Wincing against the pain, she continued. “So you see, Mr. Hightower, your secrets are exposed. Authorities will be notified. It’s over.”
“It’s not over.” He spoke through gritted teeth. “I won’t lose this factory. It’s mine.” With a savage jerk he aimed her for the stairway. Her skirts tangled around her ankles, threatening to trip her, but he hauled her to the lowest level and then into the doctor’s office. With a mighty shove he pushed her through the infirmary door and flung her onto a cot.
The pleasing aroma of sweet chocolate mingled with the bitter essence of fear. Caroline’s stomach whirled, nausea making perspiration break out across her body. She scrambled to stand, but he rolled her onto her stomach and planted his knee in the small of her back. As his weight settled against her spine, pain exploded through her hips. She stilled, and he captured her wrists. Something—his belt?—tangled around her wrists and pulled tight. She bit back a sharp cry of pain.
His knee lifted. Gathering her gumption, she strained to roll free of the cot, but before she could move, he straddled her back. Out of the corner of her eye, she observed him yank the sheet from the next cot. Then he lifted her skirts out of the way. She kicked wildly, but he managed to tie her ankles together with one end of the sheet and then tied the other end through the crossbar at the foot of the metal frame, creating a short tether.
At last he stood and moved to the head of the cot, where he gazed down at her. “Thank you for alerting me to Moore’s involvement. As much as I’d love to deal with you right now, I don’t have time. I have to stop him.”
Facedown on the cot, her limbs ineffective, Caroline could do little but speak, but she spoke boldly. “You’re too late.” How she prayed she’d spoken the truth! “He’s already left for Wichita to tell Mr. Dinsmore you’ve been stealing from him.”
Hightower’s grin turned smug. “How convenient. Because you see, my naive little Nosy Parker, with both of them under the same roof, I can, as the saying goes, ‘Kill two birds with one stone.’ ” He whipped a handkerchief from his pocket. “Let’s make sure you can’t holler for help before I return, hmm?”
She flopped about on the mattress, twisting her head, but he grabbed a handful of her hair. Her scalp ignited with pain, and once again she stilled her frantic movements. The stiff fabric cut into her mouth as he ruthlessly tightened the cloth, catching several hairs in the knot. Tears pricked her eyes—tears of pain but also of fear.
Hightower shook his head, a rueful grin creasing his face. “Oh, such a shame to leave you. You’re so much more appealing than that snoopy Bratcher. Idiot man, nosing through my records to see how many underage workers were on the books. It was none of his business! But you and I … oh, we could have great fun if I didn’t need to take care of Moore.” He stretched out his hand and traced the line of her jaw with one finger. “But don’t worry. I’ll be back. We’ll enjoy ourselves … later.”
She jerked away from his touch. His laughter rang, and she squeezed her eyes shut against his amused face. Moments later the door slammed shut, muffling the continued sound of his merriment. And, blessedly, Caroline was left alone, unscathed.
Strapped to the cot, silenced by the cloth in her mouth, she could do only one thing.
Dear heavenly Father …
Oliver
The passing landscape blurred, and Oliver blinked several times, clearing his vision. As tired as he was, he couldn’t sleep now. He needed to plan how to inform Father of Hightower’s deceit while inflicting the least amount of emotional pain. Father’s relationship with Hightower had been decades in the making. How often had Father held up Hightower as a prime example of apprenticeship? Gordon Hightower was Father’s success story … and Father’s downfall.
As a boy Oliver had been jealous of this youth named Hightower, who resided in a town fifteen miles away. He’d wondered why Father took such interest in an orphaned lad, handpicking him from a group of boys living in the children’s home, giving him a job, training him. When he’d expressed his jealousy, Father had sat him down and delivered a stern lecture about the responsibility of wealth and leadership. Father’s voice rang in Oliver’s memory. “You would begrudge him a place in our factory when he has nothing else to call his own? This boy has no family, no home. But if he learns a skill, his future can be secure.” Oliver had hung his head in shame and assured his father he would never complain about Gordon Hightower again.
