Levels: The Host (23 page)

CHAPTER 26

I
t was out under the real sun that Watly Caiper killed someone new. This was arguably his fourth murder. If one counted the poor bum (which Watly did), and if one believed the news report about the two police officers in the copper crash (which Watly wasn’t all that sure about), then he had already killed three people. Or, at least, had been responsible for their deaths. One could even stretch the point and count the big one—the donor’s murder of that woman. It had been, after all, Watly’s own hands that had done that job. But Watly refused to count that. No, four was enough. Four murders in three days was plenty. This was escalating way out of control. Everything had been blown out of proportion. Watly Caiper. Misunderstood Watly Caiper. Watly Caiper: potential mother. No. Not at all. Watly Caiper: serial killer.
Blood on your hands, Watly. Knock ‘em down one at a time, do you, Caiper?
And this was the worst. This death. It couldn’t really be called an accident. And no one was in charge of Watly’s mind but Watly. “There’s fighting and then there’s fighting,” Watly’s mother had always said. “No one,
no one
has the right to hurt another person. If there’s anything sacred in this world, it is a person’s physical integrity. A person’
s life.”

Watly felt sick. He burped and tasted stomach acid.
Killer.

Everything had been going along so well. The light up ahead in the tube had gotten brighter and brighter as he continued forward. Watly saw the glow reflected all along the shiny curved walls. The hollow groan of the wind seemed to echo less and become a loud, breathy whistle sound. Watly used more and more effort to climb as the angle increased. Pretty soon he seemed to be going almost straight up, pushing out with his arms and legs for leverage. Inching up the smooth surface, the only thing keeping him in place the constant outward pressure of his limbs. Two times he slid back downward and lost a lot of ground before stopping completely. On he went. He wasn’t going to
get discouraged.

The light was almost painful now. It seemed too bright, too fast. Watly found himself squinting, his eyes tearing up. Eventually he was right below it. The tube angled in a sharp curve and pointed directly up. Watly wedged himself in position—feet spread—and leaned into the tube’s bend. Right above him, divided and sectioned into geometric shapes by thin metal bars, was blue. Crystal clear blue. The most brilliant blue ever. And a touch of puffy whiteness scattered here and there. But the blue—that light, pure color—was the thing. It alone was worth the climb. Sky.

Watly blinked. His eyes felt virginal, never used before. He reached up and tested the metal bars. They were thin and square-shaped. The pipe cutter clipped them neatly with no problem—
pwonk, pwonk, pwonk
—and they bent back easily. Soon Watly had an opening big enough to pull himself through. He did just that—squirming a bit and shifting the bag to make it—and he was out under a dazzling sun. A
real sun.

Watly jumped off the rim and sat down heavily. He leaned back into the shiny surface of the tube, feeling the ridges of the golden sound mufflers, and ripped off his makeshift ear protectors. What a relief to have them off. He massaged his lobes and rubbed the line under his chin where the belt had been tied. He was on a roof—sitting in white gravel on a Second Level roof. His unbound ears throbbed and Watly winced at the loud moaning whistle that still came from the mouth of the air channel behind him. He crawled a few feet away from it and sat again, hugging his knees. All around him was sky. Beautiful sky. Watly could see forever. He breathed deeply. The air was charged. It was full and rich and felt like medicine to his overworked lungs.
What’s the season?
Watly wondered.
It’s late spring, isn’t it? I’ve lost track. What was it back in Brooklyn? That was my last sun. Yes, it must be late spring by now. May, maybe.

Skyscrapers gleamed all around. In the distance the really tall ones towered like giants over the city. Watly was awestruck. To the left, the Gavy Tower seemed to tilt west and touch the edge of the sun. Its golden exterior burned with reflections. Watly felt the warmth of real sunlight—daylight, not daylite—hit him on the nose, cheeks, and forehead. And there was Alvedine—that chunky, broad-shouldered building that seemed to rise forever. And the two Empire State Buildings with their shiny connecting bridges. The Man-With-Hat-One. And the Chrysler. All of them. Vertical space. Air. Sky. Sun.

Watly drew little circles in the gravel with the pipe cutter. The sights were incredible. His mind felt numb. He leaned back into the knapsack and continued looking upward, breathing slowly and deliberately, relishing every inhale as if it were a
gourmet meal.

