The door to my room was unlocked, so I opened it and cautiously looked outside into the corridor. There were doors to the left and right and, at the end of the corridor, a door that presumably led to a larger room.

I decided the best way to look for a murder is simply to go down the row of doors and knock on each one. I started with the door immediately to my right, gave it three knocks, and then waited. A few seconds after my last knock, the door opened an inch and a woman looked out. She had brown hair, cut short and curled around her ears. Her face had a kind of sweet innocence to it.

"Yes?" she said.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," I said, "but could you tell me what train this is and where it is going?"

"You don't know what train you got on?" she asked, still holding the door an inch from shutting.

"I'm afraid I was put on this train against my will," I said. "I just woke up in that room." I gestured to the room.

Before I could say more, the woman asked, "Did you find a note?"

"I'm sorry?" I said.

"A note," she said. "Did you find a note on you? A note saying your name and role?"

I blinked. "Yes," I said. "How did you know?"

She opened the door fully and I could see she was wearing a short-sleeved black dress that went down to her knees. It fit her quite snugly and I'm afraid I took a long glance, although I was lucky and she didn't notice. She had turned to the chair, similar to the one in my room, and picked up a slip of paper, which she then handed to me.

It read:

You are Kitty Collins, a famous actress.
You are a potential suspect or a potential victim.
The choice is yours.
Enjoy the show.

"What does it mean?" Kitty asked.

"It means," I said, "that someone is playing a very dangerous game. And we appear simply to be the pieces."

"What do you remember?" I asked Ms. Collins. She anxiously chewed on her nails.

"Not much," she said after a few moments of silence. "I remember being an actress, like the note says, but little else. It's like...everything is in a fog. I know it's there, but when I try to reach out and remember it, it slips through my fingers."

I realized as she said that that it was true for me as well. I remembered being a detective, but nothing else of my former life. It was like my name: I didn't realize I didn't remember it until I tried.

"Well," I said, "let's see if there are others like us on this train, shall we?" I offered my arm to Ms. Collins and she gingerly took it. I led the way down the corridor and knocked on the next door. And then the one after that and the one after that. This is who we found:

An older gentleman, short and obese. He wiped the sweat off of his brow with a handkerchief frequently as we read his note:

You are Kasper Gutman, a famous art collector.
You seek something that is lost.
Find it at all costs.
Enjoy the show.

A man in his forties, well-dressed and clean, yet with a haggard look. He looked confident, but reluctantly admitted his own amnesia and passed us his note:

You are Dixon Steele, a famous screenwriter.
Wracked with writer's block, you seek release.
Within these walls, you will find it.
Enjoy the show.

And then there was the woman in the black dress. She had blonde hair, wavy like the ocean, curling down her back, and she wore long silk gloves that covered her upper arms. She merely raised one curious eyebrow at Ms. Collins and I and handed over her note.

You are Gilda Farrell, a famous singer.
You are escaping a crumbling marriage.
How far will you go to escape?
Enjoy the show.

Finally, we found ourselves outside the last room, the room farthest to the right. I knocked three times and nobody answered.

"Perhaps there's nobody inside?" Kitty said.

"Let's find out," I said and turned the knob on the door. It slid open easily, without a creak, and we peeked inside the room. It was the same as the others: a cushioned chair, a bed, a window. The only difference in this room was that the inhabitant was on the floor, his face frozen in a contortion of pain.

I didn't need to check his pulse. I knew he was dead.

I stepped into the room and carefully walked around the body. Ms. Collins followed me, her gaze never leaving the man on the floor who had clearly died in a lot of agony. His face was frozen in a grimace of pain, yet I could see no wound. I walked around him, careful not to touch his body and contaminate any evidence that might have been left by the murderer.

The dead man was tall, I estimated around six foot, and had thinning gray hair. He looked to be in his late forties and had been wearing a suit and tie at the time of his death. On his chest, folded, was another note. I gingerly picked it up and opened it, with Ms. Collins looking at it from over my shoulder.

It read:

This is the victim.
The curtains rise.
Let the show begin.

"What does that mean?" Ms. Collins asked.

"It means," I said, "that apparently someone is getting some sort of sick entertainment from this."

