"Desert Rail"

 

The night stretched endlessly over the desert, a velvet sky scattered with silver stars. The moon hung low, painting the sand dunes in shades of pale blue and silver. Cutting through this vast emptiness was the Desert Rails — a luxury heritage train, its polished brass and mahogany glowing softly under the moonlight. Inside, the passengers enjoyed a gentle sway as the steel wheels hummed against the tracks.

Zane Faulkner sat in the observation car, one leg crossed over the other, his long black overcoat draped casually over his chair. He swirled the steam from his coffee cup and watched the dunes roll past like waves frozen in time. His sly smile played at the corner of his lips.

Opposite him, Eli was fidgeting with a biscuit.
“I still don’t get why we’re here,” Eli muttered. “You could be sitting in your apartment with the heater on, but no… we’re in a metal box in the middle of nowhere.”

Zane sipped his coffee, unbothered. “Because, Eli, sometimes a man needs to see the world from a moving window. It helps the brain breathe.”

“My brain’s freezing,” Eli replied flatly. “This is sand, Zane. It’s the same as the sand we saw ten minutes ago. And the ten minutes before that.”

“You lack imagination,” Zane said, leaning back. “Every grain of sand here has been shaped by centuries of wind. Some of them have probably seen more action than you.”

Eli rolled his eyes. “Hilarious. Truly.”

Before Zane could reply, a sudden crackle came through the intercom. A voice — tense, slightly breathless — echoed through the carriage.
“Attention, passengers… there’s been… an incident. We request everyone remain in their seats.”

Zane’s smile faded, though his calm never broke. “And here comes our evening entertainment.”

Eli frowned. “You think this is serious?”

“I think the tone of that announcement tells me exactly how serious,” Zane said, standing. “Come along, Eli. Let’s breathe some of that desert air inside the crime scene.”

They moved down the narrow corridor, the faint scent of old wood polish mingling with something sharper — the metallic tang of blood.

In the second-class compartment, a small crowd had gathered. A man in his late fifties lay slumped against the wall between two bunks, his head tilted unnaturally, eyes staring glassily at the ceiling. A dark stain spread across his white shirt.

A steward, pale and sweating, blocked the doorway. “Please, sir, we’re waiting for—”

Zane gently brushed past him. “You’re waiting for me,” he said softly.

Inside, the air felt heavier. Zane knelt beside the body, his eyes scanning with a precision that seemed almost lazy. He noted the bruising along the neck, the angle of the head, the faint scratch marks on the man’s left wrist.

“Recognize him?” Eli asked quietly from the doorway.

“Professor Harlan Voss,” Zane replied without hesitation. “Lead archaeologist of the Amun Ruins excavation. Famous for claiming he’d found something ‘that would rewrite desert history.’”

Eli frowned. “And now he’s—”

“History himself,” Zane finished, standing.

He glanced at the compartment window. A thin line of sand had gathered along the inner frame — odd, given the glass was closed tight. He touched it, rubbing the grains between his fingers. “Interesting.”

From the corridor, a woman in a green dress stepped forward. “I was his assistant. We were returning to Cairo to present our findings. He was fine at dinner, then…” Her voice trembled. “This happened.”

Zane studied her — no visible injuries, but her left hand gripped the edge of her skirt too tightly. “And you were where when it happened?”

“In my own compartment. I heard nothing until the steward knocked.”

Zane didn’t respond. Instead, he examined the professor’s travel bag. Inside were several notebooks filled with dense sketches, strange symbols, and a small leather pouch tied with red string.

Eli peeked over his shoulder. “What’s that?”

“A question mark in pouch form,” Zane murmured, slipping it back.

The conductor arrived, clearly unsettled. “Mr. Faulkner, we… we don’t have a doctor aboard, and the nearest station is forty minutes away.”

“Then we have forty minutes to keep a murderer very comfortable,” Zane said. “Seal the doors at both ends of this carriage. No one in or out.”

The conductor hesitated but obeyed.

As the passengers murmured nervously, Zane began speaking with them one by one. A German tourist swore she saw someone pass the professor’s door fifteen minutes before the announcement, but couldn’t see the face. A businessman claimed he’d been in the dining car the whole time, yet his shoes were dusted with fine sand. An elderly couple insisted they heard the sound of glass breaking somewhere near the rear of the train.

Each detail tangled the picture further. Even Zane’s brow creased slightly — a rare sign of genuine puzzlement.

Eli leaned close. “You’re confused?”

“I’m entertained,” Zane corrected, though his tone carried an edge. “The pieces don’t fit — which means either someone’s very clever, or very desperate.”

He examined the corridor carpet, then knelt to check a faint scuff mark leading toward the baggage car. “Eli, a walk?”

They stepped through the connecting door into the baggage car. It was dim, the faint sway of the train making the hanging straps sway. Zane’s eyes swept over the crates and trunks. In the far corner, he found a large wooden chest with fresh scratches on its lid.

