Echoes of Mercy: A Novel

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “Caroline?”

  She jolted awake, her pulse beating as hard as the clanking pots in her dream. The voice … Had it come from inside her head? “Caroline? Where are you?”

  Hope ignited. Real! The voice was real! And she recognized the caller—Noble. She tried to cry out in reply, but the gag muffled her voice. She flopped from side to side as Noble continued to call her name. The mattress squawked in protest, but the soft noise wouldn’t carry beyond the door. She needed to make a loud noise—quickly, before he moved to another floor or left altogether.

  Taking a deep breath, Caroline rolled sideways and hit the floor. Unable to block her fall, she landed on the side of her head and her shoulder, sending a shaft of pain from her neck to her elbow. But she gritted her teeth and ignored the throbbing. She wriggled her way around to the end of the cot. Then, with a prayer for God’s strength winging from her heart, she hooked her heels beneath the crossbar and lifted the cot several inches. She let it fall, her ears ringing with the clank of the iron legs against the concrete floor.

  She repeated the action—clank! ker-clank! clank, clank!—her face angled toward the door and her heart beating with hope. Would he hear? Would he come?

  Thudding footsteps. Noble’s voice calling, “Caroline? Is that you? Are you in there?”

  She clanked the cot’s legs against the floor once more. Then with a final vicious thrust, she hefted the frame onto its side. The movement flipped her onto her belly again, but the cot crashed against the next one, the clatter of iron against iron deafening in the closed room.

  The door burst open, and Noble stepped through. Light flowed into the room, attacking her eyes. She snapped them shut against the onslaught. Seconds later she felt Noble’s hands on her head.

  “Caroline. Oh, Caroline.” The tenderness in his voice matched the gentle removal of her gag. She gulped great drafts of air, her dry throat burning with each intake. Whatever bound her wrists pulled tighter. She gasped as the band cut into her flesh, but then it was yanked away. Her hands went cold, then hot, tingles attacking with such ferocity she bit down on her lip to keep from crying out.

  Noble rolled her over and pulled her into a seated position. Bent on one knee before her, he cradled her against his chest. The comforting beat of his heart pounded in her ear. She closed her eyes as his fingers explored her face, her head. Finally she opened her eyes and blinked. The tears of concern and worry swimming in his eyes stung her even worse than the stabbing prickles in her hands and the throbbing in her head.

  “I’m sorry I scared you.” Only a hoarse whisper emerged. “But I’m so glad you came.”

  “When you didn’t show up at the hotel this afternoon as you’d intended, Annamarie knew something was wrong.” He released her and began to untangle the knotted sheet from her ankles. “I told her you’d probably gotten caught up in exploring the elevator and lost track of time. I only came to assuage her fears. I didn’t become concerned until I realized the factory was locked up tight and you weren’t in your apartment.” He tossed the mangled sheet aside and embraced her again. “Did Ollie do this to you?”

  “No. Gordon Hightower.” She remembered again his sneering promise, and she struggled to her feet. Forcing the words past her parched throat, she grated, “We have to warn Ollie and Fulton Dinsmore!” She tugged at Noble’s hand, explaining the two record books and Hightower’s intention to eliminate Ollie and Mr. Dinsmore so he couldn’t be prosecuted for theft. Noble’s eyes widened in shock as he listened. She finished, “I’m still not sure if Bratcher’s death was intentional, but I think he discovered Hightower’s scheme to steal money from the factory. So if he was murdered, it wasn’t because of his stance on child labor.”

  Noble slipped his arm around her waist and assisted her out the door and across the factory floor. “We can’t do anything more for Harmon, God rest his soul, but hopefully we can prevent anyone else from losing his life because of Gordon Hightower’s selfishness. We’ll make a telephone call to Fulton Dinsmore and then check train schedules. We’ll take the first one available to Wichita.”

  They stepped from the factory into the long shadows of late afternoon. Although the back alley of the factory smelled musty and hinted of rotting vegetables, Caroline drank in the air. The scent of freedom.

  She caught Noble’s arm and turned a grateful look on him.

  “Thank you again for being my rescuer,” she whispered. “You’re always there when I need you.”

  Noble chuckled, although his wan skin still held the remembrance of the worry he’d experienced. “Silly girl … Isn’t that what a father is for?”

