Death Sentences by Kawamata Chiaki Read Free Book Online

second.
    Sagara started to protest in a tremulous voice.
    "Wait. Hold on just a second. I don't know anything. You see? I just needed cash. I never read it. Never! I didn't read any of it. It's got nothing to do with me. I don't know a thing. I didn't even look at it! You got to believe me. It's the truth."
    Hands tied behind him, he fell off the bed trying to wriggle away.
    He kept whining.
    "See? You got to help me! It's got nothing to do with me, I swear. I'm begging you. She tricked me into this. She wanted money from me. You got to understand. I beg you-"
    The Browning coughed again.
    Red blood trickled from the small hole in his temple.
    Sakamoto untied the belt around his wrists. He removed the silencer and slipped it back into his pocket. He placed the gun in Sagara's hand.
    That's how it had to be.
    There was no other way to prevent the destruction of the world.
    Sakamoto stood over the two, looked down, and joined his hands in prayer for a moment.
    He'd made it look like a lovers' suicide.
    The police would take care of the rest.
    He took the elevator to the first floor.
    Looking flustered, a woman called to Sakamoto from the window.
    "Leaving so soon? Is there something wrong?"
    "No, no, nothing wrong. People on the third floor were making so much noise that it sort of turned me off."
    "I'm really sorry. Please accept my apologies. The third floor? I'll make it half price for you."
    Sakamoto paid and left the hotel.
    The Corolla was waiting for him around the corner.
    The passenger door opened, and Sakamoto climbed in.

    "Shinjuku station, west exit."
    The Corolla moved out.
    "How'd it go?"
    "I took care of them all right. Now for the stuff."
    With rush hour traffic, the Corolla took thirty minutes to reach Shinjuku station.
    "Wait here. I'll get it."
    Sakamoto set out alone in search of the locker.
    He found it near the underground entrance to a department store.
    326-
    He inserted the key. It wouldn't turn.
    It must be out of money.
    He plunked in some coins, and it opened.
    Inside was a paper bag.
    He pulled it out and looked inside.
    A dozen odd pamphlets, thin, with yellow covers.
    On the covers, about the size of a postcard, nothing was written.
    Sakamoto drew a deep breath.
    Then-fearfully, he took one.
    (What is this thing, anyway?)
    He felt angry all of a sudden.
    (What on earth was all of this about?)
    Why did so many people have to die, just because of some weird thing written by an insane Frenchman forty years ago?-
    It made no sense to him at all.
    He couldn't help thinking that it was some kind of lie, it had to be a trick, or maybe the whole thing was a sort of conspiracy.
    (It's ... it's just ...
    Without thinking, Sakamoto opened it.
    The first line, in rather large letters, read "The Gold of Time." It looked like a title.
    There followed a dense series of very small, rounded, handwritten letters, which had been transferred with mimeograph paper.

    He read a few lines without thinking and, then, flustered, tore his eyes from the page. He was angry with himself for feeling so flustered.
    (It's just a ..)
    He clucked his tongue softly.
    (Anyone who goes crazy over this stuff must have been damned crazy all along.)
    No sooner had he thought this than he began to feel dizzy. It was probably just a wave of fatigue.
    Looking at the stuff was strictly forbidden, even for cops, no, especially for cops.
    Still, in the course of an investigation, some fragment of it might catch your eye.
    To Sakamoto it looked like nothing but incomprehensible babble.
    It didn't make any sense.
    He felt sure of himself. There was no way a guy like him would lose his mind over this.
    And so ... his mind raced.
    And so, just one copy ... just this once. Before he realized it, he'd stuffed one of the copies in his pocket.
    No one saw him. There was no one paying any attention to him.
    A faint smile flitted across his lips.
    He headed back to the car with the bag in hand.
    For some reason ... he felt good.
    A sensation like being