“It might,” Caleb said.
Malcolm tugged on his sleeve. “She’s not there.”
“What do you mean?” A chill of foreboding caused Caleb to shiver.
“She’s gone. Newspapers on both sides are going crazy. She just disappeared.”
“Who did it? Why?” Caleb turned slowly and stared at Malcolm.
“Doesn’t matter. She’s gone, so you might as well get back to work. See you there.” Malcolm turned left, headed for the newspaper office.
Caleb sprinted toward the police department, and the chief confirmed what Malcolm said. Ingrid was gone, and the jailor on duty had disappeared, too. Caleb’s body sagged against the wall of the building. He felt like he’d been searching for Ingrid all his life, and now he’d lost her.
Chapter 9
Ingrid saw another exchange of money as her unknown benefactor whispered to the driver. She glanced at the interior of the carriage, then back at the jail. She chose the possibility of freedom and escape. She’d believed in the honesty of one man and landed in a jail cell. Was she foolish to put her trust in another stranger?
The carriage door slammed, and Ingrid was thrown back against the seat as the driver lashed the horses and the carriage moved forward at a startling pace. The man who had rescued her from jail stayed behind. Ingrid’s circle of familiarity included only the Packingtown section of Chicago and the edge of the city where her clients lived, and the streets they passed no longer looked familiar.
When they stopped, the driver hopped down. “Wait. I’ll get the tickets.”
“Tickets?” Ingrid’s question went unanswered. The driver had already gone inside the train station.
He reappeared and offered his hand. “Train leaves in thirty minutes. Remember what Mr. Grantham . . .” He covered his mouth. “Remember what the man who got you out of jail said—you’re to disappear. Don’t come back to Chicago and don’t contact anyone here.”
“Am I to travel unaccompanied?” Ingrid tried to make her voice sound normal, even though her heart beat rapidly and her breathing was shallow.
“Track nine.” He nudged her toward the yawning opening of the station. “I’ll be with you.” He nodded to another man who emerged from the bustle of the walk in front of the station and pointed to the carriage and horse. “Take the carriage back, and tell the man I’ve got her on board.”
Ingrid felt the man cup her elbow and hurry her across the large open area to a section labeled “trains.” She felt like she’d fallen into Lake Michigan and was being swept away from shore. She didn’t want to stay in jail for another day, but had she chosen a future worse than jail?
The man with the round glasses who arranged her release seemed kind, but her escort now was a coarse, abrasive man, set on completing a task. What was the job he had to complete? Ingrid shivered.
“Right on time,” he said. The man urged her inside the car and pointed to a seat, and then waved to a lad selling sandwiches. “I’ll have two of those.”
When her escort departed, Ingrid leaned forward and whispered to the gentleman in front of her. “I want to make sure we’re on the right train.”
He smiled kindly. “If you’re headed west, this is the right one. I’m getting off in Iowa, be home for Christmas.” The man patted a bag of wrapped presents on the seat next to him. “My son is going to be a shepherd in the Christmas pageant, and his sister is going to be an angel. Do you have children?”
“Not yet,” Ingrid said softly.
“Even though our two youngsters have given the wife and me some gray hairs they’re a true blessing, I hope you’ll have a houseful.” The man returned to reading his newspaper.
When she’d said “not yet,” Caleb’s face came to her mind. Caleb, she shook her head and reminded herself that he walked out on her without a word. He hadn’t told her the truth, and his deceit had been the source of her trouble. Still, she remembered his tender, caring eyes, the soft concern in his voice, his kindness to Joan and Albert’s boys.
The driver of the carriage, who was now her escort, returned and thrust a wrapped paper toward her. “Thought you might want a sandwich. They don’t feed you too well in jail.”
Ingrid accepted the food as the man in front of her grabbed his Christmas parcels and moved to another seat. He glanced back at her, all the friendliness he’d shown earlier replaced by a scowl.
“May as well settle in, trip’s a long one.” Her traveling companion slouched in the seat and pulled his hat down over his eyes.