When he tried the latch, it was locked. He tapped it with his knuckles, listening to the hollow thud. “Something inside that doesn’t want to be found,” he murmured.

Eli looked uneasy. “Could be dangerous.”

“Eli,” Zane said with mock solemnity, “danger is what makes life taste interesting.”

Before they could investigate further, the train jolted slightly, slowing. A whistle blew twice — an unscheduled stop.

Through the narrow window, Zane saw a small, isolated station appear out of the desert darkness. Just one oil lamp flickered outside, casting long shadows over the platform.

The conductor appeared again, looking nervous. “Mr. Faulkner… there’s a rider approaching. She waved the signal to stop. Claims she needs urgent passage.”

Zane’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Well, this evening just became more interesting.”

Minutes later, the door to the observation car opened, and Lyra stepped inside. Her long scarf trailed behind her, dusted with sand, her hair slightly windswept from the ride. She froze when she saw Zane.

“You,” she said sharply.

“Me,” Zane replied, grin widening. “The desert clearly missed me, so it sent you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t start.”

Eli looked between them. “Great. The human thunderstorm’s here.”

Zane gestured toward the compartment with the body. “We have a problem that needs a solution. You enjoy those.”

Lyra sighed, stepping forward. “Fine. But if you’re dragging me into another one of your bizarre messes—”

“It’s not bizarre,” Zane interrupted, “it’s… artistically complex.”

Together, they returned to the crime scene. Lyra’s sharp gaze caught details even Zane hadn’t mentioned aloud — the faint smell of burnt incense near the body, a missing button from the professor’s cuff, a smudge on the windowsill shaped like a fingertip.

“This isn’t a simple robbery,” she said quietly.

“No,” Zane agreed. “It’s a puzzle with too many hands rearranging the pieces.”

For the next half-hour, the three of them combed through the train. In the lounge, Zane found a single shoeprint made of damp sand — but there’d been no water nearby. In the kitchen, Eli discovered a small shard of green glass lodged under a cabinet. In the baggage car, Lyra found an empty sheath for a ceremonial dagger — the blade missing.

Every clue deepened the fog instead of clearing it.

Finally, as the train picked up speed again, Zane stood in the corridor, arms folded. The moonlight through the window cut across his face, highlighting the calm in his eyes.

Eli leaned against the wall. “You’ve got nothing, do you?”

Zane smirked faintly. “On the contrary, I have far too much.”

Lyra crossed her arms. “Then you’d better start sorting it. Because whoever did this is still here.”

Outside, the dunes rolled on endlessly. Inside, the air grew tighter, every face a possible mask.

Zane glanced toward the front of the train. “The night’s young,” he said softly. “Let’s see if our murderer can keep up.”

The Desert Rails thundered into the darkness, its polished brass fittings gleaming faintly under the carriage lights. Passengers had retreated into a tense silence, their voices now hushed whispers. Somewhere in this train, a killer sat, waiting, watching.

Zane stood in the dining car, his gaze drifting over the tables, the chandeliers swaying gently with the motion of the train. “We’ve collected more than enough,” he murmured. “Now it’s time to see who flinches.”

Lyra slid into the seat across from him, crossing her legs. “You think one of them will give themselves away?”

“They already have,” Zane replied. “They just don’t know it yet.”

Eli dropped into the seat beside Zane with a theatrical sigh. “I hope this doesn’t involve me getting stabbed, poisoned, or thrown off the train. Again.”

Zane smirked. “Not unless you volunteer.”

They decided to retrace every step, starting at the baggage car. Zane examined the locked wooden chest again, tracing his finger along the fresh scratches. With a swift flick of a thin metal pick from his coat, the latch clicked open.

Inside lay a rolled canvas, stained with desert dust. When Zane unrolled it, they found a detailed map of the Amun Ruins, several notes scribbled in the margins, and — tucked in the corner — the missing ceremonial dagger. The blade glinted, its edges impossibly sharp, the hilt carved with ancient patterns.

“This is no ordinary artifact,” Lyra said, running her fingers just above the blade without touching it. “These carvings are protective sigils. Whoever took this knew exactly what it meant.”

Zane’s eyes lingered on the blade. “Or they thought they did.”

They sealed the dagger back in the chest and moved on. In the lounge, the elderly couple who’d reported the breaking glass sat together, clutching their tea. Zane approached them, crouching slightly so his eyes met theirs.

“You heard glass break,” he said. “Where, exactly?”

The husband hesitated. “It was faint. Somewhere near the end of the train. And… right after, we smelled something strange. Like incense.”

Zane thanked them and left without another word. Lyra followed, her brow furrowed. “The incense smell was near the body too.”

“Exactly,” Zane said. “Which means the killer didn’t just kill him. They performed something — or wanted us to think they did.”

Eli groaned. “Great. So now we’re chasing a ritual killer on a moving train. Just perfect.”