He’d broken that promise since taking a lowly position at the factory, pointing out Hightower’s penchant for bullying, for pushing his way to the front, for seeming to trample others without concern for their feelings. Each time Father had defended his protégé, reminding Oliver of the man’s dismal beginning as an orphan, which surely had left him with feelings of inadequacy and insecurity. Father had said they should practice understanding rather than condemnation. But not even his deep compassion would excuse Hightower’s deliberate and methodical theft from the factory over the past years.
Oliver gazed out the window, his body swaying with the car’s gentle rocking on the rails, and pondered what had built such selfishness in Hightower. According to Father, giving him the job at a young age paved the way to a successful future. Yet one could hardly consider his involvement in underhanded dealings as success. Somewhere in life Hightower had missed very important lessons. Lessons on fairness, on honesty, on self-control.
A smile twitched at Oliver’s cheek. Although he had been raised in opulence, his parents had instilled all those qualities and more in their only child. He’d been given much in the area of material possessions, but he’d also been taught right from wrong and given a strong base of honor on which to build his life.
With a start Oliver recognized what Hightower had lacked during his childhood years—a family. Parents to teach him. He’d learned a job—learned it well—but it hadn’t been enough to mold him into an honorable citizen. He and Father needed to give some serious thought about the number of children employed at the factory. Were they contributing to an entire generation of morally lost young people by taking them from school and family to spend their days at machines?
“Oh my goodness!” A woman a few seats ahead of Oliver gasped out the words. “That child will be struck if he doesn’t get back!”
A murmur wove through the car. People pointed out the windows, alarm on their faces. Oliver pressed his face to the glass. Ahead, the silver rails curved into a bend. Standing in the middle of the tracks, a young boy waved his hands over his head. He jumped up and down, his thick red hair bouncing with the motions.
Oliver gasped, pressing both palms to the glass. Lank! He charged out of his seat just as the brakes squealed and the car skidded on the tracks. The sudden jolt tossed him to the floor. He scrambled up, and using the seat backs to keep himself upright, he staggered for the landing at the front of the car. He leaped from the little platform and hit the ground flatfooted. A shock traveled up his legs. His knees gave way, and he rolled, but he came up running.
“Lank! Lank!”
The boy turned toward Oliver. His face lit, and he dashed toward Oliver with his arms reaching. Sobbing, he plowed against Oliver.
Oliver hugged the boy, elated. Their prayers had been answered. How thrilled Carrie would be to reunite with this red-haired scalawag. “Lank, I’m so glad to find you. Where are Letta and Lesley?”
Lank’s skinny shoulders rose and fell in mighty heaves. He grabbed Oliver’s hand and tugged on him, his eyes wide. “Cuh-come! Luh-Luh-Lesley—he’s huh-hurt! Fuh-foot in a truh-truh-trap!”
Oliver gripped Lank’s shoulders, holding him in place. “What kind of trap?”
“Buh-big one.” Lank held his hands about eight inches apart. “Juh-juh-jagged!”
Meant to snare something as large as a panther. Oliver had seen the cruel traps on display in stores. The jaws were designed to remain clamped.
“What’s goin’ on here?” The engineer stomped over, his face twisted into a scowl. He grabbed Lank’s arm.
“What were you thinkin’, boy? You could’ve been killed, an’ you just gave umpteen passengers the scare of their lives.”
Lank wriggled free of the man, reaching for Oliver.
The engineer glanced right and left, his expression wary. “What are you doin’ out here anyway? You alone?” He aimed his worried scowl at Oliver and lowered his voice. “This kid could be a decoy for train robbers. We’d better get goin’.”
“Nuh-no!” Lank danced in place, tears rolling down his face. “I nuh-need help! Fuh-fuh-for my bruh-brother!”
The engineer stepped away from Lank. “I don’t have time for games, boy.”
Oliver flung his arm around Lank’s shoulders. “I know this boy, and he isn’t playing games. If he says his brother is in trouble, then he needs help. Do you have any tools I could borrow?”
The engineer grunted in aggravation. “Sure we got tools, but I’m not lending them out. What if we need them further down the line?”
Oliver grabbed the man’s shirt front with both fists. “Mister, this boy’s brother has his foot caught in a trap. What could be more important than freeing him?”