As Ms. Collins came closer to the body, her curiosity getting the better of her, I turned away from it and looked around the room. There was a briefcase on the chair and I went to it, hoping that it was unlocked. It was and the briefcase snapped open revealing a number of different files inside, each one stamped with the letters "FT."

I looked around the briefcase for some indication of who the murdered man was, when I heard Ms. Collins say, "I don't think he's dead!"

I turned to look at her. She was leaning over the body and I could see the swell of her chest. I swallowed and turned my gaze from her and asked, "Why do you think that?"

"I heard him sigh!" she exclaimed.

"The dead often sigh," I said. "It's just gases that build up after death and then are released through the windpipe. The dead have been known to groan, as well."

"Do they smoke, too?" Ms. Collins asked.

"Do they what?" I turned and looked at the body. Smoke was rising from the dead man's mouth. "Ms. Collins, I think you should back away now."

Ms. Collins stood up and backed away from the body. "So the smoking is unusual, I take it?" she said.

"That is an understatement," I said. It was my turn to lean forward. I reached out and finally touched the neck of the dead man to feel if he had a pulse. He had none and a little part of me was relieved that I had not been wrong, but then I realized that the man's skin was unusually hot. I felt the skin a bit more and suddenly the heat rose and I pulled my hand backward to avoid burning it.

His skin was like a stove top now. I could see it turning red and rippling, burning up from the inside. The man's face contorted more as the heat washed over it and made his eyes bubble inside their sockets. His skin seemed to break apart and smoke released itself from the cracks and crevices of his shredded skin.

Soon, the room was filled with smoke and I said, "We need to leave." Ms. Collins, to her credit, had already opened the door again and was trying to empty the room of the smoke. I took one last look around the room, grabbed the briefcase, and then left as well.

Out in the corridor, we took deep grateful breaths. Finally, I took the briefcase again and suggested we look through it. Ms. Collins was quick to dive her hand into the briefcase and managed to pull out a square plastic badge.

"It looks like its from the man's workplace," she said. "Some place called the Topography Genera Center?"

"Well, it's a start," I said looking at the name on the badge. "Now, we have to figure out who killed Doctor Cloud."

I closed Doctor Cloud's briefcase and carefully reopened the door to his room. It was still filled with smoke, but enough had escaped through the open window that I was able to get a good picture of what had happened to Doctor Cloud's body. It looked grayish-white now, with curls of smoke coming off of it. As I watched, his body collapsed down into a pile of ash.

"Well," I said, "that was...unusual."

"Why did that happen?" Ms. Collins asked.

"I'd be lying if I said I knew," I said. "But I intend to find out. Perhaps it has to do with the drug."

"Drug?" Ms. Collins asked.

"The drug we were all given," I said. "The drug that gave us all amnesia, for it has to have been a drug. How else would five people all get amnesia at the same time?"

"Oh," she said. "I assumed that was the Cremator."

"The what?" I asked. "What is the Cremator?"

"I...don't remember," she said, her brow scrunched. "I just remember the name. Someone telling me about him. Perhaps it was a bedtime story, it certainly sounded like one."

"And what story would that be?" I asked.

"'The Cremator takes what you remember,'" she recited, "'and writes it in his book. When your mind is but an ember, that's when you're on his hook.'"

"Curious," I said. "I must say that it does look like Doctor Cloud was cremated. Perhaps there is a link between our amnesia, what happened to poor Doctor Cloud, and this Cremator."

At that moment, the heretofore unnoticed intercom system crackled to life. The man on the other end coughed twice and then said, "Excuse me, monsieurs and madams, breakfast shall be served in the dining car in five minutes. Thank you."

"Ms. Collins," I said. "I wonder if you won't mind accompanying me to breakfast?"

"It will be my pleasure, Mr. Lönnrot," she said.

Arm in arm, Ms. Collins and I walked through the door of the car we had been in and into the dining car. There were several tables set up, along with an array of fruits already available. I took a grape and popped it into my mouth. I hadn't realized it right now how hungry I was -- I didn't remember the last time I had eaten anything.

Over the next five minutes, I watched as Kasper Gutman trundled in, looked vaguely annoyed at the fruit, and then plopped down on one of the chairs; Dixon Steele strode confidently into the car, ignored the fruit, and sat down across from Gutman; and Gilda Farrell leisurely walked into the car, her hips swaying with the back-and-forth of the train, and selected a particularly ripe slice of melon. She sat down as well and started to deliciously devour it in front of everyone. I swallowed, suddenly aware of how hot it was.

