Echoes of Mercy: A Novel (46 page)

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 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 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
.

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.