  Caroline smiled and nodded. Yes, that was exactly what a Father was for. She’d have to trust that their heavenly Father, who knew all and saw all, would rescue Ollie and Mr. Dinsmore from whatever vile scheme Hightower had planned.

  Letta

  The sky slowly faded to a purplish pink in the west. The wind had eased, but the air was colder as darkness crept across the landscape. Letta shivered uncontrollably, but she kept her hold on her brother. No matter how long it took for help to come—because it would come!—she wouldn’t let Lesley fall.

  He moaned in her arms, twisting his face back and forth against her shoulder. “C-c-cold, Letta. An’ m-my leg h-h-h-hurts.”

  “Shh, I know.” She rubbed his back. Her hands were so numb she barely felt the scratchy wool of his coat. “Won’t be much longer now. Lank’ll get here soon.”

  “S-s-scared …”

  Letta was too, but she wouldn’t admit it. The longer she sat there staring at the ugly trap, the more worried she became. Whoever had put that thing in the water intended to catch something big. Would the animal come around tonight while she and Lesley were stuck tight? Resolve stiffened her spine. If some big, ferocious critter attacked, it’d have to get past her to get to Lesley. A shudder rattled through her. Please, God, don’t let some big critter come.

  An odd clank, clank—sharp yet muffled—reached Letta’s ears. She clutched Lesley close and looked right and left. Was it teeth grinding together? Claws banging against the ground? Her heart pounded hard, and her breath came in little puffs of fear.

  Lesley pawed at her shoulder with his bluish fingers, his head hanging back. “W-what was that, L-L-Letta?”

  “Dunno.” She lowered her voice to a rasping whisper. “But hush!”

  Lesley pressed his face to her neck and clung hard, soft sobs shaking his shoulders. She tried to hold her breath so she could hear better. The rattle-clank continued in an odd offbeat, growing louder with each passing second. A terror-filled scream built in her throat, and it took every ounce of strength to hold it inside. She squeezed Lesley, crunched her eyes closed, and listened to the ominous rattle-clank draw closer, closer.

  And then a voice. “Luh-Letta! I guh-guh-got help! Me an’ Mr. Muh-Moore—we’re cuh-cuh-comin’!”

  The scream she’d held back released in a shuddering cry of joy, relief, and long-held fear. She cried against Lesley’s hair. “Help’s here, Lesley. You’re gonna be fine. Help’s here.”

  Gordon

  Gordon moved in his typical stealthy gait along the bricked pathway leading to the Dinsmores’ stately home. In the gentle glow of oil-fueled street lamps, the house’s pale-yellow bricks took on the appearance of blocks of gold. He paused midway up the walk and allowed his gaze to follow the lines of the white fluted columns supporting the milled portico and all the way to the brass finial topping the three-story-high round turret. How would it feel to look out from the highest windows of that turret?

  He allowed himself a moment of uncharacteristic whimsy, imagining looking down at the less fortunate passing along the street. When the factory became his, he’d be able to buy a house just like this one. Maybe even bigger. He pulled in a deep breath and released it on a sigh. The dream tingled in his fingertips. Soon, very soon, it would all be his.

  But first … the necessary business.

  Swallowing the gorge that rose from his
belly, he pushed himself into motion and strode up the six wide steps leading to the portico. A large brass door knocker in the shape of a gargoyle’s face waited in the center of the carved door. Gordon brought the knocker down hard three times, then stepped back, his pulse roaring in his ears.

  Within moments he was rewarded by the door swinging wide open, and none other than Fulton Dinsmore himself stood in the light of a brass-and-crystal chandelier. Attired in a rust-colored, silk dressing jacket tied at the waist and brown leather slippers, he appeared relaxed, even regal. He held a pipe—so highly polished it gleamed in the chandelier’s glow—in his mouth.

  Jealousy wrapped icy tentacles around Gordon’s heart. He wanted this life for himself. He pushed aside the raw emotion and forced a smile. “Mr. Dinsmore, good evening.”

  Dinsmore’s brow furrowed briefly. “Gordon …” He removed the pipe from his mouth and gestured Gordon into the foyer, then with a click shut the door behind them. The aroma of the cherry-scented tobacco was nearly intoxicating in the small space. “I presume you’re here to clear up the misunderstanding.”