After another minute, a man walked into the dining car pushing a trolley which was holding several covered silver platters. The man was wearing the traditional conductor's uniform with a button-down vest, along with a silver pocket watch, the chain dangling in a loop.

"Good morning, monsieurs and madams," he said. "For breakfast, we have eggs, scrambled, fried, and poached; toast, with and without butter; biscuits, fresh and hot; and, of course, coffee, both caffeinated and decaffeinated. If you wish to have anything else, I can always pass along your request to the cook."

"I have a question," I said. "Who are you?"

The man did not seem perturbed by what should be an unusual query. "I am the conductor, sir," he said.

"And what do you do?" I asked.

"I conduct," he said.

"And what is your name?" I asked.

"I do not require a name," he said, "and thus do not have one. If you wish to call on me, you can call me simply 'the conductor.' There is no other conductor on board, so there shall be no confusion."

"But surely you must have a name," I said.

"Must I?" he said. "If I do, I have no recollection of it."

"Doesn't that worry you?" I asked.

"Should it?" he said. "I am but a bit player in all of this, sir. I have no need of a name." And with that, he removed the covers of the silver trays with a flourish and we were treated to the sight of a delectable array of breakfast foods.

Everyone dived in. Kasper Gutman, especially, had a very large plate of fried eggs, biscuits, and gravy. Even Gilda Farrell ate, after she delicately removed her long gloves, pulling each slender finger out.

I approached the conductor. Someone had obviously drugged him, as well, to make him so comfortable with not knowing his own name. There was no use in me questioning about that further, so I asked, "And the cook?"

"What about her?" he said.

"Does she have a name?" I asked.

"She is the cook," he said. "Her role is to cook and prepare the food. What use would a name be?"

"But we all have names," I said.

"Your names all serve a purpose," he said. "You have use for them. We do not."

"Then, is there anyone else on board?" I asked. "Or is it just seven? Five passengers, the conductor, and the cook?"

At this, the conductor glanced around nervously. "There is an eighth person on board," he said. "Though I am not allowed to tell you more."

"Not allowed by whom?" I asked. "Who is pulling the strings here?"

"I'm sorry, sir," he said. "I cannot tell you more. What I can tell you is that we are now entering familiar territory."

"Familiar territory?" I said. "I don't understand."

"Familiar to your job, sir," the conductor said. "I was given to understand that you are a famous detective. This must all be familiar to you, sir."

"Yes," I said. "Yes, it must."

"There is someone else aboard," I whispered to Ms. Collins. "The conductor told me that there was an eighth person."

"Are you sure?" Ms. Collins asked. "I believe I already counted eight people."

"The cook and the conductor are two," I said, "plus the five passengers here in this dining car make seven."

"And Doctor Cloud," Ms. Collins said. "Does he not count because he's dead?"

I stood there, looking at the pretty face of Ms. Collins and realized what a fool I had been. I had completely forgotten about Doctor Cloud -- was he the eighth person that the conductor had talked about? Was I simply chasing a red herring?

I walked urgently toward the conductor again. He was placing the covers over the silver trays, which now looked like several tornadoes had hit them, causing massive damage to the lakes of egg and buildings of toast. "Excuse me," I said and he looked up at me. "When I asked you how many people were on board, were you including the deceased passenger?"

"Oh yes," he said. "Alive or dead, a passenger is a passenger."

"So that makes six passengers," I said, "and two crew members. That's eight."

"Oh no," he said. "There are only five passengers."

"Five? But surely-"

"Five passengers," he said, "two crew members, and one stowaway." He raised his hand to his mouth, as if he had let slip a secret. "I'm sorry, I need to be going." He trundled the cart with the silver trays through the door at the end of the dining car and it closed behind him.

Five passengers, two crew members, and one stowaway. And if Doctor Cloud counted as a passenger...

I looked at the five people assembled in the dining car. One of them wasn't a passenger. One of them was faking.

One of them was a killer.

I had trusted Ms. Kitty Collins so far, but could I continue to do so? Could she be the stowaway, the killer of Doctor Cloud? She looked at me in anticipation.

"What did he say?" she asked.

