Echoes of Mercy: A Novel

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Oliver rose and picked up the lantern. The light bobbed around the room like a bouncing moonbeam. “You’re leaving the evidence?”

  She patted her pocket. “I have all the evidence I need right here. But if Hightower finds the books missing, he’ll know we’re on to him. We can’t take them with us.”

  Oliver nodded, acknowledging the sense of her statement. Even so, it infuriated him. He wanted to confront Hightower immediately.

  Carrie must have guessed his thoughts, because she touched his hand. “Justice will be served, Ollie, but we need to do this correctly. Allow the authorities to deal with Hightower.”

  Oliver sighed. “Very well. Let’s—”

  Footsteps intruded. Someone was climbing the stairs.

  Oliver and Carrie froze in place, their gazes colliding in wide-eyed looks of shock. Carrie clawed at his hand and mouthed the words, “We have to hide.”

  He quickly extinguished the wick on the lantern, then searched the room—a foolish expenditure of time. There weren’t any hiding places in the stark space. But his gaze found the square observation window that gave Hightower a view of the factory floor. He tiptoed to the window, opened the shutters, and looked out. A narrow ledge—perhaps ten inches wide—ran the length of the loft and overlooked a fourteen-foot drop. He broke into a cold sweat just thinking of stepping out on that ledge, but where else could they go?

  Someone fumbled with the door lock, and he frantically motioned to Carrie. His brain screamed, Help, help! As she scurried to his side, a soft clatter, followed by a muffled curse, told him whoever was trying to get in had dropped the key ring. They’d been gifted with a few extra seconds to escape. Panic making him clumsy, Oliver lifted Carrie onto the window ledge and helped her swing her legs to the other side. She stepped out, pressed her back to the wall, and inched sideways. Oliver placed the lantern on the ledge, then scrambled out. He pulled the shutters into position as the lock squeaked and the door hinges whispered.

  He braced himself against the wall on the opposite side of the window, his head turned so he could look at Carrie. She stared back, her eyes wide and her lips set in a taut line. Hightower’s cheerful whistle drifted from behind the shutters. What was the man doing here on a Sunday? And when did he plan to leave? Dizziness assailed Oliver as he glanced at the dangerous drop at the end of his toes. They couldn’t stay here all day.

  Another prayer formed in his mind—Lord, help us, please—and on its tail came an idea. Moving slowly and cautiously, he hooked the lantern’s handle in his fingers, then gestured to Carrie to move as far from the window as possible. He began inching the other way, gritting his teeth at the soft skritch sound of his clothing catching on the rough wood wall behind him.

  Carrie nodded in understanding and eased in the opposite direction. When he’d gone as far as the ledge would allow, Oliver realized the shadows had completely swallowed Carrie. Unease gripped him, but he reassured himself with the knowledge that if he couldn’t see her, Hightower wouldn’t easily spot her, either.

  With sweat dripping from his forehead to his chin, he pressed one damp palm to the wall behind him and angled himself to give his other arm room to swing. The lantern’s handle squeaked as it swayed, and he cringed, expecting to hear Hightower walking to the window. But the man’s whistling apparently hid the soft squeak. The tune continued as if nothing was amiss.

  For a moment Oliver hesitated. Would the shrill, discordant tune also cover the sound of the lantern hitting the floor? If so, the plan would fail. He’d have to make sure the noise was loud enough to capture Hightower’s attention. Gritting his teeth, he braced himself and swung his arm as hard as he could without losing his balance. The lantern flew from his hand and sailed toward the floor, where it landed with a crash.

  Hightower’s whistling ceased. Steps thundered, and a beam of light spilled outward as the shutters were peeled back. Hightower’s face poked through the window opening. He bellowed, “Who’s out there?”

  Oliver held his breath, his pulse beating out a frantic message—Don’t let him find us. Don’t let him find us. After only a few seconds, which felt like hours, Hightower ducked back in. Moments later the office door banged against the wall, and then his feet clattered on the stairs.

