8: Trail

Inspector Murrow nearly fell over as he entered the office he shared with the Detective, after walking headlong into a string of small metallic objects that were hanging from the ceiling. "What the devil..." he stammered. "Have you gone mad, Clark?"

"Not just yet," Clark responded absently from the far side of the room, without so much as an upward glance. His lap held one of the many boxes that were now scattered about the tables and floors of the room, which he sorted through with intense focus. Every so often he paused to hang yet another object from the cords he had strung across the room, before scratching a short note onto a map that was spread across the desk against the wall to his left.

"Are we supposed to work in this mess?" Murrow asked, trying to dodge the low-hanging objects while still watching his feet. He paused as he stepped into one of the boxes, nearly losing his balance. "What is all this?"

"This is our work for today," he told his partner, gesturing to the contents of the boxes. Each was filled at least partially with a collection of broken Driver feet, and labeled to indicate its source. "Vagrants picked these off the street and turned them in to local drop stations in the hours following the disappearance of Thomas Eldridge. For a small price, we have with us a wealth of information waiting to be deciphered."

Murrow lifted a hand to his forehead as he sunk into his chair, as though he expected a headache to develop at any moment. "There must be hundreds..."

"Thousands," Clark smiled in faint amusement, "and more will be delivered before the day's end. The courts claim to be unable to find any witnesses to our subject's travel, so I gathered my own." He handed one of the objects to the Inspector for closer examination. "You see, the Driver that was stolen from the courthouse has been following the same route since it was built, with virtually no deviation."

Murrow turned the object over in his hands a few times, lowering his spectacles to peer at it. One edge of its base was blackened and worn down from continued contact with the tar of the roadway, but the remaining surfaces were surprisingly unblemished, other than the occasional spot of grease or dirt. Opposite the well-worn edge, however, the grime had been scraped harshly away, leaving fresh scratches on the metallic surface. "You think this came from a Driver that suddenly changed from its standard destination before it broke off," he surmised, "the courthouse transport."

Clark nodded at his companion. "Thousands of them break each day, and the mechanics offer pennies to whoever will return them to be polished and reused. I've cataloged the boxes by the location where they were returned, and the approximate hour they were turned in; even if the Driver we're looking for lost only a few feet on its journey, we'll at least know what general direction they were headed."

"You don't think they doubled back on their course to confuse the trail?"

"No, they disappeared far too quickly, and in broad daylight. It must have been a direct path." He handed one of the many nearby boxes to the Inspector: a clear indication of his task for the afternoon. "Pass on any likely candidates," he instructed before returning to his work.

Murrow sighed, and began examining the first of the objects to be removed from its container. "This could take days... weeks even."

"Indeed," he nodded. "This is an unusual case, and so unusual measures may be taken. And not only with regards to evidence."

"The profile may be incomparable to any on record, let alone any escape," the other offered cautiously, "but I would hesitate to suggest working outside the standard limits without higher clearance."

Clark frowned through a sigh, running the fingers of one hand through his hair for a moment. "Let me put it this way. How does a man with virtually no social connection to anyone, other than their landlord and employer, arrange one of the most highly skilled criminal operations on record?"

"Quite obviously there is some other connection we aren't aware of. Perhaps his employer is one of the ignorant protestors, and it was his influence under which the escape was orchestrated."

"Mark my words; by the end of the week, all reports on either of his acquaintances will return spotless."

Murrow let a short snorting huff escape through his nostrils. "You and your instincts, Clark. If it wasn't the subject or his allies who established the connection, then there is no way he could have prepared the escape at all."

"Exactly," the Detective nodded. "The more information we receive, the more I begin to expect that Mr. Eldridge did not intend to escape. This case feels much more like a kidnapping. I'd wager on that."

The other's eyebrows rose in curiosity. "Who, in their right mind, would kidnap a Carrier?"

"Therein lies the important question," he offered grimly. "Anyone capable and deviant enough to both arrange and execute such an operation could be more dangerous than the Carrier themselves."

"Nothing is more dangerous than a Carrier," Murrow lamented.

Clark flexed his jaw for a moment, returning his attention to the collection of parts before him. "Let's hope that you are correct," he responded, even as intuition assured that he was not.