I came to a decision: I had to trust someone or else I would be completely alone. "There are five passengers, two crew members, and one stowaway," I repeated what the conductor had said. "So since Doctor Cloud was one of the passengers, one of the people in this room isn't. The stowaway is probably the person who killed him, as well."

"What for?" Ms. Collins asked.

"Some secret he knew," I said. "He worked for the Topography Genera Center -- a place that has great secrecy, I suspect. Someone must have known he was here and tortured him for what he knew. That's why he looked in such pain." I looked around the dining car. "We need to interview everyone here. We need to know what they remember. Or see if they are lying." My gaze fell squarely on Kasper Gutman. He was reading a newspaper and chewing on a leftover biscuit.

I approached him and said, "Mister Gutman, would you mind accompanying me toward my room?"

"What for?" he said gruffly.

"I need to ask everyone a few questions," I said. "And since they are questions of a delicate matter -- concerning a death on this train -- I assume you would want them asked in privacy."

"And on what authority would you have to ask me anything?" he said.

"On the authority of being a detective," I said, "and apparently a famous one, per my note. And since I am famous, if I so chose to point my finger at you for the murderer, would anyone disagree? Be cooperative now, Mister Gutman."

He grunted and then got up from his chair, leaving an impression of his backside in the cushions. He followed us back to my room and, when we got there, sat down with a heave.

"Do you remember arriving on this train?" I asked. He shook his head. "Anything before you awoke?"

"Bits and pieces," he said.

"The note," I said, "said you were looking for something that was lost. Do you remember what it is?"

His eyes lit up at the mention of that. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I remember clearly what I seek."

"And what is that?" I asked.

"Forgiveness," he said. I raised an eyebrow, but he continued: "It's the name of a statue, a marble statue of a beautiful woman. She is raising her palms to the sky...and from her palms drips blood."

"A statue with stigmata?" I said.

"Yes," he said. "It was rumored to be a statue of Athena in the Greek Parthenon. The locals called it 'the Strix,' which means 'owl,' Athena's favored animal."

"And it bled?"

"Yes," he said. "Or that's how the rumors go. The statue disappeared hundreds of years ago. I remember getting word recently that it had reappeared...and that's why I'm here. To look for it."

"Fascinating," I said.

"May I go now?" Gutman asked.

"Yes, you may," I said.

After he left, Ms. Collins turned to me and asked, "Do you believe him?"

"Yes, actually, I do," I said. "Why make up a lie so outlandish? Lies are usually mundane, not bleeding statues."

"So that's one down," she said, "four to go."

"Before question the next passenger, we should perhaps look through the briefcase that was retrieved from Doctor Cloud's room," I said. "To know our killer, we need to know our victim as well."

Ms. Collins presented me with the black briefcase. Inside was the picture-less plastic badge with Doctor Cloud's name and access on it (apparently, he had "Access Color WHITE"). Aside from the badge, there were three files and they were labeled: FT-CURATOR, FT-SATI, and FT-STRIGA.

Unfortunately, all three files were empty, which meant that they were pretty much useless; although there was a small scrap of paper in the FT-SATI folder which had a date, time, and number. "What do you suppose that means?" I asked Ms. Collins.

"I think it's the train number," she said. "I saw it on the door to the dining car."

"Hmm," I said. "So Doctor Cloud was here for a mysterious purpose as well. Alright, let's bring in our next suspect."

Ms. Collins left the compartment and several minutes later walked in with Dixon Steele, still looking haggard, yet confident.

"Mr. Steele," I said. "Please sit." He sat without saying a word. "I understand you are a screenwriter. What kind of movies do you write?"

"The ones they don't make," he said. "At least, the most recent ones. I used to have quite a prominent career, no blockbusters, but steady work."

"And now?"

He waved his hands, as if he didn't want to talk about it. "It's fine," he said. "I'm just having a dry spell."

"Your note indicated as such," I said. "You have writer's block, so you came on this trip in an attempt to cure it?"

"That's what I remember," he said.

"Is there anything else you remember?" I asked. "Anything at all?"

Mr. Steele sat in his chair and his eyes looked down and it seemed like he was looking at something far off in the distance. "I remember meeting a man," he said. "A man wearing sunglasses. And he was holding a book. He..." Mr. Steele paused and closed his eyes. "He asked me what my name was and I couldn't tell him. He said there was to be an...experiment and then...I woke up here."

