Fiction Vortex - August 2013 Read online

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  That night Kastner sat frozen at his desk in darkness. The fire had long subsided and there was only a small heap of scarlet ash in the fireplace. The scent of the dying flame spread through the apartment. He glared at the briefcase on his desk. The sooner he opened it, the sooner he could determine if it worked — whatever that meant.

  It was his job.

  The whole thing felt like payback for his early retirement, but in his line of work — where payback meant death — this kind of payback was something he could live with. He reached forward, grabbed the briefcase, and turned it upright. He pulled the latch and probed the lock with his finger. He cracked the combination, and the latch popped free.

  Just about anything could have been inside the briefcase. Kastner had known the woman for some time, and there was a reason why she employed him every time she needed to procure something from the man in the white hat. For this kind of job she needed an expert in a very particular field, and Kastner was the best. But even Kastner knew better than to meddle with the merchandise, and he wasn’t looking forward to doing it this time. With a shake of his head and a deep breath he switched on the lamp on his desk, then pulled the briefcase open and peered inside.

  It was only a book, very thick and bound in black leather. On the cover, written in sharp white letters, was a sequence: XXI/VI/MMXIII. He crossed his arms over the table and closed his eyes, the letters on the cover dancing in his mind.

  XXI/VI/MMXIII.

  It could be code, or initials, Kastner thought. "But no, that’s not it," he said aloud. "It’s Roman numerals." The numbers were 21/6/2013. After a brief pause, Kastner nodded and smiled. "It’s a date," he whispered to no one in particular. "Tomorrow’s date." He ran his fingers over the spine of the book, feeling the smooth leather beneath his fingertips. Then he flipped the book open and turned to the first page.

  The paper was black with small white letters arranged in neat columns stretching from top to bottom. Kastner skimmed through the book and saw the columned layout repeated on each page. There was nothing odd about the book itself. The texture was perfectly normal, and there was no strange smell. Upon closer inspection, Kastner determined there was nothing concealed inside. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, flipped back to the first page, pulled the desk lamp closer, and started on the contents.

  The first column was made up of names, arranged in alphabetical order. The very first name on the first page was Aaberg, Georgina May; followed by Aarons, Gregory Martin; and Aazam, Asif Hammad. Funny name, Aazam, Kastner thought, like something a magician would use — AAZAM THE AMAZING. The names went all the way down to Zwinger, Franz, which was the final name on the last page. The second column contained a time of day, so that for Aaberg it was 4:03 a.m.; for Aarons it was 1:48 p.m.; for Aazam it was 12:33 a.m. The third and final column was the most curious: for Aaberg it read Heart Attack, for Aarons it was Overdose, and for Aazam it was Train Derailment. It seemed to indicate the way they died — something like the cause of death for each person.

  It’s like a phone book of the dead, Kastner thought. He flipped quickly through the pages and it struck him as incredible that there could be so many pages there. There had to be tens of thousands of names in this book, maybe more. But what was the purpose of it all? What use could anyone have for this list? The answer was beyond Kastner’s grasp — at least on this night. He slammed the book shut and turned off the lamp on his desk.