“May I ask your name?” Ingrid said. “I’d like to know the person who is helping me.”
“Name’s Walter, and I’m not the one helping you. I’m just following orders.”
“Whose orders? Who’s helping me? And why?”
Walter tilted the hat back so he could see her eyes. “Don’t ask so many questions. Consider this trip a Christmas present from an unknown benefactor.”
“Is Mr. Grantham my benefactor?” Ingrid recalled the name he’d mentioned inadvertently.
“He’s more interested in selling newspapers and keeping Danny Dangerous on his staff than helping you.”
“He’s with the newspapers?” Ingrid still couldn’t believe she’d been whisked from jail so quickly. “And who is Danny Dangerous?”
“Let’s skip the get acquainted stuff. I’m delivering you to your destination, getting extra money for my family’s Christmas. The end.” Walter closed his eyes, signaling an end to the conversation.
Ingrid watched the countryside rush past the car window. Walter must be taking her to Joy. She placed her trust in God when she’d decided to try and collect the money for Caleb. She trusted God when she agreed to follow a man she didn’t know out of a Chicago jail. She would trust that Walter was also part of God’s plan for this journey. She also had to believe that her uncle would be happy to see her, and that he was as kind as she remembered.
She had money she’d sewn into the lining of her handbag, money she planned to use to get to Joy on her own. Now she’d be able to buy washtubs and sewing supplies. She didn’t want to rely on her uncle’s generosity forever. He didn’t know she was coming, but she had nowhere else to go.
Train stop platforms were festooned with greenery and other decorations of the season. Ingrid thought about the man who moved several seats away from her, about the church pageant he would be watching this week. Would she ever know the joy of love again? Of motherhood?
Her heart ached for family and community connections. The Packingtown section had been a community, and Joan’s family and Rosie’s family had included her in their circle.
But she was always the extra, the one without a husband or children, like the spinster aunt that people included out of duty. Maybe things would be different in this new town. In Joy, she would try to find her place.
In a letter her aunt and uncle sent after settling there, they said the population was less than 500. Maybe she would find the joy she had been seeking in the little town in western Illinois. She smiled, remembering the verses of the song, O Little Town of Bethlehem.
Joseph and Mary found what they needed in the little town of Bethlehem. Maybe she would find what God intended for her in the little town of Joy.
Chapter 10
Caleb wandered the streets, feeling lost, hopeless, bereft. He’d made the decision to give up the work he loved in order to right the injustice he’d created for Ingrid Larkin, and now he couldn’t. She disappeared as if she really had been an angel, one who had flown away from him.
After hours of aimless walking, he found himself in front of St. Pat’s, one of the few structures to escape the Chicago fire, an inferno that had taken his grandparents, father, his aunts, uncles, cousins, and two brothers. His mother had been out of the city with him, an excursion to strengthen his weakened lungs, when the fire erupted. As he grew, he felt he was the cause of the great sadness of his mother, that he was the reason their family had died. He’d buried his faith when he buried his mother, but
he could never bury his guilt at being the one member of the Finsson clan who survived.
Yet he felt drawn to go inside this striking edifice. He didn’t think God would mind if he went inside a Catholic church—if God continued to watch over him—as his mother had insisted He did. Caleb hadn’t been inside any church, Catholic or protestant, for years. The three doors between the two turrets welcomed him. He needed some tranquility after the raucous noise of the city.
Caleb slipped into one of the back pews, allowing the quiet and majesty of the sanctuary to soothe him. He considered the path of his life. He’d taken the tough assignments at the paper, always trying to right the wrongs he saw being done, but that never seemed enough. His thoughts circled like a train along the same route. He didn’t know where to start to find Ingrid. He wanted to save her, perhaps share her life, more than he wanted the headlines of the greatest story he’d ever investigated, but he didn’t know where to find Ingrid.
“God hears our prayers, spoken and unspoken.” The whispered words interrupted Caleb’s dark thoughts.
