The Water Thief (23 page)

As I opened the
door, I was overwhelmed by an intense desire to commit one last protest, to do
them one final outrage.

The car was
locked up—I couldn’t roll it into a ditch, and it was too heavy for me to flip
over. I opened the trunk, but I couldn’t find any kerosene or the like with
which to burn or blow it up. I found a shotgun, which might have done the trick,
but it was locked up.

I went back to
the driver’s side and wrenched the sun visor from the roof. I threw it to the
ground and repeatedly stomped on it. Then I ran triumphantly into the night.

I should have
stayed as far away from Kate’s apartment as I could. But I had, thus far, done
a fabulous job of avoiding the smart thing to do, and had no intention of
blemishing that record. Besides, I had no money, no contract, no friends, and
what was no doubt a substantial price on my head. Without help I’d be lucky to
last more than a day or two in LowSec, and starving to death in the gutter
wasn’t any better than rotting in jail or facing the noose.

Darting back and
forth between the buildings, in and out of shuttered warehouses and broken-down
apartments, I felt my strength coming back to me. Maybe I was excited about the
possibly finding an answer, or just being outside of Capital City, but what was
a four-hour hike through the back streets of LowCon felt like a few minutes.

With luck I’d
find an empty apartment, and Kate would already be in the bunker. I could then,
at the very least, say that someone had survived this devilry.

Her neighborhood
was dark. The power was out, and only a few apartments were using candles or
kerosene lamps. The warehouse was in rough shape. It was abandoned, one corner
of the aluminum roof completely torn off. Someone had gone through a good deal
of trouble to lock all of the doors, so I went in through one of the windows.

Water was
pouring in from every crevice—down all the pipes and cement pillars. The drums,
bookshelves and bedsprings all remained, but the fires had long gone out and
anything of value had been taken. I knelt down, and with each lightning strike
I looked for evidence of a fight: blood, bullet holes or shell casings.

A small stream
of water was flowing down the back steps, as if someone had left all the
faucets on. I ran up three flights to the roof. It was cracked and rusted out,
with large gashes and missing aluminum plates. I worked my way slowly to the
southwest corner, sometimes getting on my hands and knees to crawl over
particularly slippery or damaged spots.

From the corner
I was able to get a good look at Kate’s apartment building. The hallways were
lit only by emergency lighting, and I was surprised even by that. One or two of
the apartments were lit by kerosene, but other than that there was no sign of
life. I looked at the other buildings, marking their location and then scanning
quickly with each strike of lightning. But I spied no snipers, no police cruisers,
no evidence at all that Ackerman was there.

I waited an
hour, both out of an abundance of caution and the growing realization that I’d
have to find my way back down. What had seemed like a good idea under the
threat of an Ackerman ambush now struck me as a terrible mistake. My adrenaline
spent, I wondered how I had even managed to get across. A single slip or
weakness in the roof, and I’d fall three stories onto a concrete floor. I
wondered if I could fashion a rope out of my clothing and climb down, but the
idea was ludicrous. I was terrified to go back the way I came, but, wet and
shivering, I couldn’t survive huddled in the corner much longer.

 
After a few minutes I remembered the fire
escape on the southern wall. It was rusted out and didn’t reach the roof, so I
had forgotten all about it. But maybe I could jump down to it.

I discovered a
twelve-foot drop onto the top platform. I held my breath and leapt. As I
landed, it wrenched itself from the wall. It spun around and, by some miracle,
dumped me onto the level below before landing on top of me in a heap.

I felt along the
wet bars of my prison, trying to get a sense of its geometry. A railing lay on
top of me, and the platform had split, caging me in. But I came upon a gap in
the entanglement, and slowly I worked my way through. I found the steps and
climbed down to the final landing. I lowered the emergency ladder and took it
down to the street.

The roar of the
storm had gotten so loud that I wouldn’t have been able to hear myself scream.
I crossed the street to her building as stealthily as I could. The front door
was locked. I worked my way into the back alley, over the mounds of trash, and
to a hallway window. I smashed it and climbed in.