The engineer shook loose. “All right, all right. I’ll have the brakeman fetch the toolbox.” His face turned hard. “But I’m not holdin’ the train. I got a schedule to keep.” He stormed off.
Oliver crouched down and cupped Lank’s shoulders. “Hang on, Lank. We’ll go to Lesley in just a minute.”
Lank smiled through his tears. “I buh-been prayin’ an’ prayin’ fuh-fuh-for someone to cuh-come. Shuh-sure am gluh-gluh-glad yuh-you’re here.”
Oliver hugged the boy, his chest expanding with wonder at the miraculous timing that allowed him to be on the very train Lank waved down. “Me, too, Lank. Me, too.”
“Here you go, mister.” The brakeman approached, a slatted wooden box with a doweled handle dangling from his hand. “Engineer says drop it off at the next station, an’ we’ll retrieve it on our return trip.”
Oliver snatched the box from the man. “Notify the railroad there’ll likely be some people needing to catch a ride on the next passing train.”
“Will do.”
Oliver nudged Lank forward. “All right, Lank, lead the way.”
The boy took off at a trot, and Oliver followed, the tools clanking noisily within the box. The brakeman’s voice trailed after them. “Good luck!” Oliver waved a hand in reply, but they didn’t need luck. They had God.
Gordon
Gordon fidgeted on the bench. Such a luxurious seat—deeply padded and covered in rich velvet. A seat fit for a king. Yet he couldn’t get comfortable.
Emerald tassels swung from the heavy draperies framing the window. One brushed his cheek. He shoved the decorative string aside. It came at him again, and with a grunt he tore it loose and tossed it on the floor. The conductor would probably charge him for the damage, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t in a mood to be trifled with. Not even by a fuzzy green tassel.
Couldn’t the train go any faster? Moore was probably already at Dinsmore’s place, spilling what he’d seen. A band wrapped itself around Gordon’s chest, squeezing tighter and tighter until drawing a breath became agony. Why did Moore and Lang have to stick their noses where they didn’t belong? First Bratcher stumbled upon Gordon’s secret while trying to collect information about the number of young workers in the factory. When the man died, Gordon had thought his concerns were over. But Bratcher’s death had brought another meddler to the factory—Carrie Lang. And she’d dragged Moore into the middle of it.
When he’d disposed of Lang, Moore, and Dinsmore, would somebody else show up to nose around? He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life dodging snoopers. And he didn’t want to have to keep eliminating people. He still had nightmares about Bratcher’s plunge. Thinking of doing away with the two factory workers and his boss—even if it meant saving his own hide—turned his stomach. He’d do it. He had to do it. But no matter how he’d taunted Miss Lang, drawing on the false bravado he’d carried like a shield during his orphanage days, he didn’t relish the task.
A regret-filled groan sneaked from his lips, catching him by surprise. He slapped the seat and sat upright, reminding himself of the truth he’d carried from his earliest years. It was him … or them. If he chose them, he’d lose everything. Dinsmore wouldn’t ignore the fact that Gordon had stolen from him—not even if he returned every penny. But he’d offer the man one chance to save himself. He could choose to believe Gordon over that troublemaker Ollie Moore. If he took Moore’s word, then Gordon would dispose of both men. And the factory would be his even earlier than he’d anticipated.
Closing his eyes, Gordon settled into the seat and folded his arms over his tight chest. He wouldn’t turn back now.
Letta
Letta couldn’t stop shivering. Even though she cradled Lesley in her arms, his body did nothing to warm her against the chilly water flowing around her hips. She’d finally sat down in the creek and pulled him into her lap. Her legs were numb from the cold, and her clothes were soaked all the way to her armpits, but she had it easy compared to her brother.
The trickle of blood worming its way from his foot had stopped, but his leg was bent at an odd angle, the trap preventing him from straightening it. To her relief he’d cried himself out a little while ago. His head now lolled against her shoulder. Her arms ached from supporting his weight, but she hoped he slept for a long, long time. She didn’t even care if her backside froze solid and fell off. She’d pulled him into the creek. Pulled him right into the trap. She deserved whatever discomfort she now suffered. Deserved even worse.