Suddenly there was a crunching sound from directly behind him. It was the noise of heavy footsteps on gravel. Watly
spun around.

“You’re a pretty crafty one, huh?” the cop said. He stood just a few yards away and held the double-bolted haver nerve rifle with both hands. “I told my partner, Neper Balden, I said—I said, ‘Neper, this Sergeant Fenlocki fella’s crazy. Posting a cop at every single exhaust tube is just insane,’ I says.” The officer hocked loudly and spat a thick wad of mucus onto the gravel. “‘Waste of police,’ I says. ‘Who the hell’s gonna climb up one? Huh? Who’s got the eggs? An air tube? No one could. And what for?’ But the sergeant’s a stubborn man. He seems to think it’s a likely escape route. ‘Second Level’s weakest point,’ and all. Well, wouldn’t you know he was raping right. And I was wrong. How about that?’’ The officer grinned and showed a missing front tooth. “It’s Watly Caiper hisself and I’ve
got him.”

The man’s feet were spread and planted firmly. He was bracing his stocky form against the inevitable recoil of the nerve gun. “Yes-sir-ee. Yes-sir-ee. It’s the
man
. Watly Caiper.” He laughed and spat again. Watly rose forward up on
his knees.

“I’m gonna kill you now, Caiper.” The cop chuckled. “It’ll be the easiest million a body
ever earned.”

“Just a second, officer.” Watly felt sweat trickle down his forehead. He got nearer the man by walking slowly forward on his knees. “One
last favor.
..
”

“Nuh-uh, Caiper. This is it.” The office sprang
the bolt.

Watly crawled closer still. He had to get near. “Just one favor. Do it in the head. I want
it fast.”

“And why should I, Mr. Mutilator? Why should I? Why not just get you in a hand or foot? You know how long that’d take? Maybe a full minute or two. The longest raping minute of your life. I could just stand here and watch it climb up the nerves of your arm as you screamed and rolled around. It’d
serve you.”

“In the head, please,” Watly said quietly. His face was now only a foot and a half from the barrel of the gun. Close.
Real close.

“No way. I got no reason to. And since you asked for it special, I’m
definitely
not doing it in the head. Too good for you.” The man spat again—this time at Watly. He missed and the spit
hit gravel.

Watly pleaded with his eyes. The officer turned the gun down and over slightly so it was pointing at Watly’s left hand. This was good. This was
a chance.

“Kiss this world goodbye,
Watly Caiper.”

Watly moved even farther forward. He found himself suddenly aware of the weight of the pipe cutter in his hand. He lifted it slightly. His senses seemed heightened. Everything slowed. It was as if the outside world was suddenly shifted into extreme slow motion. He saw the officer’s finger as it began to gently squeeze the trigger. He saw the gleam in the man’s beady eyes—the smile and the growing look of pleasure. He saw his own left hand rush forward—as if no longer a part of him—and grip the
cold barrel.

Watly then saw the world tilt as he sprang forward and the perspective changed. There was a blast from the rifle and a bolt flashed out harmlessly toward that clear blue above. A struggle began—a fight for control of the rifle. They were rolling around on the gravel, the gun pointing away from both. And again Watly became aware of the pipe cutter. He was thinking—even while fighting furiously—that someone had once told him something about the human skull. He tried to remember. A street tough in Brooklyn had said it. “Hit a person on the side of the head,” the guy had said, “if you want to
kill
them. Right in the temple. But if you only want to knock them out, hit them on the top. The top of
the head.”

On the top. Okay. The top.
And so, somehow, Watly got room to swing and came down with the pipe cutter. Hard. The handle hit directly in the top center of the officer’s head with a cracking thud. That did it.
Bonk.
The battle was over. The man went limp on the white gravel and the rifle clattered down. Over. Over.

Watly knelt again. He was heaving for air.
That should keep the cop out for a while,
he was thinking.
That should hold him. Out cold, he is.
Watly leaned in to the officer
. Yup, out cold.
Only it was more than that. Much more. The man was dead. Stone cold dead. No breathing, no heartbeat, and a stream of spittle dripping from the gap between his front teeth. Watly had killed the cop with a blow that was only supposed to make
him unconscious.