  Oliver eased his way toward the window, and Carrie approached from the other side. He assisted her through and then fell in behind her. He risked a glance through the window in time to see Hightower pause on the floor below and look up. Oliver instinctively ducked. Uncertain whether they’d been spotted, he caught Carrie’s hand and scrambled for the door.

  Hand in hand, they dashed to the elevator hallway, but when he started to pull Carrie inside, she shook her head. She mouthed, “Too loud.” She pulled him, instead, to the stack of crates along the wall and squirmed in behind them. They crouched behind the barrier, Oliver folding Carrie within his arms to make themselves as small as possible. Their breath released in matching soft bursts. Did she regularly do these kinds of things while on assignment? How did her heart survive it? He felt as though his would burst from his chest while he huddled, listening for Hightower’s approaching footfalls.

  They came, pounding toward them and then thumping past. Oliver peeked between slats, catching a glimpse of Hightower’s stiff form in front of the elevator. The man turned a slow circle, his face crunched in displeasure. Oliver tightened his grip around Carrie, and she pressed the bulky coil of her bun against his neck, their bodies fitted as snugly together as two spoons in a drawer. They remained as still as a garden statue while Oliver willed Hightower to give up his search and return to his office. Seconds ticked by so slowly it seemed as though time had ceased to pass at all. Finally Hightower blew out a blast of air. He charged past them and wheeled around the corner, his arms swinging. His feet thumped down the stairs once more, his indistinguishable mutters rising over the echoing thuds.

  When the footsteps faded, Oliver crept from behind the crates, drawing Carrie with him. “Let’s get out of here.”

  She nodded, her face white.

  Although he knew it would be noisy, Oliver chose to take the elevator rather than risk encountering Hightower on the stairs. If the man had gone to the opposite side of the factory, he might miss hearing its groaning gears. Oliver kept the prayer rolling in the back of his mind as he and Carrie rode the elevator downward. The bed jerked into place on the lowest floor. He gave the gate a shove, then grabbed Carrie’s hand, and they dashed for the door. Once outside, they raced around the corner and continued running.

  Oliver pulled Carrie through an alley and behind a shed, then collapsed against the rough wood wall, his lungs heaving, his hand still holding tight to hers. He listened for sounds of pursuit, but to his relief Hightower didn’t come after them. They’d escaped.

  Thank You, Lord …

  Carrie shook her head. “Oh my. That was close.”

  Oliver squeezed her cold fingers. “Too close.” He pulled in a long breath and then released it slowly, willing the tension of the last minutes to fade. “I hope I never have to do something like that again.”

  A slow grin climbed her cheeks, which were starting to show a bit of pink now that they were safe. “You aren’t going to enroll in a Pinkerton course?”

  He released a low, wry chuckle. “Never.”

  Her grin broadened, and she let go of his hand. “Fortunately you won’t have to, because—” Her eyes flew wide, her fingers groping at her pocket.

  Oliver’s pulse scampered back to frantic beats. “What is it?”

  Her face paled. “The pages I tore from the records books. I … I must have dropped them.”

  Gordon

  Gordon checked the last entry door to the factory, then turned and frowned across the empty work floor. All the doors were locked, just as they should be. None of the windows were open. He’d checked the break room, the infirmary, even the closets … Not a soul anywhere. Yet someone had to have been in the building for that lantern to end up in the middle of the floor. W
ith the installation of electric lights two years ago, lanterns were no longer needed. Unless someone was sneaking around where he shouldn’t be.

  He shook his head, clearing the ridiculous thought. He was letting his imagination run wild. Who would be here on Sunday? Besides him, that is. They’d kept a supply of coal-oil lanterns secured on hooks around the work floors in case the factory lost electricity. Given the vibration from the machinery, one of the hooks had probably come loose. A simple explanation.

  Satisfied all was well, Gordon headed across the floor again. He approached the shattered lantern, and he paused to tap his toe against one shard of broken glass swimming in a pool of coal oil. Should he clean this up? Some of the younger workers came in barefoot. But then he shrugged and moved on. The first-shift janitor could see to it Monday morning.