She smoothed Lesley’s damp, tangled hair, then pressed a kiss on his temple. When Lank got back with help, she’d tell both boys how sorry she was for failing them. She only hoped they’d forgive her. She didn’t think she’d ever forgive herself. At least Lesley could depend on Lank. Lank. Hadn’t he surprised her?
Where had he learned to fish, to build a fire, to smoke out bees? Much as she hated to admit the truth, there’d been times she’d shrunk away from him, embarrassed by his stammer. When Pa’d called him an imbecile, she’d seethed, but underneath she’d thought the same. Somebody who couldn’t even talk couldn’t be bright. But she’d been wrong. Dead wrong. Lank was smarter than her and Pa put together.
That’s why she knew he’d bring help. She didn’t know how, she didn’t know who, but she trusted with every bit of herself—Lank wouldn’t fail them. Tears burned, and her lower lip quivered. She rested her cheek against Lesley’s tousled hair and whispered, “I’m so sorry, Lesley. I didn’t take care of you like I was s’posed to. But don’t you worry. Help’s comin’. It’ll be here soon. Hang on.”
She glanced again across the horizon, seeking a glimpse of Lank’s wild red hair or torn blue jacket. Nothing yet. She tightened her hold on Lesley and wiggled her legs a little bit, trying to put some feeling back in them. “Don’t worry,” she said again, this time to herself. “Everything’s gonna be fine. Lank’s comin’. Lank’s comin’ soon.” Please, God, send him soon.
Caroline
What time was it? Caroline blinked into the dark room. No windows. No band of light creeping beneath the door. Her eyes had adjusted enough to make out the dark shapes of cots, and she heard the tick, tick of a pendulum clock, but it was behind her, and she couldn’t twist her head around enough to see it. What difference did it make anyway? She wasn’t going anywhere.
She couldn’t wiggle her fingers any longer. They ached, so she knew they were there, but they were useless to her. Her dry, aching throat had probably lost its ability to make noise, too. She hadn’t tried to scream in quite a while. Why expend her energy fruitlessly? No one would hear her until the first shift Monday morning, when the factory opened again. And even then, the noise of the machines would cover any sound she managed to push past the gag binding her mouth.
From all appearances the situation was hopeless.
As she lay there in the dark room, bound, unable to
speak, memories from her childhood crept from the shadows. She snapped her eyes shut, unwilling to relive those unpleasant days, but images rolled one after another behind her closed eyelids.
A dark basement room. A cot stinking of her own vomit. A rope chafing her ankle. Harsh voices. “Do it again, and this time do it right! If I find one speck of food on another plate, I’ll flay the flesh from your back!” “There’ll be no sleep for you until you’ve learned to break those eggs without crushing the shells. You’ll be useless as a cook’s helper if you can’t perform such a simple task.” Stinging slaps, angry scowls, an empty stomach, an aching soul, and always a weariness so heavy she feared it was etched into her bones.
Those years in the Remington household, she’d been hopeless, believing there was no escape. But God had saved her from a childhood of sadness and abuse and had granted her the opportunity to redeem the ugliness for something good. Would He save her from this mess as well? And what of Ollie, traveling to his father’s home, unaware of Hightower’s evil intentions? She longed to warn him, but she couldn’t even lift her arms.
Dear Lord, please intervene. Prevent evil from having the victory. Be the Rescuer we need, Father, please … Please …
She drifted into a restless sleep, her dreams woven with darks and lights—ugly pictures from her early childhood and flashes of warmth from her years with Noble and Annamarie. Faces—Letta, Lank, Lesley, Kesia, Ollie, Hightower—paraded through her dreams, making her either groan or smile in response. Suddenly all the dream people gathered into a circle, each carrying a pot or a pan and a wooden spoon. No, not the kitchen. Don’t make me go to the kitchen. Caroline’s heart pounded as they formed a band of sorts, using the spoons to thump and clang.
Thump! Thump! Thump! “Caroline? Caroline, are you here?”
She huddled in the corner, hiding from the strange parade, hands protectively over her head. No, don’t find me. I don’t wanna go in the kitchen!
Echoes of Mercy: A Novel Page 32
