Echoes of Mercy: A Novel (45 page)

“Lank!” Letta screamed his name over Lesley’s harsh sobs. “Lank, you come back here!”

He didn’t even pause.

The mournful blast of a train’s whistle reached Caroline’s ears as she crept along the back wall of Dinsmore’s World-Famous Chocolates Factory. Was Ollie on the departing train? Loneliness smote her. She’d always worked alone and had never longed for anyone’s assistance. But in that moment she would have given anything to have Ollie at her side.

She shoved the wistful desire aside and focused on the task at hand. Her eyes skimming the ground, she searched the pathway they’d taken earlier when escaping the factory. Knowing how the wind could carry things away, she also peeked behind the trash cans, along the foundation of the building, and in the curb. But the pages were nowhere to be found.

Chances were she’d dropped them inside. And on Monday, when everyone returned to work, one of the employees was bound to discover them lying on the floor. If whoever found them looked at them, they’d surely turn the pages over to Hightower. She stamped her foot, frustration rising in her chest.

If only she were still on the day shift, she’d be able to arrive early and explore without garnering notice. She leaned against the damp bricks and chewed her lip. The first shift was the largest of the three rotations. Could she sneak in with the other workers? New employees joined the ranks virtually each day. Perhaps no one would question her moving through the hallways early tomorrow morning. She’d take the chance.

The decision made, she pushed off from the wall and started toward the street. But she’d taken two steps when a drawling voice drew her to a halt.

“Well, well, well. Miss Lang.”

Caroline turned slowly.

Gordon Hightower stood only a scant two yards behind her, a knowing grin on his face. “What brings you to the factory on a fine Sunday?”

She’d hardly call the day fine. Overcast with a chilly breeze, absent of Ollie’s companionship, and now faced with Hightower’s less-than-sunny appearance,
the day became more dreary by the minute. She formed a smile and lifted her shoulders in a weak shrug. “Just taking a walk.”

His gaze narrowed. “You were taking something all right. But it wasn’t a walk, was it?”

Her heart hammered against her ribs. He knew! She forced a nervous laugh. “Is it so surprising that I’d be stretching my legs? Crating is a tedious job—not much opportunity to move around. So—”

In one great stride he reached her and curled his hand around her elbow. His fingers bit into her flesh. His snarling face hovered mere inches from hers. “Don’t lie to me. You were sneaking around here. Just like you have been since I hired you.” He shook her viciously, making her teeth rattle. Holding tight to her with one hand, he slipped his other hand into his pocket and withdrew a familiar wad of folded pages. He waved them beneath her nose. “Is this what you’re after?”

Unwilling to lie, yet unable to tell the truth, Caroline stood in silence.

He shook her again and plunged the pages back into his pocket. “How’d you get in earlier? Who gave you a key?”

Caroline’s mouth turned to cotton. Although fear roared through her, she refused to give it sway. Looking directly into Hightower’s snapping eyes, she spoke honestly. “No one gave me a key.” She then angled her head and furrowed her brow. “What are you doing here? The factory’s closed on Sunday.”

“I’m asking the questions!” He pushed her forward and began dragging her toward the building.

She clawed at his hand, but his grip proved amazingly strong. So she went limp, a tactic she’d learned from Noble. For a few seconds he lost his hold. She swung her arm, striking him hard on the side of the head, then scrambled for freedom. Curses exploded from his lips as he charged after her. This time he grabbed her around the middle. She struggled against him, clawing at his hands and stomping at his toes. He captured her wrists and twisted them painfully behind her, ending the fierce battle.

He laughed, the rollicking sound evil in its delivery. “Well, aren’t you the feisty one. That was fun.” Keeping his bruising grip on her wrists, he shoved
her toward the factory. “We might have to try that wrestling again. But know you won’t best me. I’m well practiced at fighting, and I always win.”

He kicked the door closed behind them and released her. She scampered several feet away, then spun to face him, panting and rubbing her aching wrists. He set the lock, his leering gaze pinned to her face.

Snatches from Caroline’s years of training tripped through her mind, and she grabbed hold of a ploy to bide time—
Keep him talking
. “All right, Mr. Hightower, I confess I was here earlier. Ollie Moore let me in.”

Hightower snorted. “Big surprise.”

She blathered on. “He helped me examine the elevator. We didn’t want to get in anyone’s way, so we needed to do it while no one was working.”

Folding his arms over his chest, he nodded at her. “Continue.”

“You see, I wanted to verify that Harmon Bratcher’s death was an accident. So I needed to see how the elevator functioned. To see if it was possible for someone to accidentally fall down the shaft.”

His eyes narrowed. “And what did you determine?” She swallowed, then spoke in what she prayed was a convincing tone. “If someone, in a lapse of judgment, left the gate open, and no lights were burning, then a person could step into the shaft without realizing the elevator bed wasn’t there.”

He didn’t move. Not even a twitch of an eyelid. “So you’re satisfied Bratcher’s death was indeed an accident?”

Would he let her go if she agreed? Heart pattering with hope, she nodded.

A slow smile crept up his cheeks. “I’m so glad you see the possibility. Because, Miss Lang, there will be another accident in the factory.”

Cold sweat broke out over her entire body. “You’d be foolish to do away with me, Mr. Hightower. I’ll be missed come Monday. Ollie Moore will miss me.”

Hightower laughed. “Come Monday, Ollie Moore will be shown your discharge papers. He’ll presume you left on your own.”

She gaped at him. “Discharge papers?”

“Yes. Fulton Dinsmore agreed with my decision that you should be released from duty here. He signed the papers Saturday afternoon before departing for Wichita.”

So Dinsmore’s talk about “unpleasant consequences” referred to her losing her job, not being physically harmed. Dinsmore might be indifferent and calculating, but the man truly was innocent of wrongdoing in Bratcher’s death. Despite the harrowing position in which she’d found herself, she couldn’t withhold a sigh of relief for Ollie’s sake.

“You don’t seem disappointed by the news.” Hightower’s words brought her back to the present.

She gave a stiff shrug. “I’m not. Now that I know Bratcher died from an accident, I don’t need to stay any longer. So I’ll just—” She headed for the door.

“You aren’t going anywhere.” He waylaid her with a firm grip on her arm. He leaned close, his voice turning to a snarl. “There’s still the issue of you snooping through my personal records. It was you, wasn’t it?”

Denying it would only prolong the inevitable, and confirming it might convince him to surrender. Caroline lifted her chin and fixed him with a steady look. “Yes. I saw the records. I tore out the pages. I showed them to Ollie Moore. He intends to tell Mr. Dinsmore about the discrepancies.”

Hightower’s face mottled with red. His fingers curled so tightly on her arm, Caroline’s fingers began to tingle.

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 …

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.