The man in the sunglasses must be our mysterious puppet master and he obviously hadn't been able to erase all of Mr. Steele's memories, for which I was grateful.

"Lastly," I said, "can you remember anything about the man in the last room? His name was Doctor Cloud?"

"No," Mr. Steele said. "All I remember is you and Ms. Collins over there knocking on the door."

"Thank you for your cooperation," I said and Mr. Steele got up from his seat, looking slightly perturbed, and left.

"He doesn't appear to have any motive for murder," Ms. Collins said.

"We only have his word for that," I said. "And so very little clues."

The next suspect was Mrs. Gilda Farrell. I watched as Ms. Collins entered the room and she sauntered in behind her. Ms. Collins turned and gave her what I believe was a very sharp look -- her eyes squinted and her head tilted, obviously disapproving of the way that Mrs. Farrell walked and how she presented herself. Perhaps it was jealousy. After all, Ms. Collins was very beautiful in her own right, but next to Mrs. Farrell she looked somewhat plain.

"Thank you for cooperating," I said as Mrs. Farrell carefully sat down and then placed a dinner length cigarette holder in her mouth and lit it.

"My pleasure," she said as she exhaled a cloud of smoke. Ms. Collins pointedly coughed.

"As per your note," I said, "you are here to escape your current marriage?"

"I suppose," she said, "I can't really remember."

"Do you remember anything?" I asked.

She took another drag of the cigarette and let out the smoke in an upwards stream. "No," she said.

"Nothing at all?" I asked.

"Nothing," she said. "It's all just a blank. I remember my name, of course, but beyond that..." She shrugged, creating interesting ripples across her chest, which made me catch my breath.

"Everyone else seems to remember something," Ms. Collins said. "Even if it's only something small or insignificant. But you remember nothing at all?" She said the last sentence somewhat irritably.

"Sorry to disappoint you, darling," she said to Ms. Collins, a wry grin on her face.

"You seem to be taking this very nonchalantly," I asked. "You've lost your entire memory."

"There's no use wailing on about that," she said. "What's done is done. All we can do is keep it keeping going, like this train."

Ms. Collins gave her a dirty look and I said, "Thank you." Then I escorted her to the door and watched as she walked back to the dining car.

"I don't like her," Ms. Collins said.

"That was obvious," I said. "Is there any reason?"

"She just...rubs me the wrong way," she said.

"Well," I said, "though there is something to be said for gut feelings, we still have no hard evidence."

"I guess it's time for another interview," Ms. Collins said.

"And who is there left to interview?" I asked.

"Me," she said.

"Alright," I said. "I believe I can trust you, but if you insist, I can interview you as well."

"I do insist," Ms. Collins said. "I don't want to be seen as getting preferential treatment. After all, I could be the killer."

"Your note did indicate that you were a potential suspect or a potential victim," I said. "Very well. You are an actress, correct?"

"Yes," she said.

"Do you remember anything you've been in?" I asked.

"I have vague memories of plays," she said, "but the most vivid memory is a movie shoot. I remember shooting a scene for a movie called..." She snapped her fingers a few times. "It's on the tip of my tongue, I know I remember it."

"Don't strain yourself," I said, "we're all having this problem."

"No, I know I remember it," she said. "I remember the name. Oh!" Her eyes lit up. "It was called The Killers."

"The Killers?" I said. "Are they remaking that again?"

"Remake?" Ms. Collins said.

"Yes, there was a film in the Forties and one in the Sixties," I said. "I...don't know why I remember that."

"Perhaps our memories are coming back," she said.

"Perhaps," I said. "Perhaps you had better interview me now. I am, after all, the last passenger left."

"Mr. Erik Lönnrot," Ms. Collins said. "You are a detective?"

"Yes," I said. "At least, that's what I remember doing. I remember... investigating things."

"Crimes?" she asked.

"I believe so," I said. "I remember a fondness for forensics. Performing small experiments. But specific crimes... I don't remember."

"That's alright," Ms. Collins said. "Do you remember specifically why you were on this train?"

"I'm afraid I don't," I said. "The last thing I remember was... walking. I was walking down a street."

"I don't remember why I'm here either," Ms. Collins said, "and I don't believe you should be a suspect, so there's no need for me to interview you any further."