Wrinkles etched by age and laughter filled the face of the bent woman wearing a red scarf and a coat designed to fit a larger woman. Wisps of thin gray hair escaped from her head covering, and she squinted her cloudy eyes when she spoke again. The face radiated compassion and kindness. “I thought I felt God nudge this old heart to speak to you.” She paused and looked around the sanctuary where a smattering of people sat with bowed heads. “Maybe he meant someone else.”
Caleb shook his head. “God talks to you?”
“In many ways. He shows his face in a new baby, a beautiful day, a neighbor sharing a loaf of bread, a child assisting me when I need a steadying arm to cross the street. And sometimes he nudges me to talk to strangers in St. Pat’s.”
Conscious even their murmured conversation might disturb other parishioners, Caleb motioned with his head to the foyer, and she led the way.
“I don’t want to burden you with my problems.” Caleb closed the door to the sanctuary before speaking in a normal tone.
The beatific smile lit her face again. “I give my burdens to the Lord. Lifting your concerns to Him will be my joy.”
Joy? Caleb grimaced when she said the word.
She placed a work-worn hand on his sleeve. “You can talk to God yourself, but I’ll be happy to pray for you, too.”
“I quit praying a long time ago.” Caleb searched his memory for the last time he’d sought God’s guidance.
“God is waiting for you to speak to him. I like to start my prayers by thanking God for blessings I’ve already received before I ask Him for more.” She pointed to a bench wide enough for two. “These old legs tire easily now.”
“I was blessed with a good family, but God took them in the fire.” Caleb clenched and unclenched his right hand, acutely aware of the throbbing pain in his left where the missing finger parts should have been.
“But you appear to be well dressed and well fed,” the woman said.
“Thanks to my mentor, a man named Grantham. He’s watched over me, even when I didn’t want him to stick his nose in my business, but he did.” Caleb turned to look into the woman’s sweet face. “Grantham still looks out for me!”
“Did God give you an answer to your prayer?” the woman asked.
“I believe he did. Thank you, and please pray for me,” Caleb said.
The woman nodded. “Of course. May I ask your name? I know God knows you, but I like to be personal with my prayers.”
“I’m Caleb Finsson, but I’d like your prayers for a woman named Ingrid Larkin and for the workers in the Packingtown section of Chicago.” Caleb blinked several times. He was a hard-hitting reporter who didn’t cry in front of elderly ladies in churches. “I should go.”
The woman touched his shoulder. “I will pray for you and Miss Larkin.”
“Mrs. Larkin, but she’s a widow.” Caleb impulsively placed his hand on the woman’s face and kissed her forehead. “I realize I want Ingrid to share my name and my life. I must find her.”
“I think I’ll go back inside and pray for you and Ingrid, and for God to direct your life, Caleb Finsson.”
Caleb offered his arm and escorted the frail woman with the strong faith back to the pew they’d vacated earlier, then he ran from the church to the newspaper office.
* * *
Caleb arrived in the office out of breath and saw Grantham bent over the desk manned by Larry Alford and stabbed at passages on the page while he chomped on a dead cigar.
Caleb noticed Larry’s relief as the berated reporter cleared his throat and pointed to Caleb, diverting Grantham’s attention from the unsatisfactory story the editor had marked with many X’s and comments.
Grantham straightened. “You’ve come back. About time. Let’s talk about your stories.” The editor marched into his office, expecting Caleb to follow. “Malcolm went to your apartment, got your stuff. Not bad. I think we can use it.”
Caleb pulled the man into a hug, and the gruff man shook to disengage himself. Caleb laughed. “You know we can use it. It’s the best I’ve ever done, and you know I’m a good writer.”
“You’re good, because you were trained by the best.” Grantham stepped back. “What’s gotten into you? Where have you been?”
“To church.”
Grantham harrumphed. “Well, let’s get to work on this. I’d like to start the series in the Sunday edition.”
“Did you hear the Larkin woman vanished from jail?” Caleb looked at the editor.