  Gordon gave a little jolt of surprise. So the man hadn’t believed Moore! Perhaps he would be spared the repugnant task of disposing of the pair after all. Relief wound itself around his conscience. He nodded. “Yes, sir.” He glanced through the wide doorway into a beautifully decorated parlor. “Is Moore here?”

  “Moore? No.” Dinsmore led him into the parlor, where a fire crackled behind the grate, cozy and inviting. “Have a seat. Is Moore coming, too?”

  Confused, Gordon sank into one of the chairs facing the ornate fireplace. Had Carrie Lang lied to him? If Moore wasn’t here, where was he? He loosened his dry tongue and spoke calmly. “I thought he might have carried the tale of the … misunderstanding.”

  Dinsmore settled into the chair opposite Gordon’s, a puzzled frown on his face. “No, I haven’t seen Moore. However, I had a rather unsettling telephone call late this afternoon from a man named Noble Dempsey, apparently an agent with the Kansas-Nebraska Labor Commission. He claimed you’d”—Dinsmore chuckled—“kidnapped Carrie Lang.”

  Gordon’s jaw dropped in genuine shock. “Wh-what?” Who was Dempsey? How had this unknown man become entangled in Gordon’s activities?

  Dinsmore nodded. “I was quite surprised myself.” He paused and drew a few puffs on his pipe, sending up delicate wisps of richly scented smoke. “Additionally, he accused you of stealing funds from the factory.” Dinsmore waved the pipe, a dismissive gesture. “Of course I told him he must be mistaken. Why would you do such a thing? You receive a substantial salary. Besides, I’ve seen the books. There’s no evidence of misallocation of funds.”

  Gordon relaxed into the wing chair, a slow breath easing from his lungs. “Yes. Yes, he—” He concocted a tale, spewing it as easily as he might recite a grocery list. “He made the same false accusations to me, and Carrie Lang threatened to doctor the books to convince you I’d been involved in wrongdoing. We were right to discharge her. The woman is a troublemaker. She’s likely brought this man Dempsey into her game as a means of hiding her own duplicitous actions.”

  Dinsmore puffed on his pipe, his brow furrowing. “But for what purpose?”

  Gordon leaned forward. “Revenge, of course. From the time she arrived in the factory, she’s relentlessly pursued the cause of Bratcher’s death, refusing to accept it was an unfortunate accident. Although she’s made claims to the contrary, I still think she may be related to the man and seeking retribution for his demise.”

  He sat back, smug in his ability to fool the man seated before him. “I allowed her the privilege of thoroughly examining the elevator, and she finally admitted the probability of an accidental fall. With her means of filing a wrongful-death suit removed, she likely turned her attention to making false allegations against me and creating turmoil between us in the hope she’d be paid for her silence.”

  “You may be right.” Dinsmore set the pipe in a tray on the table beside his chair and rose. “Regardless, I’m glad you came, as it saved me the trouble of traveling to Sinclair to resolve the confusion. Now.” He smiled, stretching. “It’s getting late. Let me show you to a guest room. You can return to Sinclair after a good night’s rest.”

  Gordon rose but moved toward the front door rather than the winding staircase. “Thank you, sir, but now that we’ve cleared the air between us, I think it best if I go to the train station. I’ll take the earliest return to Sinclair.” He chuckled, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “After all, I have responsibilities at the factory.” Namely determining how this Dempsey fellow had discovered what he’d done with Carrie Lang.

  Dinsmore smiled broadly and clapped Gordon on the shoulder. “Always dependable—that’s what I like best about you, Gordon.” His hand closed over Gordon’s shoulder, the pressure firm, fatherly. He looked directly into Gordon’s face. “Thank you for your dedication to Dinsmore’s. I’m glad we had this talk.”

  Such a fool! But Dinsmore’s ignorance was his—and Gordon’s—bliss. “Thank you for trusting me, sir. I’m … glad, too.” Relief at having been released from the ugly task of disposing of Dinsmore nearly buckled his knees. He eased down the steps, determination stiffening his spine. Dinsmore was spared, but he still needed to silence Moore and Carrie Lang for good.

  As his foot met the lowest riser, two men stepped from the shadows near the house and blocked Gordon’s pathway. “Gordon Hightower?”

  He blinked at them, irritation mingling with apprehension. He resorted to bluster. “That’s correct. And I’m in a hurry. I’ll thank you to move aside.”