"That's kind of you to say," I said, "but that still leaves us with nothing. We have one collector after a lost statue, one writer after inspiration, one singer who isn't after anything, and then you and I, with memories that provide no clues or context. I'm afraid these interviews only provided more questions and no answers."

I sat there, as if to stew in my own despondency, when I saw a piece of paper slip under the door. I got up and hurriedly opened the door, but whoever had left the paper was already gone. I double checked the dining car just to be sure that Mr. Gutman, Mr. Steele, and Mrs. Farrell were still there.

When I got back to the room, Ms. Collins was already looking at the piece of paper. She wordlessly handed it to me and I read it:

The symptoms of FT-SATI include increased temperature, occasional emission of smoke from the mouth, nose, and other orifices, including, at the late stage, the pores. Post-mortem examination of an FT-SATI victim show sublimation of inner organs and then almost complete calcification of the outer tissues.


"Someone appears to be giving us clues," I said. "Because I believe we now know what happened to poor Doctor Cloud."

"This FT-SATI must be a poison of some sort," I said. "But to do what it did to Doctor Cloud...I'm not sure how you would make such a poison or how it would work. Setting that aside, however, statistically, females are more likely to poison their victims than males."

"Is that true?" Ms. Collins asked.

"I'm afraid it is," I said. "So that leaves either you or Ms. Farrell. And I don't believe you did it."

"But, what if it isn't a poison?" Ms. Collins said. "What happened to the body... that was unnatural. It was like there was a fire inside him. Can a poison really do that?"

"Perhaps," I said. "Let us interview Ms. Farrell again, shall we? Perhaps we can clear all this up with some well-placed questions."

When we approached Ms. Farrell, she was leisurely leaning on a padded chair and humming a tune I thought I recognized. It sounded very familiar.

I stopped. "Is something wrong?" Ms. Collins asked.

"What film did you say you were a part of again?" I asked.

"The Killers," she said. "Why?"

"I remember," I said. "I know who the stowaway is."

I strode forward into the center of the dining car and said in a loud, clear voice, "Attention, ladies and gentlemen. If you would all come forward, I have solved a mystery that has been plaguing this train. It's just one of many, but you need to all hear it."

They gathered around me, like bees to a pot of honey. Kasper, Dixon, Kitty, and there was Gilda. She gave me a smirk and I knew I had it correct.

"I have discovered the identity of the stowaway," I said.

"There was a stowaway?" Mr. Gutman asked.

"Yes," I said. "I suspect they entered the train in order to kill Doctor Cloud and steal his research. They must not have been able to leave however, leading to their accomplice -- this 'Cremator' person -- drugging us and giving us amnesia."

"Get out with it already, then," Mr. Steele said.

"Yes," Ms. Collins said, "I'm quite anxious to know who it is as well."

"Very well," I said. "Ms. Farrell, step forward."

She smiled her wolf smile and stepped forward without hesitation. That made me nervous at first, nervous that I had made some sort of mistake, but I knew I hadn't. So stood up straight, brushed off my sleeves, and said clearly, "You are the stowaway."

"And how do you know that?" she asked.

"The first clue," I said, "was in the fact that you claimed to remember nothing. All of us remembered at least some part of our past lives, except for you. And then I remembered something. Ms. Collins--" I turned to Kitty. "--remembered being a part of the film The Killers. I remember that film and I remember there was a character called Kitty Collins in it." I turned to Mr. Gutman. "And there was a character named Kasper Gutman in The Maltese Falcon." I turned to Mr. Steele. "And there was a character named Dixon Steele in In a Lonely Place."

"And me?" Ms. Farrell asked. "Where am I from?"

"From the film Gilda, of course," I said. "All of these are film noirs and you are all archetypes in them. The corrupt collector. The washed out writer. The femme fatale. Except, we already have a femme fatale, Ms. Farrell. Kitty Collins was the femme fatale in The Killers. Which meant that you weren't supposed to be here. You are the one who doesn't fit."

She began to clap. Each clap unnerved me. She was supposed to confess, but she looked... joyful. Happy.

"You are certainly impressive," she said. "They told me you would figure it out and I only had to give you a small clue, didn't I? The song I was humming. That made you remember, didn't it?"

