Reset

Trent faces the window from the dining car as the tube streams through the Alsatian countryside. The eyes face out but send no message to the mind save the mere spring scenery, the mind at last facing elsewhere, save the shakeless sense that he’s done this all before.

“More coffee, sir?” and there that brings him to the moment. Trent looks up to the gently Punjabi man, softly bowed, twice removed from his native land by now, mustachioed with a smile bright enough for any of the famous ollywoods.

Trent smiles back, mouth closed, “Yes please,” and nods. The waiter refills Trent’s cup with both white gloves to steady the carafe against the movement, then walks to the next peopled table down the aisle and repeats.

Trent sips the steaming brew and sets it down and moves the plate with the unbit English muffin aside for a notebook he retrieves from a breast coat pocket. From his other breast pocket comes a cigarette case. He takes one out, closes the case, taps the butt on the silver cover, and hides the case away again before lighting one of the matches from the box on the table.

His scribbles pepper the pages piecemeal and random, stage notes for foul play.

Mrs. C’s sleeper

Midnight to 1 am

Strands of brown hair

Blunt force

Pipe? Cane?

Blood in bed & on floor

No good prints

No witness

Suspects?

BODY STOLEN

The last underlined twice already, he marks a third line, the darkest of the bunch, reads through the list again. A tap on his shoulder and he starts, jerks his head to follow the hand to its corpse.

“Pardon me, old boy,” Mr. Darrow says, fresh aftershave vapor in his wake. “Are you any further along in this business? Nasty business, of course. I don’t mean to make light.”

Mr. Darrow sits before Trent can reply, sets his hands on the table. Mr. Darrow looks out the window and sighs. “Alsace,” he says. “Seen it a hundred times.” He turns to Trent. “You’re an American, though”—he raises one hand for the waiter and snaps his head over his shoulder then back to Trent—“must all be new for you.”

Trent covers his notes with a seasoned deft cigaretted hand and picks up his coffee with the other. “Yes,” he says. “Not that one broad green valley is better than another, although I may like England more.”

Mr. Darrow smiles. “I’m sure you have no reason to butter me up like that,” he says. The waiter returns. Mr. Darrow glances up, says “Black, please,” says “Hot.” The waiter nods, smiles, humors him, fills Mr. Darrow’s cup with both white gloves on the carafe, walks away. “After all,” Mr. Darrow says to Trent, the cup at his lips, the other still stationed on the table, “I’m still a suspect.”

Mr. Darrow sips, a nip of mischief in the eyes. Trent lifts his brow with a grin, both hands now resting over the notes. “It feels like a disappointment to say this, Mr. Darrow,” he says, “but you are not the only one,” he says. “Is there a reason you would rather face the court, should it come to that, then return to Jolly Old fully exonerated?” Mr. Darrow sets his cup down, a half grin remains on his lip. Trent says, “Your wife, perhaps? Marital problems for some time, I gather. Still, hardly worth that trade I would imagine.”

“How did—” Mr. Darrow begins, the grin gone. “Listen here—” Mr. Darrow begins, the eyes furrowed. “I was only having a bit of fun.”

“I should think so,” Trent says, “but of course you don’t mean to make light.”

Mr. Darrow stands, leaves his coffee on the table, “Good morning, Detective,” whisks himself out of the dining car. Trent nods and removes his hands to see his notes again.

BODY STOLEN

Then he writes at the bottom, Mr. Darrow?

The entrance from the passenger cars opens again. “Detective?” a voice calls. “Come quickly!”

Trent looks out from the dining car on the Alsatian countryside. The eyes receive the input but the mind is somewhere else. He winces, rubs his brow to shake the sense he’s done this all before.

“More coffee, sir?” back to the present. Trent looks up to the Punjabi waiter, softly bowed, mustache bent with the curve of a bright but tepid smile.

Trent smiles back, “Yes please,” nods. The waiter refills Trent’s cup with both white gloves, walks to another table and repeats.

Trent cups the steaming brew but sets it down and moves the unbit crepe aside for a notebook he retrieves from a breast coat pocket. From his pants pocket comes a cigarette case. He opens it, counts them with a frown, takes one out and puts the case away again before lighting it from a matchbox on the table. He looks over his notes.

Mrs. C’s sleeper

Midnight to 1 am

Strands of brown hair

Blunt force

Pipe? Cane?

Blood in bed & on floor

No good prints

No witness

Suspects?

Mr. Darrow?

BODY STOLEN

The last underlined thrice already, he marks a fourth line, darker now, reads through the list again. A tap on his shoulder and he starts and quickly covers his notes.

“Pardon me, old boy,” Mr. Darrow says, aftershave vapor in his wake. “Are you any further along in this business? Nasty business, of course.”

Mr. Darrow sits, hands on the table. He looks out the window and sighs. “Alsace,” he says. “Seen it a thousand times.” He turns to Trent. “You’re an American, though”—he raises one hand for the waiter and snaps his head over his shoulder then back to Trent—“must be new for you.”

Trent picks up his coffee with the other hand, holding the cigarette. “Yes,” he says “although I think I like England more.”

Mr. Darrow smiles. “Flattery might get you somewhere,” he says. The waiter returns. Mr. Darrow glances up, says “Black, please,” says “Hot. Sugar.” The waiter nods, smiles, fills Mr. Darrow’s cup with both hand on the carafe, walks away. “After all,” Mr. Darrow says to Trent, the cup on the table between his hands, “I would think I’m still a suspect.”

Mr. Darrow grins, mischief in the eyes. Trent puts the cigarette between his lips, both hands now resting over the notes. “It feels like a disappointment to say this, Mr. Darrow,” he says, “but you are not the only suspect.” He says, “Is there a reason you would rather face the court, should it come to that?” Mr. Darrow raises his cup, a half grin on his mouth. Trent says, “Your wife, perhaps? Marital problems, I gather, yet hardly a trade one would want.”

“How did—” Mr. Darrow begins, sets the cup down, the grin gone. “You’ve no right—” Mr. Darrow begins, eyes furrowed. “Of course it’s not worth that trade.”

“I should think not,” Trent says.

Mr. Darrow stands, leaves his coffee on the table, “Good day, Detective,” whisks himself out of the dining car. Trent follows Mr. Darrow’s retreat with his eyes and removes his hands to see the notes again.

The entrance from the passenger cars opens again. “Detective?” a voice calls. “Come quickly!”

Trent turns to a frantic Miss Gomez, opens his mouth to speak.

“Please,” Miss Gomez says, “Mrs. Carroway’s room. We found something.”

“I gave strict instructions not to—”

“Hurry!” Miss Gomez says and rushes back toward the sleepers. Trent pockets his notes and follows.

“The door was open,” Miss Gomez says, standing in the aisle in front of the room. “We didn’t touch it.” A handful of other people nod and groan in agreement.

Trent casts his eyes on them askance. “Very well,” he says, sighs. “Did you touch anything?”

“I didn’t,” Miss Gomez begins, “but—Jeremy, no!”

Trent looks out on the Alsatian countryside. He winces, rubs his throbbing temples. He’s seen this all before.

“More coffee?” the Punjabi waiter says. Trent looks up to him, a happy grin on his mustachioed face but no smile.

Trent grins back, nods, “Sure, thank you.” The waiter refills Trent’s cup, walks to another table.

Trent gulps the brew and winces again and sets it down and fishes a notebook from a breast pocket. From another pocket comes a cigarette case. He opens it, counts them with a frown, counts again, puts the case away, looks over his notes.

Mrs. C’s sleeper

Midnight to 1 am

Strands of brown hair

Blunt force

Pipe? Cane?

Blood in bed & on floor

No good prints

No witness

Suspects?

Mr. Darrow?

BODY STOLEN

The last underlined four times already, he taps it with a lazy finger, reads through the list again. A hand on his shoulder and he shudders and quickly covers his notes.

“Pardon, old boy,” Mr. Darrow says, a hint of aftershave. “Are you any further along in this business? Nasty business, that.”

Mr. Darrow sits, hands on the table. He looks out the window and sighs. “Seen it a thousand times.” He turns to Trent. “You’re an American, though”—he raises one hand for the waiter and snaps his head over his shoulder then back to Trent—“Not hungry today? Shall I get you something?”

Trent waves off the offer. “You had it right,” he says, “I’m not hungry.”

Mr. Darrow grins. “Suit yourself,” he says. The waiter returns. Mr. Darrow glances up, says “Black, please.” The waiter nods, gently smiles, fills Mr. Darrow’s cup, walks away. “And how is the investigation? Any leads?” Mr. Darrow grins, curious brow raised.

“I cannot discuss this with the passengers,” Trent says, returning his notes to his pocket.

“You mean with suspects,” Mr. Darrow says, one hand raising his coffee, the other hidden from view.

Trent smiles. “Well, there are still many suspects,” he says. “But to be up front, yes.”

The entrance from the passenger cars opens again. “Detective?” a voice calls. “Come quickly!”

Trent turns to a frantic Miss Gomez, opens his mouth to speak but shuts it again.

“Please,” Miss Gomez says, “Mrs. Carroway’s room. We found something.”

“I gave strict instructions not to—”

“Hurry!” Miss Gomez says and rushes back toward the sleepers. Trent follows with Mr. Darrow behind him.

“The door was open,” Miss Gomez says, standing in the aisle in front of the room. “We didn’t do it.” A handful of other people nod and hum in agreement.

Trent casts his eyes on them askance. “Very well,” he says, sighs. “Did you touch anything?”

The other heads turn to a young porter, cheeks blushing as his jaw drops.

“Jeremy?” Trent says. “What did I tell you?”

“I touched not a thing, sir!” Jeremy says. “Nothing important, sir.”

Trent rubs his temples. “What happened?” he says.

“Well, sir,” Jeremy says. “It’s like this, sir,” Jeremy says. “I really have to show you,” he says, and moves through the small crowd and goes into the room. They all follow, Trent first.

Jeremy stops in front of the bathroom. The door is open but the entrance appears as a shimmering translucent film. A normal sleeper bathroom shows on the other side, but the film also dimly reflects back to those looking at it like through a dirty mirror.

“My God,” Trent says. “What is it?”

He turns to survey the crowd but Mr. Darrow is nowhere in sight.

“Where is Mr. Darrow?” Trent says.

The others look around at each other, then down the hall.

“He’s gone, sir,” a maid says.

“But he was just here,” Miss Gomez says. “Someone go fetch him.”

“No, wait,” Trent says. “Leave him be.” He turns back to the strange apparition in the bathroom entrance. “What could this possibly be?” He puts one hand to his chin.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Jeremy says. He grabs a brush from the dresser, rears his arm back underhand to toss it in.

“Stop!” Trent cries.

Jeremy’s eyes go wide and he looks to Trent in terror, but it’s too late. The brush hits the shimmering film.

Trent looks out on the bright green of Alsace, both hands on his head. He winces, has seen this all before.

“Here you are, sir,” the Punjabi waiter says, laying out a gluttonous spread of bacon, eggs, tomatoes, and toast before Trent. His mustache twitches with a mild grin. 

Trent nods, “Thank you,” digs in to the food without looking up. The waiter walks to another table.

Trent gulps the eggs and winces and sets down his fork, shakes it off and tears into the bacon.

“Pardon, old boy,” Mr. Darrow says from over Trent’s shoulder. “Are you any further along in this nasty business?”

Mr. Darrow sits, hands underneath the table. Trent watches him but keeps eating. Mr. Darrow looks out the window and sighs. “If you’ve seen it once you’ve seen it a million times.” He turns to Trent. “I had no idea what I was getting into here.”

Trent cocks his head, lifts a brow.

“It affects everyone differently,” Mr. Darrow says. “Today you’re famished,” he says, nods to the plate in front of Trent, “but the headaches are universal.” On cue, he rubs his own temples and squeezes his eyes but a moment.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Trent says.

Mr. Darrow grins, flags down the waiter. The waiter returns. Mr. Darrow glances up, says “Black, please,” says “Cream.” The waiter nods, grins, winces, fills Mr. Darrow’s cup, walks away. “And how is the investigation?”

“I cannot discuss this with the pa—” Trent says, the last of a bacon strip in hand.

The waiter returns with the cream, pours a healthy dose into Mr. Darrow’s coffee.

“Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” Mr. Darrow says, one hand raising his coffee, the other hidden from view.

Trent frowns, brow down, eyes locked on Mr. Darrow.

The entrance from the passenger cars opens again. “Detective?” a voice calls. “Come quickly!”

Trent turns to a frantic Miss Gomez.

“Please,” Miss Gomez says, “Mrs. Carroway’s room. We found something.”

“I gave strict—” Trent says. “Keep everyone in the hallway!”

Miss Gomez nods and hurries back toward the sleepers. Trent gets up, starts toward the door and stops, turns to Mr. Darrow. “After you,” Trent says.

Mr. Darrow stands, pulls something from his pocket. Trent leaps for his arm, grips it in time. They struggle but Mr. Darrow overpowers him, knocks Trent to the floor, reveals the revolver.

“I am sorry, detective,” Mr. Darrow says, cocks the gun at Trent.

The waiter charges Mr. Darrow from behind in a catlike pounce, slams the carafe down onto his arm. Mr. Darrow grunts and drops the weapon.

Trent and Mr. Darrow scramble for the gun, the waiter wraps his arms around Mr. Darrow to stop him. The two men fall to the floor.

Trent and Mr. Darrow reach the revolver at the same time. Their force knocks it away underneath one of the tables. Mr. Darrow scrambles to his feet, measures the other men in a flash, then runs toward the door to the sleeper cars.

Trent glances at the waiter, nods a thanks, stumbles to his feet to pursue Mr. Darrow.

Mr. Darrow slams into the crowd outside Mrs. Carroway’s door and climbs into the room. Trent follows a moment behind, where the watchers start shuffling into the room.

Trent burrows behind them, Mr. Darrow pushes Jeremy out of the way of the bathroom entrance, where a translucent reflective shimmer stands in the doorway.

The others freeze. Mr. Darrow turns to Trent with a wide grin, then walks into the shimmer and disappears.

The crowd gasps. Two of them check on Jeremy, who is unhurt but shaken. Trent moves through them and stands before the film, staring at it, into it, through it.

“We didn’t—” Trent says, one hand exploring the door frame.

“Didn’t what?” Miss Gomez says.

Trent turns to her. “I think you know,” he says, turns to the rest. “I think we all know.”

“Didn’t reset,” comes a voice from the hallway, the Punjabi waiter.

And now the crowd erupts in murmurs.

“The headaches,” Trent says. “The déjà vu.”

Trent lets them absorb this. The rest go mute in silent agreement.

“What will you do then?” Jeremy says, eyes scared.

Trent looks at the young porter, then to the others. He takes a breath, then turns to the shimmer. He straightens his suit, smooths out his hair, and walks through the portal.