desert outside.

  There must have been a wind tunnel of sorts placed somewhere in the desert to create such strong wind. This powerful wind was strange timing, given that all the wealthy men and women of South California gathered in this one place to party, there in the great compound, on this night.

  The most recent gust of wind was so powerful that it caused an old man to run out of the ballroom in which he danced, drank, and smoked. Classical music chased him out. The doors slammed shut behind him, muffling the soft music again.

  At first, besides the biting of the cold wind, he noticed the smoky clouds above had spread thin, exposing the compound. As he intercepted the strobing lights with his big head and wig, he ordered the guard of the ballroom doors to dim them—his compound was now at risk to be discovered, as the lights beamed all about and into the sky.

  The guard did so; the lights, though still raging, angled only downward, painting over the reservoir with a limited range. And they softened in strength.

  The old man now turned his attention to the fierce wind. He fought it as he sneaked around a bending flag pole which hoisted the flapping old colors of California. He crouched behind a railing overlooking the reservoir.

  In the cold, the old man’s mouth was a chimney with his short-breathing panic. He took binoculars out from his pocket. With them he scanned the reservoir as the flashing lights ran over it and the ever-growing waves.

  Another guard, this one of the compound gates, after escorting a couple to the ballroom, ran to Solas. The wind made his black necktie flap so hard that it unknotted itself.

  “Sir, what is it?”

  The old man glared at the guard. “Are you blind, grunt?” He slapped his chest. “Are you numb, incapable to feel?”

  The old man’s droopy eyes flickered in paranoia. He licked his thumb and held it in the air, wind frosting it over. He looked in all directions until the wind calmed. He removed his other hand from his silver wig, once he fixed it on his scalp, and he focused his eyes back on the water. The water rippled. “Look,” the old man said. He pointed at the water. “Look!”

  Davy stood near as he leaned on the same railing. He huddled with the shivering Penelope, both trying not to fly away with the wind. The wind tried to hang Davy with his own necktie and tear off Penelope’s flapping dress.

  They watched the old man tremble as they hid their laughs, covering their mouth
s. The coldness exposed the old man’s paranoia—not only did he scan the perimeter of his compound like a watch dog, he panted like one also, on the verge of having a stroke. His breaths formed a cloud above his head.

  Penelope laughed. She spoke, accented: “And here we have the wealthiest and noblest man of South California, Sir Frank Solas.”

  Davy laughed, too.

  Frank Solas slapped the guard, who stood unalert and confused.

  “Look!”

  The guard looked.

  “Look at these waves, would you?”

  “I see them, sir!”

  “And? Would you, my blind friend, consider these to be normal waves?”

  The guard paused to examine them closer.

  Solas twisted his jaw. “Is your brain fried? These are not normal waves, understand? I’ve never seen such waves. In all the time you’ve been here, have you seen such waves? Have you felt such wind?”

  “No, sir, I can’t say I have, to both.”

  Solas threw his arms in the air. He slapped the railing as it vibrated and hummed like a guitar string. “Look at this tide! Can’t you see it?”

  Davy looked at the waves, himself. They were small and short-lived until the wind lifted them again.

  Solas’ wig flew off his scalp. He cried, “This godforsaken wind!” as he attempted to catch his wig before it flew on top of the water. “What are you standing there for, grunt? Would you stop this wind already? Find the godforsaken wind generator. A giant fan! Or something. Guard!”

  The guard, puzzled, looked at Solas.

  “Sir, I do not believe I can stop the wind—”

  “I don’t care. Stop the wind. Go!” After a hesitation from the guard, Solas yelled, “Go!” once more. And the guard went to go stop the wind, shrugging at the guard of the ballroom doors, who, like Davy and Penelope, tried to contain laughter.

  Solas continued to study the water with his binoculars. He heard voices and turned his head. Old folks, the elites of South California, still entered his compound in droves, clad in tuxedos, escorted by another guard. They all fought the wrath of the wind. “I don’t trust a damn one,” Solas muttered. “Not a damn one.” He unconsciously repeated “not a damn one” over-and-over again as he focused again on the water.