Framed by a mysterious glass sphere in a locked study, a disgraced WWII investigator must outsmart his military mentor.
Arthur didn’t hesitate. He vaulted over a rusted dumpster, its metal lid clanging loudly, and scrambled towards a low brick wall. Shots rang out behind him, whizzing past his ears.
He scaled the seven-foot chain-link fence bordering the alley, the sharp wire tearing a long rip in his heavy woolen coat sleeve. His leg muscles screamed in protest.
He dropped into an industrial brick yard, a labyrinth of stacked pallets and crumbling walls, the uneven ground a hazard in the near-total darkness. The sirens grew fainter as he put distance between himself and the flashing lights.
Gasping for breath, he pressed himself against a cold brick wall. He could still hear shouting, the distant bark of a police dog.
He took a moment to steady his breathing. His hands were scraped, his torn coat sleeve flapped in the cold breeze. He felt the familiar tremor starting again, stronger this time. He closed his eyes, picturing the familiar lines of his sobriety chip, reminding himself of the promise he’d made.
His gaze fell upon a crumpled sheet of paper near his feet. A police broadcast sheet, likely dropped by one of the officers. He picked it up, unfolding it carefully.
His name, Arthur Finch, was printed in stark black letters at the top. Below it, a description of him, exaggerated into a dangerous, violent fugitive. And then, the murder weapon.
“M3 Trench Knife,” the sheet read, “serial number 4412.”
Arthur’s blood ran cold. Serial number 4412. His personal service knife. The one he’d carried through France and Germany. The one he’d kept locked in his apartment trunk, a relic from a life he’d tried to forget.
He stared at the number, memorizing it. He had seen that knife just two days ago, tucked securely in its canvas sheath within his locker. He remembered checking it, almost out of habit, before leaving his apartment.
“They took it,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Someone broke in.”
It wasn’t a random weapon. It was *his* weapon. Whoever framed him had not only known his habits but had direct access to his private living quarters. They had orchestrated this with an intimacy that felt deeply personal, almost mocking.
The police broadcast sheet listed a reward for his capture. Five hundred dollars. His life was worth five hundred dollars to them.
He crumpled the paper in his fist, the irony a bitter taste in his mouth. He had to assume Garrick was behind this. Garrick, who knew his apartment building, who knew his history, who knew precisely how to twist the knife.
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