Grantham nodded. “Our competition carried the story.”
“I heard someone paid off the jailor and spirited her away,” Caleb said. “Who would do that?”
Grantham picked up some papers from his desk. “I really liked the story you wrote about the three little boys. Think you could find them again? Get a photograph? Readers love kids.”
“Who do you think would pay off the jailor and free Ingrid Larkin?” Caleb redirected the conversation his boss derailed.
“Maybe someone who saw her arrest as a miscarriage of justice. Now about these stories.” Grantham waved the papers in front of him.
“I’d be able to concentrate on putting this series of articles together if I knew where she was, and that she was safe.” Caleb ran his fingers through his hair.
Grantham closed the door to the office. “She’s safe. I’ll tell you where she is after we finish putting together your sensational series of articles. They could double our circulation, and you might even get a bonus.”
Caleb placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “I knew you were the one who rescued her. Thanks.”
“Caleb, you won’t be safe here after these stories break.” Grantham put his hands in his pockets and shook his head. “I never meant for you to get hurt. Your fingers, I’m so sorry.”
“I know,” Caleb said. “You’ve cared for me like your own son. I want you to know I’m grateful. The fingers weren’t your fault.”
“You should try San Francisco. That city is booming, and this brand-new century is going to produce exciting changes. California would be a great place for a young man and a pretty widow to start a new life together.”
“What about you?” Caleb understood the pain the suggestion caused his mentor.
“I could never leave Chicago. Someone has to keep tabs on this city.” Grantham sat at his desk and motioned for Caleb to sit.
“I’ll miss you, sir,” Caleb said.
Grantham pulled off his spectacles and held them up to the light, then wiped his eyes before putting them back on. “Enough sentimentalism, Caleb. Let’s organize your stories. I think they’re powerful enough to force the meatpacking industry to adopt a conscience.”
Chapter 11
Ingrid’s traveling companion, Walter, made a point of not speaking to her and sat across the aisle. She recalled the stories of the lepers in the Bible. She’d always felt a sympathy that they had to live separately from family and friends. Would a lif
e of isolation be hers in Joy? What if her uncle wasn’t willing to give her a place to stay?
At the station in Davenport, Iowa, the closest rail stop to Joy, they left the passenger car. Walter left her on the platform and bought his return ticket before hiring a horse and carriage for the trip to Joy.
“Good thing you’re traveling light,” Walter said. “We can start right away. Want to get back to Chicago tonight. With the extra cash for taking care of you, I’ll be able to do some Christmas shopping for my little ones and my missus.”
Ingrid’s hand flew to her throat. “Presents? Oh, Walter, would you go to my place when you get back to Chicago? Please get the gifts I have wrapped for my neighbors. They have three little boys and those little ones won’t get much for Christmas.” Ingrid pictured the pile of gaily-decorated gifts in the corner of her living room.
“Guess I could ask the boss about it.” He didn’t look her in the eye. “Little boys? How old?”
“Six, four, and two, and a baby expected before Christmas. Sweet boys.” The thought of Al, Billy, and David made Ingrid smile. She would miss them. She’d been like a beloved aunt ever since Albert and Joan moved next door. “How old are your children? Boys? Girls?”
He slapped the reins. “I’m busy driving, don’t bother me with talk.”
Ingrid knew he’d received instructions not to talk to her. She’d only found out the name of the man who helped her by a slip of his tongue. Walter didn’t want to make any more mistakes.
The livery owner gave them lap blankets, but even with their extra warmth, Ingrid drew the cloak Mr. Grantham had given her to use as a disguise closer. Yesterday morning, she had been drinking tea in her own kitchen, this afternoon, she was in a wagon trying to fend off chilly gusts and praying her uncle would offer her a warm welcome.
With the only sounds being the blowing wind and the clip-clop of horse hoofs, the trip seemed much longer than the two-hours Walter predicted.
Finally, he pointed to a cluster of a few houses. “That’s your new home.”
Searching for Joy Page 5