The emergency
lights had grown dim, and were beginning to flicker. A crying baby reassured me
that there was at least some life in this building.

When I reached
her apartment I found the front door slightly ajar. I examined the frame and
the lock, but I didn’t spot any sign that the door had been forced. I put my
back to the wall, opened the door, and then looked around the corner.

Lightning lit up
the room. In that brief moment it looked completely empty, the couch, the pots
and pans, the chairs—all gone.

I took several
deep breaths and slid into the apartment. The kitchen counter seemed bare. I
ran my hands over it; the can of tallow, herbs and infuser were all gone. I
opened a drawer and ran my hand inside, but it was empty.

Then I noticed a
large, dark object on the far end of the living room. Hard to make out, it
loomed by the far wall near the bathroom. Whatever it was, it didn’t belong.

I took a step
toward it. My heart quickened. I was sure now; there was something in the room
with me.

I saw the glow of
a cigar and could almost hear the deep inhalation. In the brief blue light of
another flash of lightning, I saw a large, overstuffed red leather chair, and a
man in a dark suit sitting in it.

“Hello, Mr.
Thatcher,” he said. I hadn’t heard a human voice in six hours; it cut through
the air louder than any thunder.

I couldn’t
breathe, or run, or move. For a moment, like a child, I had the silly notion
that he hadn’t actually seen me, that he just guessed that I was there and if I
didn’t move he’d dismiss me. But in the next flash I could tell—he was looking
straight at me.

“Who are you?” I
whispered.

“You know who I
am,” he said.

It had been a
mistake to come. My mind rushed through escape routes, trying to think of a way
to undo this catastrophic mistake. But all I could do was hope that I would
wake up from this nightmare. Instead, I found relief in the form of a sudden
blow to the back of my head.

I woke up to
find myself in the most comfortable bed I had ever slept in. I thought that I must
have died, and through some miracle of nature (or an accounting debacle at the
pearly gates) found myself in heaven. Then I realized I was in prison.

The bedroom
itself was only a touch smaller than my entire apartment. Everything was
white—the walls, the bed, and the carpeting. The room looked brand-new, as if I
was the first person to occupy it. The mattress was soft; the duvet seemed to
be genuine goose down—more expensive per ounce than gold. I ran my hand down
the length of the sheets until I found the label—cotton, twelve-hundred thread
count. My pajamas were silk, and fit like they were custom tailored for me.

It was the
closest you could actually get to returning to the womb. Even Linus didn’t
sleep this well.

Yep, this was
prison.

HighCons got all
the bad prison cells—rats, concrete beds and iron bars—in a room made of cinder
blocks with four other people and a single toilet. It was a preview of what
life would be like if you didn’t cooperate. LowCons were treated the exact
opposite, given a private suite to rival the most luxurious hotels, so that you
could understand the true benevolence of your Corporation, and to stoke your
desire for the finer things. Prison gave the higher grades something to fear,
and the lower grades something to envy. This wasn’t a cell, it was
psychological warfare.

One entire wall
was glass. I opened the curtains and looked out onto a triangular atrium some
twenty-three floors below me. I knew immediately where I was—the Retention
Division Prison Complex, the Citadel, a three-sided building in Ackerman’s
northernmost territory.

Hundreds of
cells filled the two walls opposite mine, going up at least another twenty
floors to a huge skylight above. The sun was out, and it looked as if the sky
here never darkened. Far below me was a park, though whether it was for inmates
or staff I couldn’t tell. The distance across the atrium was too far for me to
make out faces in the cells across from me, but I noticed other people looking
out into the courtyard, all wearing the same white pajamas.

I ignored my
slippers, walking barefoot into the living room. It had a sunken, hardwood
floor, with a large sofa, a beautiful comfort chair, and a forty-two-inch
television. There was a bar, a kitchen, and a coffee table with fresh fruit on
it.

I wonder if this is the room they put
Malcolm Evans in
.