  Thoughts of janitors led him to Ollie Moore, and he gritted his teeth. Why hadn’t Dinsmore approved Moore’s discharge? He’d signed off on Carrie Lang. Gordon’s lips twitched, anticipating the pleasure of sending the woman out the door. He’d not been able to snag a moment of enjoyment from her, but he wouldn’t complain. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about her and Moore plotting against him. But he couldn’t help wishing Dinsmore hadn’t insisted on keeping Moore.

  Gordon ambled slowly up the hallway, chewing the inside of his mouth. Not once in the six years he had managed the factory had Dinsmore denied a request for discharge. So why keep Moore? Had Dinsmore planted him here as a spy? Did he owe the man a debt and the job repaid it? Why approve one but not both? He pondered forging Dinsmore’s signature on the paperwork. He’d done it on other papers and had never been caught. Only the apparent relationship between Dinsmore and Moore kept him from following through on the desire. Moore would tattle, and then Dinsmore would find reason to distrust Gordon. He couldn’t risk that. Not this close to his plans coming to pass.

  Up ahead the elevator waited. Gordon strode toward it at an easy pace, but then he froze in place. The gate was open. Gordon’s entire body began to quiver. On trembling legs he forced himself to inch forward, his unblinking eyes aimed at the floor. If a gaping shaft greeted his eyes, as it had the night Harmon Bratcher took his tumble, would he be able to keep himself upright?

  The elevator bed swung at an even level with the factory floor. The relief was so intense he buckled forward and braced his hands on his knees. He took several seconds to collect himself. Then he reached to close the gate. But he froze with his hands on the cool iron as realization dawned. When he’d been upstairs at the loft level, the elevator was waiting. How had it gotten down here? Unless.

  His mouth went dry. He wasn’t imagining things after all. Someone had been in the factory. Someone had ridden the elevator from the loft to the main level and then escaped. But the locked doors. Gordon slapped his forehead, silently cursing himself. The only other people with keys were the janitors. That included Ollie Moore. Gordon would bet his last penny he knew the name of the factory’s intruder.

  Although he hadn’t ridden the elevator since Bratcher’s demise, Gordon stepped onto the bed. The platform swayed slightly, making his stomach roll, but he resolutely pressed his finger on the button. The elevator jerked into motion, and he kept his gaze angled away from the sliver of dark shaft exposed between the walls and the elevator’s square bed. On the top level the elevator jolted to a stop with a loud creak. Gordon pushed the gate aside and nearly fell into the hallway.

  He must have been holding his breath the entire ride, because his chest heaved with gasps of air. Leaning against the wall, he filled his lungs again and again with sweet oxygen. Then, revived, he pushed himself upright. As he did, his gaze drifted across a clump of folded papers lying near a stack of crates in the hallway. Curious, he picked them up. The hallway was shadowy, only a slight shaft of light sneaking around the corner from where he’d left his office lamp burning, but he didn’t need much light to recognize his neatly penned numbers filling columns and rows.

  Gordon slapped his leg with the pages and barked a curse. Moore had been in here, and he’d discovered Gordon’s secret. Just as Bratcher had. Gordon wadded the pages in his hand and charged to his office. He slammed the door, then leaned against it, panting, stewing, seething.

  Moore knew. Which meant Dinsmore would know soon. They had to be in cahoots. There was no other logical explanation. And they’d left Gordon with no choice. Bratcher had been silenced before he could share his findings. Not deliberately, but certainly fortuitously. Moore would have to be silenced, too, before he could get to Dinsmore. Gordon stumbled across the floor and dropped into his desk chair, propping up his head with his hand.

  Nausea flooded his gut. He didn’t like Moore. He didn’t even like Dinsmore, although he grudgingly appreciated the confidence the man had placed in him all those years ago. But disliking them didn’t make it any easier to think about killing them. He drooped lower in his chair. Should he take the money he’d already squirreled away and leave? Start over somewhere else?