  One man came forward and took hold of Gordon’s arm.

  “Here now!” Dinsmore stepped onto the portico, his frown stern aimed at the pair of intruders. “Why are you accosting this man?”

  “Police business,” the man holding Gordon’s arm said. Only then did Gordon notice the silver badge pinned to the chest of the man’s dark coat. His mouth went dry.

  The second officer caught hold of Gordon’s other arm. “Please go inside, Mr. Dinsmore.”

  Instead, Dinsmore hurried down the steps. “What do you want with Gordon?”

  The officers propelled Gordon toward a wagon waiting at the edge of the street. The first one called over his shoulder, “We have a few questions for him concerning accusations leveled by Mr. Noble Dempsey. He has to come with us.”

  Caroline

  “My dear, you’re going to wear out the soles of your shoes if you don’t stop your endless pacing.”

  Caroline paused in her trek across the station floor and sent a sheepish look in Noble’s direction. Parading back and forth wouldn’t make the minutes pass faster. Yet she couldn’t sit. Not until she’d reached Wichita and had seen for herself that both Ollie and his father were fine. After being tied up and threatened by Hightower, she believed him capable of anything.

  Noble patted the seat beside him. “Come. Sit.”

  She checked the round clock suspended on a bracket from the station wall. Twenty more minutes until their train departed. She supposed she could manage to sit still for that amount of time. With a sigh she lowered herself onto the wooden bench and leaned back.

  Noble patted her knee. “Stewing won’t help, Caroline. Haven’t we prayed and asked for God’s protection over your friend Ollie and his father?”

  Of course they had. Just as she’d prayed for Letta, Lank, and Lesley to be found. The faith she’d learned from Noble and Annamarie’s patient tutelage fought against the fear and doubt nibbling at her heart. She blew out an aggravated breath and sat forward, planting her hands on her knees and holding her spine stiff. “I’d feel better if Mr. Dinsmore hadn’t been so … lackadaisical. Why can’t he see the truth?”

  Noble chuckled, placing his arm around Caroline’s shoulders and drawing her against the bench’s high back. “He placed his confidence in Gordon Hightower. To believe the apprentice to whom he dedicated such time and trust has tricked him makes him quest
ion himself. So he sees what he wants to see.”

  Caroline frowned at Noble. “He’s stubborn and foolish.”

  Noble’s chuckle rumbled again. “He’s human. But the police believed us. They’ll be on alert, so you needn’t worry.” He gave her shoulder a light squeeze. “Dear one, in this life we will encounter people like Hightower and Dinsmore, who follow their own pathway instead of the one deigned by God. They spend their entire lives scrabbling for something to satisfy them and always come up empty. Instead of being angry with these men, we should pity them. They’re lost. They need our prayers.”

  Caroline peered at her beloved mentor through a sheen of tears. “I know you’re right, Noble. And I want to trust God to work instead of worrying, the way you and Annamarie have taught me. But it’s so hard. How do you do it?”

  With a gentle smile Noble placed his thick palm over Caroline’s fists, which lay tightly balled in her lap. “Very simply, Caroline, you open your fists”—he peeled her fingers free of their curl and turned her hands palms upward—“and you give the worry over to the One who is capable of carrying it.” The warmth of his smile eased a bit of the tension in Caroline’s stiff frame. “Jesus tells us in the eleventh chapter of Matthew, verse twenty-eight, ‘Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’ He’ll honor the promise, but you must do your part in laying down the burden.”

  Caroline fell silent, thinking of Noble’s kind instruction. Hadn’t she been weary since she was a child? She’d fought so hard to overcome the scars inflicted by the labor of her childhood. Thanks to Noble and Annamarie, she’d discovered an element of healing, yet she knew she still clung to some burdens.

  Lowering her head, she spoke to the One who beckoned her to trust. Father, open me completely to You so I might walk free of the weariness plaguing me. Ignite in me a trust so pure and true that nothing can shake it. Just as Noble’s tender smile had warmed her from within, the Presence of God fell around Caroline like a sweet covering of fresh-scented dew. Her hands relaxed, her fingers opening not only to release her burden but to accept the gift of peace being bestowed from above. A smile formed on her face—a face moistened by the tears slipping from beneath her closed lids and running in warm rivulets down her cheeks. Thank You, my dear Lord and Savior. You’ve rescued me again.