On the far side
of the room was a sliding door. I walked over to it, and much to my surprise it
whooshed open. Two men in butler’s uniforms stood in a hallway on the other
side, one with a fine white cloth draped over his arm.

“Oh,” I
stammered, disappointed that they had so easily caught me testing the bounds of
my cell.

“Mr. Thatcher,”
said the shorter one, “you’re up. How did you sleep?”

“Fine.”

“I’m pleased to
hear it. Your injuries have been tended. How do you feel?”

“Good,” I said.
“I feel good.”

“I can get the
doctor for you. Would you like a follow-up examination?”

“No, really, I’m
fine.”

“That’s
wonderful news. You were out quite a long time, you must be hungry. Can I get
you something?”

“Oh. No, thank
you.”

“Honestly sir,”
said the man, a broad smile across his face, “it would be my pleasure to get
you something you’d enjoy. What would you like? Please?”

I shook my head.

“You know, Mr.
Thatcher, some guests do have trouble adjusting—it’s completely normal. But I
assure you, everything here is for your benefit. It’s all free.”

“Are you
joking?” I croaked.

“No, of course
not sir. With our compliments. Don’t worry about money at all during your stay
with us, you won’t be charged a thing. Now about that meal?”

“Oh, I have some
fruit and I’ll bet the fridge is stocked,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t be silly,
Mr. Thatcher. I believe the kitchen may have closed, but tell me what you’d
like, and I’ll see if I can get them to whip it up for you.”

It was a trap,
it had to be. The psychological warfare had begun. I was curious to see what
they would do if I actually ordered something.

“What is on the
menu?”

“It would be far
easier for you to ask for something. If we can’t make it, I’ll let you know,
but I think you’ll be surprised. We have an extensive kitchen. Please, I
challenge
you to come up with something
we can’t do,” he said.

“I… well, are
you sure?”

“The challenge
stands, sir. What’s your pleasure?”

I did need to
eat. I tried to think of an esoteric meal, something with real meat, something
my captors couldn’t possibly have.

“There is one
thing, an old fashioned kind of sandwich, I’m not sure if you’ve ever heard of
it. A Reuben? Can you make one of those?”

“Of course, sir,
excellent choice! Rye bread, I assume? I don’t take you for one of those who
would sully such a sandwich on white?”

“No. No. Rye, I
guess. Of course.”

“Very good, Mr.
Thatcher.”

“Please, call me
Charles,” I said, now uncomfortable.

“Of course,
sir,” he replied.

“You don’t need
to say ‘sir.’ You can just say Charles.”

“Of course, Mr.
Thatcher.”

I rubbed the
bridge of my nose. “You are not going to call me Charles, are you?”

“I’m afraid not,
sir. We are prohibited.”

“Couldn’t you
have just said so?”

“Oh, my goodness
no, sir. It would be terribly rude to contradict you.” The man bowed again and
went on his task, leaving the other man behind.

I continued
exploring my cell. I found a small private gym with a slender pool, a jet
contrived such that you could swim endlessly against the current. A treadmill,
a host of free weights, and an exercise bike were all waiting to be used. I
even uncovered a small library, about the size of a walk-in closet.

The library
intrigued me. I had never had time to read for pleasure, and most people found
it rather snobbish anyway. The shelves hosted books on nearly every subject,
even ones I had scarcely heard of—long dead Eastern and Western philosophies,
like Buddhism and Christianity—as well as the usual litany of books written by
CEOs on the importance of greed and loyalty.

There was a
bounty of delights for me to indulge in, and I had just scratched the surface.
But the simple act of ordering a sandwich had already made me feel guilty.
People in LowSec were starving, and I was getting a sandwich with real meat.
That, in their eyes, was why I was broken.

Then I spotted
an original copy of the Zinov’yevna Bible. I hadn’t looked at it in years, and
while I quoted it often, I hadn’t actually read it fully through. It wasn’t a
bible, in the conventional sense, but an epic fairy tale, a story about a group
of capitalists who remake the world into a utopian free market. I opened it to
a random page and began reading: