One Last Trip South

It is always pleasant to watch as I pass by the trees. Orchards are especially pleasant as there was a rhythmic pattern to their passing in and out of my perspective. They look like a geometric illusion, and it feels like walking past infinite hallways… one after another, after another, and so on. Something about that just helps to calm the nerves of travel.

Sadly, there is no orchard going past at this moment. But the random assortment and fluctuation of trees can still be relaxing in its own way. Occasionally a tree will pass by much closer than I expected, and it will pull me out of the shallow lull I drift into on my travels. This time my tranquility was broken by a knock at the door.

“Mr. Bird,” the attendant says through the door. “Do you need anything from the cart?”

“A little jasmine tea please,” I reply a little sharper than I mean to. Some water pours into a cup and the attendant opens up the door. The woman has a remarkably plain face, but her eyes have just a hint of violet to them and she has the barest trace of a scar on her upper lip.

“Here you go Mr. Bird,” she hands me the tea and is out the door before I can give her a tip, or even say thank you. Perhaps I was a little too sharp with my order, but I can’t say that I am disappointed. I can barely hear the wheels of the cart on the carpeted floor as the attendant moves on, happily leaving me with my thoughts again.

I used to fly whenever I needed to travel, but as I got older I found the train to be a more fulfilling experience. True, it takes longer, but I enjoy being able to actually see the country instead of viewing it like some far off ant farm. There is also something to be said for taking your time. Being able to have a small cabin to myself also has its own benefits. Nobody to make unwanted idle conversation, being able to stretch out to my heart’s content, oh… and not having anybody trying to make unwanted idle conversation.

I never really like to chitchat with people, and it was always a risk when flying… even in first class. I suppose it wouldn’t be much of a problem if I had something to talk about with most other people. But there really wasn’t much I could do to relate with them. I didn’t have a family, so that made such conversations awkward. I didn’t like to talk about my hobbies, so that made such conversations one sided. It wasn’t really safe to talk about my work… for myself or for anyone I might talk to, so that put that option right out. So rather than try to participate in something that I would get no satisfaction from, I chose to avoid it altogether.

I sip on my jasmine tea and grimace a bit. I didn’t ask for sugar, but she put it in all the same. I choke down the little in my mouth and put down the cup. I am not drinking this.

I grab my workbag and prepare to leave my cabin. The dining car is open and shouldn’t be too crowded at this time. I can get a proper cup of tea, maybe a snack to go with it, get a little last minute work done, and not deal with that attendant who couldn’t not ruin a simple drink.

There aren’t many people in the dining car. It’s well after lunch, but not quite time for dinner yet. I find a table where I can sit with my back to the window, and set up to do some work.

A server comes up to me with a menu and presents it to me. “Would you like to hear about our specials?” he asks.

“Thank you, no.” I am spreading out documents and profiles with mug shots while I wait for my computer to boot up. “I’d like some jasmine tea, no sugar or anything else added to it.” The computer screen prompted me to enter my password, which I quickly type in. “And a club sandwich please.”

The tea comes quickly, no sugar or anything else added. It is such a simple, but satisfying pleasure. The sandwich takes a bit longer than I’d hoped, and I am well into my work when it arrives. The timing could be a little better, but a full stomach will help me concentrate on the records I need to go through.

As I’m eating, I notice that I have the attention of another passenger in the dining car. At first I try to put it out of my mind. This isn’t a common occurrence for me, and about halfway through my food I feel uncomfortable. The gentleman stands up and approaches me as I finish my food.

“Are you Mr. Alistair Bird?” his voice is very plain about the question.

“I am a Mr. Bird,” I don’t want attention, especially this kind of attention. My work has largely been in anonymous investigative reporting, and when someone recognizes me it makes me nervous. I am anonymous for a reason; most of the stories I uncover make some people unimaginably unhappy.

One of those stories is actually why I am on this little trip. I managed to infuriate a local Canadian mob boss with an exposé on some human trafficking he was responsible for. Although I do my reports anonymously, I’m not naïve enough to think that nobody I might enrage could ever find me. So I am heading out of the area for the season, at the end of which mister mafia boss should be imprisoned and I should be relatively safe from reprisal.

“I’m detective Anderson,” my observer reached out with an open hand. “I wanted to let you know the story you did exposing Mayor Tunder a few years back really helped my town turn around.”

“Sorry,” I say, “I’m not sure who you think I am…”

“No, it’s okay Mr. Bird,” he interrupts me, withdrawing his hand. “I don’t mean to be a problem. I just wanted to say thank you. I’ll leave you to your business.” He turns around and sits back at his table, making an apparent effort to not observe me.

It doesn’t appear that I will have fewer distractions than I do now, so I set out to resume my work. One at a time I start going through my files, some digital some physical, then something happens. Suddenly the light in the dining car is intense, blindingly so, and my vision starts going in and out of focus.

This isn’t normal, is it? What am I thinking? Of course this isn’t normal!

Something is wrong, something is seriously wrong. I need to get up. I need medical attention. As I get up I lose my balance and fall onto the floor, hard. I clip my table on the way and knock off my computer and documents. I can hear them falling around me, and some of the documents land in front of my blurring line of vision. One of the pictures in the file lands in front of my face. It’s a woman with just a hint of violet in her eyes, and a pronounced scar on her upper lip.

Neurons are firing and misfiring now, but I think I’ve got enough brain power to correctly guess I’ve been poisoned and that the trolley woman, who bears an uncanny resemblance to this picture from my files, was the one who did it.

“Mr. Bird! Are you okay?” I think I recognize the voice of the detective who introduced himself to me.

I try to make out the words, “Poison,” and “trolley lady,” but I’m not sure if I do. Things start to go dark, and I begin to ponder the strangest thing as they do.  I’ve traveled south before to avoid the fallout of cases I’d worked on before, but I didn’t suspect that this might be my last trip.