  He slapped the desk top, groaning, “Noooo.” He’d worked too long and too hard to get this far. This factory was meant to be his. He’d poured more of his sweat into it than Dinsmore had. He’d earned ownership. He’d have to arrange things so he could stay. And that meant Moore—and possibly Dinsmore—had to go. Bile filled his throat. Stealing from Dinsmore was easy. Impersonal. But murder … Could he really do it—kill two men? He gagged at the very thought. But if he didn’t, he’d lose everything.

  Sitting bolt upright, he gulped air to rid himself of the queasy feeling. He hadn’t worked this long, fought this hard, just to give up. The men had to go. There was no other way.

  Caroline

  Caroline scurried toward her boarding hotel, Ollie moving briskly alongside her. He touched her elbow, his fingers brushing as gently as a butterfly’s wing.

  “Even though we don’t have the pages, we know what they showed.”

  Dear Ollie … He’d done nothing but offer assurances their entire walk. As much as she appreciated his desire to relieve her guilt, it didn’t help. A court of law wouldn’t accept her words. She needed evidence. So she’d have to go back and retrieve the proof. There was no other choice. But she wouldn’t tell Ollie. He’d insist on coming, too, and she’d be placing him in danger.

  As they approached her boardinghouse, her safe haven, she slowed her pace. Ollie automatically tempered his stride as well, and she swallowed a smile at how well they read one another. As if they were meant to be together. But such a ridiculous thought. She sighed, her breath forming a little cloud. “Thank you, Ollie. I’m relieved our findings confirmed your belief in your father’s innocence. Apparently Hightower has been fooling him for a long time.”

  Ollie’s brow pinched. He lowered his gaze and scuffed the ground with his toe. “I don’t know if I’m more angry or sad. Before I was born, Father hand-picked Gordon from the boys at a Chicago orphanage for training in the factory. He’s treated him more like a son than an employee all these years. Father trusts Gordon. This betrayal will devastate him.”

  “Will you call him?”

  Ollie shook his head. “No. I can’t tell him something like this over the telephone. I need to see him face to face.” He yawned behind his hand, then offered a sheepish grin. “Excuse me. All the excitement is catching up with me. Although I’d like to sleep, I’m going to pack a bag, head to the train station, and go to Wichita. I can be back before shift time tomorrow. Father might return with me, too.” His expression turned forbidding. “Although I know how hard this will be for Father, I confess I will take great joy in catching Gordon Hightower by the collar and tossing him to the curb.”

  Caroline curled her hand over his forearm. Beneath her palm his muscles were taut, tense. She pressed gently. “Don’t confront Hightower. If he knows you’re aware that he’s changing the books, he’ll run. He has money hidden away somewhere, and if he collects it, we might not be able to bring him to justice. Tell your father, but don’t let Hightower kno
w you’re aware of his duplicity. Not yet.”

  He looked at her for a moment, but then he sighed and relaxed. “All right, Carrie. You’re the investigator. I’ll trust your wisdom in the matter.”

  His faith in her pleased her more than she could say. She smiled her thanks, and he responded with a weak grin of his own. She dropped her hand from his arm. “Go now. I’ll catch a quick nap and then visit the police department to see if there’s an update on Letta, Lank, and Lesley before I report to Noble. He’ll be very interested in what we discovered.” She turned to leave, but he captured her hand, holding her in place.

  “Carrie?”

  She looked into his gold-flecked eyes of palest green, and something at her very center melted. Oh, how she loved gazing into his eyes. “Yes?”

  For long seconds he simply smiled down at her, his expression warm and admiring. Finally he spoke, his words drifting forth on a sigh. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For helping prove my father’s innocence. After the way he spoke to you—even seeming to threaten you.”

  She held up a hand to silence him. She’d only been doing her job. But he went on.

  “Thank you for trusting me enough to go out on that ledge.” Teasing put a sparkle in his eyes, and she laughed softly, briefly ducking her head. He caught her chin and lifted her face to his again. “But mostly, thank you for telling me about God and prayer.”

  Her heart caught.

  “I prayed today. I prayed, and each time God answered. He kept us from being discovered.” Awareness bloomed across his face, his eyes glowing with some inner joy that defied description. “He listened, and He answered. He rescued us.”