"Yes," I said softly. "But I can't remember what song it is."

"Don't worry," she said. She pulled something from her purse. It was a silver and white mask. "This mystery isn't over just yet, but if you want someone to blame..." She put on the mask. It fit like another face. "...you can always put the blame on Mame."

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I told you, dear," she said. "The name is Mame. And I can honestly say I'm only person here who chose their name. You were all given yours."

"By you or your accomplice?" I said. "I suspect you were to give him the secrets of SATI when you departed this train, correct?" I tried not to be nervous, but something about how nonchalant she was made me anxious. She wasn't worried in the slightest.

"Oh, dear, you still don't get it," Mame said. "I'm not here to do anything. I didn't even kill the poor passenger you called Doctor Cloud. I'm just here because I thought it would be a hoot."

"What?" I said.

"I wanted some fun," Mame said. "And now that you've spoiled it all, I shall be going."

"We're on a moving train," I said. "If you jump, you'll probably die."

"Jump?" Mame said. "I would never do anything so bourgeois. I can just lift the curtain of this little play and step outside." She raised her hand and snapped one finger. Behind her, there was a great whooshing sound and I could see something, something that looked like a rip. A rip in the air. Just looking at it made me feel queasy. I took one glimpse and saw something resembling a tree before I diverted my eyes. I placed my head down, thinking I would be sick.

Mame leaned down and whispered beside my ear. "The funny thing is, you were wrong about so many things. You bought it all, hook, line, and sinker. Follow the straight line, they said, but they're the ones who made it. Don't you remember?" She leaned in closer and I could feel her breath, the cold mask on my face. "Don't you remember, Doctor Cloud?"

And then with a laugh she was gone.

After she had gone, I stood there for a while with my head down and my eyes closed. "Are you alright?" Ms. Collins asked.

Her name isn't Ms. Collins. You don't know her name. You were stupid to ever think they would give you your real names.

Your real name isn't Erik Lönnrot.

Your real name isn't Doctor Cloud.

You don't know your real name.

"Erik?" Ms. Collins said softly. "Erik?"

"That's not my name," I said. "They gave us these names, they set us on our paths. We only remember what they want us to remember."

"Who?" Ms. Collins asked.

"I don't know," I said. "I don't know anything."

No, I do know something. I know what I found. (What they let me find.) It still means something. It still means SOMETHING. IT STILL MEANS SOMETHING.

My mind screamed and I opened my eyes.

"Mr. Gutman," I said and turned to the obese gentleman. "You said you were searching for Forgiveness, also known as the Strix."

"Yes," he said. He was sweating more profusely now. "Yes, I am."

"No," I said, "you are searching for Striga."

"Striga?" he said. "Just another word for Strix."

"Another word for owl," I said. "A night owl."

I know something.

It all means something.

"Night owl?" Ms. Collins said. "What does that mean?"

"It means I was all wrong," I said. "Everything I ever said was wrong. The man who died wasn't Doctor Cloud. What killed him wasn't poison. No one here is who they say they are. Not even me."

"How do you know that?" she asked.

"Because I'm Doctor Cloud," I said. "The briefcase, the badge, they were mine. The man in the last room must have stolen them before he died. I assumed he was Doctor Cloud because they wanted me to assume it."

"You keep on saying 'they,' but who are they?" Ms. Collins asked. "You are starting to sound a little crazy, Mr. Lönnrot."

"I told you, I'm not Erik Lönnrot," I said. "There were three files in the briefcase. FT-CURATOR, FT-SATI, and FT-STRIGA. They were taken because... because they were all involved here. Curator, that must be the Cremator, the one who took our memories. And Sati killed the thief. And Striga..."

I turned to look at Mr. Gutman. "You said that the statue bled," I said. "Did it have any other strange properties. Any at all?"

Mr. Gutman wiped the sweat off of his brow with a white handkerchief and said, "Yes, there was another reason I wanted it. The blood from its palms was said to be a very powerful, um, aphrodisiac."

Sex. My mind ran. Sex and death.

It all means something, I just can't see it.

The bell above us rang and the conductor's voice came through the intercom: "We have arrived at our destination, monsieurs and madam. We shall be disembarking once we come to a complete halt."

It was almost over.

I had failed.