Shit. Not another one. What about the rule? What about the old saying. Hitting someone on the top of the head wasn’t supposed to
kill
them. It was a proven rule of thumb, wasn’t it? A fact? A law of nature or something? Why didn’t anyone say it depended on how hard you hit? Why didn’t anyone say these rules weren’t always true when it came to the fragility of the human skull? Of
human life?”

After a few moments Watly threw up. He had
had enough.

“Welter-five-nie. Welter-five-nie. Where’s your call-in?”

The cop’s speaker
was squawking.

“I feel sick,” Watly groaned from a few
feet away.

“Do we read you? You
feel sick?”

“I feel really sick,” Watly said, hardly aware he was speaking
to someone.

“We copy. Take a personal-time, officer. We
have authorization.”

“That’s great,” Watly said as he held his
stomach tightly.

“Hope you feel better. We’ll send a replacement.
Signing off.”

There was a click. Watly felt chilled and weak. He shuddered all over. Did they send a replacement?
Oh, rape on dried catshit.
Watly looked around. The only thing he could do—the only plan he had—was distinctly unpleasant.
Distinctly
unpleasant. He shuddered again. Is there no limit to what one will do to save one’s own neck? Does it never end? Selfish/bad, this is. Selfish/bad.

Fifteen more minutes passed before Watly threw up again. This time it was more like the dry heaves. Painful spasms with no results. Things had changed. Things were different now. Lots of things. He was now dressed as a police officer. He had on the snappy blue jacket and pants and the rakish cap—all slightly large. Over one shoulder was his knapsack and over the other was the haver nerve rifle. Back behind him was the air tube, and somewhere way down inside it—perhaps still sliding lower, down and down—was the body of a stocky dead man wearing only underwear. Somewhere near
him
, near this dead guy, was a pile of filthy old clothes—a jersey jacket and anklepants. Above all this, the bars over the tube’s opening had been neatly bent back to look as natural as possible. The disturbed gravel of the roof had been smoothed. Everything was calm and serene. Untouched.

Watly walked across the roof stiffly—toward the raised door that let into the building below. He felt empty inside, both literally and figuratively. He felt he had thrown up not just food. He had thrown up part of himself. He had vomited out some intrinsic part of Watly Caiper. A little piece of his humanity, his morality—or something. The other murders
had
been different. Watly had not pulled the trigger on the gun that shot the bum. He had not carefully aimed the unpiloted copper at the two officers. He had not planned the riot. (Had anyone died in that? It could be.) And he certainly had no intentional part in the donor’s killing of that poor woman. He had been powerless
in that.

But this was not the same. This Watly did on his own. Self-defense—yes. But still, a man was dead. And he was to blame. Directly. He had killed him with a blow to the head and coldly shoved him down an exhaust tube. Undressing a dead man, pulling off all his clothes, dragging a half-naked corpse across a roof, scraping skin off on the rough gravel, hoisting the heavy body and squeezing it down past metal bars.
..
had Watly really done all that? Had he been capable? Oh, rape. This was a sickness. All of it. This was a cancer that grew more and more. Worse
and worse.

Numbly, and without trying to hide himself at all, Watly took the roof elevator down to street level. He stepped out onto the sidewalk and began to walk south. No one paid any attention to him. A foot-patrol officer was apparently no rarity. He saw quite a number of pedestrians strolling up and down the avenue. All were exquisitely dressed. Their clothing was really fuckable—and probably unbelievably expensive. Wild shocking colors and opalescent fabrics. Everything looked shiny and brand-new. No patches, no stains, no rips. And those fancy shoes again. Leather? There was something different about the people themselves, as well. The skin on their faces looked exaggerated—too light or too dark. One extreme or the other.
Caricatures
of people, instead of just people. And some of them seemed surprisingly young to Watly. Impossibly young. Younger than
Watly himself.

Watly let himself become submerged once again within the sights and sounds around him. It was the only way he could continue.
Look and smell and listen and breathe, Caiper. Don’t think. No more thinking. Never think again. Life is too short to think. Thinking just gets in the way. Thinking slows you down. Just look around you. See the beauty. Smell the cleanness. Hear
the peace.