They searched the rear compartments. In the final carriage, Zane found a small clay bowl tucked behind a curtain. Inside, ash mixed with sand, the faint aroma of burnt resin still clinging to it.

“Stagecraft,” Zane murmured. “Smoke and shadows to make us look the wrong way.”

The train’s whistle howled as it crossed a narrow bridge over a dry ravine. The desert wind hissed through the cracks in the window frames. Zane’s mind worked in perfect silence, his thoughts moving faster than the train itself.

When they returned to the professor’s compartment, Zane checked the sand on the window frame again. “Lyra, hold this,” he said, passing her a magnifying lens.

She peered at the grains. “This isn’t desert sand. It’s finer… almost like it came from a riverbed.”

“Exactly,” Zane said softly. “And the nearest riverbed is…”

“Thirty kilometers from the ruins,” Lyra finished, catching on.

Eli looked lost. “Why does that matter?”

Zane’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “Because our killer didn’t just strike on the train. They carried part of the crime aboard with them.”

The pieces began to slot into place. The broken glass, the strange sand, the incense, the blade — all threads leading to the same knot.

Zane gathered the passengers in the dining car. The room was silent except for the rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the tracks. Lyra stood to his left, Eli to his right, both watching the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Zane began, his voice calm but carrying weight, “Professor Voss was not killed because of who he was, but because of what he carried. The dagger found in the baggage car was taken from the ruins. It is no mere artifact — it is believed to guard the resting place of a lost royal burial site.”

A murmur rippled through the passengers.

Zane continued, pacing slowly. “The killer wanted us to believe this was some ritual murder. The incense, the ash, the dagger — all designed to send us chasing shadows. But the truth is far more… human.”

He stopped beside the businessman in the grey suit. “You claimed you were in the dining car all evening. Yet your shoes were covered in fine river sand. That same sand was found on the professor’s windowsill.”

The man’s face tightened. “I… I must have stepped in it earlier—”

“No,” Zane cut in. “You stepped in it when you left the ruins earlier today. You weren’t on this train the whole time. You slipped off at a maintenance stop near the old riverbed — where you killed Professor Voss’s porter to get access to the locked dig site, and then reboarded before anyone noticed.”

Gasps filled the room.

Zane moved to the assistant in the green dress. “You, on the other hand, helped him after the fact. You placed the incense bowl and staged the scene to look like an ancient ritual. Perhaps you believed you were protecting the find. Perhaps he told you it was for the greater good.”

Her eyes flashed with anger. “You don’t know what was at stake—”

“I know exactly what was at stake,” Zane said sharply, his calm voice hardening. “A discovery that could have brought fortune and fame to the professor — but only if he lived to tell it. And that was something our businessman here couldn’t allow, because he had already found the burial site and planned to sell it to private collectors.”

The businessman’s hands clenched. “You have no proof—”

Zane tilted his head. “The shard of green glass we found in the kitchen came from your broken water flask — the same flask the porter used before he died. Poison residue still coats the inside. And the scratches on the chest? Made by your pocket knife when you hid the dagger inside.”

The man’s jaw worked silently.

Eli stepped forward, holding up a small notebook. “And this fell from your coat when Zane brushed past you earlier. It’s a ledger — listing buyers, dates, and prices for stolen artifacts.”

The businessman lunged toward Eli, but Zane moved faster. In one smooth motion, he caught the man’s wrist, twisted, and pushed him down into a chair. His composure never wavered.

The assistant stood frozen, her lips trembling. “I… I didn’t kill him.”

Zane’s voice softened. “No. But you helped hide the truth. And that makes you part of it.”

The conductor stepped forward with two guards from the rear carriage. They took the businessman and the assistant away, the murmurs of the passengers following them.

As the dining car emptied, Eli collapsed into a chair. “You make it look so easy.”

Zane smirked. “It’s not easy. It’s simple. People lie, but sand and glass never do.”

Lyra shook her head, though her lips curved faintly. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

“Every grain of it,” Zane said, leaning against the table.

The train rolled on into the desert night, the tension lifting like smoke. Outside, the dunes shimmered under the moonlight, timeless and silent.

Lyra glanced at Zane. “So, what happens to the dagger?”

“It goes back where it belongs,” Zane replied. “Some things are meant to stay buried. Not for curses or legends — but because the truth is safer in the sand than in human hands.”

For a moment, none of them spoke. The rhythmic hum of the train filled the air, steady and calm.

Eli broke the silence. “Well, at least we didn’t get stabbed, poisoned, or thrown off the train.”

Zane gave him a sly look. “The night’s not over yet.”

Lyra laughed softly, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Zane said, eyes on the passing dunes, “here we are.”

He straightened, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “A murder on a moving train, a desert full of secrets, and the same lesson I learn every time: in the end, the sands keep their own counsel. We just get to hear the whispers.”

And with that, the Desert Rails carried them deeper into the night, its wheels singing a low, steady song across the endless dunes.