The train slowly pulled to a stop. The doors unlocked and then opened by themselves. There was a bright light outside. It made everything inside into a yellow hue.

I had failed. I hadn't found the murderer. I thought I had, but I had been all wrong. All wrong about everything.

Wait.

"Wait," I said. The others were cautiously looking outside, even Ms. Collins. "Wait!" I screamed.

They turned to look at me. "We want to leave," Mr. Steele said. "Please let us leave," Mr. Gutman said.

"I know who killed him," I said. "The thief. The man I thought was Doctor Cloud. I know who led Sati to him, who led us on this mystery tour. I know who the murderer is."

Ms. Collins came up to me and grabbed my hand. "You can inform the police then," she said, "but this train...I'm afraid to stay here any longer. We need to leave this place."

"Not until I tell you," I said.

"Fine," she said, "then just tell me."

"You killed him," I said.

Ms. Collins recoiled. "What?" she said. "I... I didn't... I haven't killed anyone..."

"Drop the act," I said. "Your note said you were a potential suspect or a potential victim. Your choice. Only you had a choice. Only you, because you wrote it. You wrote all the notes, Striga."

"Striga?" she said. "I don't even know what that means. Please, Erik-"

"That's not my name," I said. "I've told you it's not my name, so why do you insist on calling me that? Is it because you are trying to adhere to the 'straight line' you put me on? You led me along the mystery, but you were the femme fatale all along."

She lowered her face, her hands together like she was praying. Then she looked up and I saw her eyes. They had turned red. "You still don't know a thing, Doctor Cloud," she said. "I'm afraid you've come to all the wrong conclusions. And I had such high hopes."

"Striga," I said. "Not quite a statue, Mr. Gutman." I turned to look at him, when I saw that he was looking at me with red eyes as well. I looked at Mr. Steele and his eyes were the same, as red as the setting sun.

"What have you done to them?" I asked.

"They tasted of me," Striga said. "They became a part of me and I a part of them. We are the Strix, Doctor."

"The Night Owl," I said. "You are the Night Owl."

Striga smiled. "We await you in familiar territory, Doctor Cloud."

I felt a sharp blow, a stabbing pain, and then only blackness.

I woke up on the floor of the train. I groaned and got up, staggering to the door and then outside.

The bright light I had seen was from a series of large floodlights. They surrounded the train. Well, I say train, but it wasn't even on any tracks. It was on some sort of mechanism that shook the train, however. And there was the backdrop, which moved with a switch.

I was literally on a stage.

How had it fooled me? Had I wanted to believe this was a locked room mystery so badly that I had ignored what was in front of me the whole time? Or had they done something to make me believe?

But I knew now.

There was no sign of Ms. Collins or Mr. Gutman or Mr. Steele. No sign of the conductor or the cook. All of them had been part of the Strix.

My memory has been slowly coming back to me. I remember what my name is, my real name, not the Genera name.

And I remember the files I had been reading. The research I was doing, trying to figure out what the "Night Owl" was. I thought it had been Fossil-Type CURATOR or perhaps Fossil-Type SATI, when I had come across a file labeled Fossil-Type STRIGA. Ironically, there was nothing actually in it. It had been emptied long ago, so there was no need to steal it.

And yet now I seem to know more about it.

And worryingly, they know about me.

I wrote all this tonight as a record, so that even if they take my memory again, I shall have something to remind me. I will keep a copy of this account with me at all times. I hope this will be enough, but somehow I doubt it.

I shall go back to work now, back to the Genera. My break has gone on long enough.

There is one more mystery to be solved however. The name they gave me: Erik Lönnrot. I have finally figured out why they had given me that name.

It is the name of a famous detective in the story "Death and the Compass," by Jorge Luis Borges. Lönnrot investigates a series of murders and believes them to be the work of Red Scharlach, his nemesis, who is attempting to perform a kabbalistic ritual. But Lönnrot is wrong. The murders were a ruse just to lead him to Scharlach, so Scharlach could have revenge. Before Lönnrot dies, he tells Scharlach that his ruse was too complicated, that he could have led him down a maze that consisted of a straight line.

"The next time I kill you," Scharlach replied, "I promise you the labyrinth that consists of a single straight line that is invisible and endless."

This is why they named me Erik Lönnrot. Because they were leading me. That's what they wanted me to do.

Follow the straight line.