Echoes of Mercy: A Novel

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Here he was bemoaning her absence again when he should be thankful she’d stayed away. Maybe it would have been better if the door had slammed into his chest rather than his head. It might have knocked Miss Carrie Lang from his heart.

  He hailed a passing hansom cab and paid the driver two bits to tote him to the factory. His first night back he didn’t want to wear himself out with the walk and be unable to complete his duties. Part of his duty tonight, albeit a personal one, would be retrieving those blueprints for Carrie. He also intended to extract the reason she was so keen on seeing them. If his suspicions were correct and she was hiding something from him, it might help him find the courage to sever his ties with her completely.

  He arrived late—more than twenty minutes past clock-in time. Hightower would probably write up a complaint against him, but so be it. According to the rules Father had put into place for all the workers, Hightower would need three write-ups before he could release him. Just this morning Father had said he’d bring Oliver’s masquerading to a halt at the end of the year. So he’d leave long before Hightower had compiled enough valid excuses to terminate his employment.

  As he gathered his cleaning supplies, he couldn’t resist a light chuckle. He wished he could be a fly on the wall when Father told Hightower his own son had been mopping floors and greasing gears. He supposed he shouldn’t gloat—it wasn’t polite—but he didn’t like Hightower, and he didn’t mind saying so. As a boy, he’d often envied the unknown lad Father had selected from the Chicago orphanage to work in his factory. Back then his dislike for Hightower had centered around Father’s seeming interest in him. But as Oliver had become acquainted with Hightower the adult, his dislike became personal. The man was a cad through and through.

  Bucket, rags, and scrub brush in hand, he moved across the wide crating area toward the break room. After his days away he imagined there’d be plenty of scrubbing to do in the room where the workers ate their meals. He passed Carrie, who was bent over a crate, tack pinched between her finger and thumb. He eased up behind her and leaned in so she’d hear him over the factory noises. “Good evening, Carrie.”

  She jumped, bouncing the hammer off her thumb. With a sharp intake of breath, she dropped the hammer and shook her hand wildly, her lips set in a grimace of pain.

  Oliver put down his cleaning items and stretched his hands toward her. “Let me see.”

  She yanked her hand away, glaring at him. “Don’t bother. It’s nothing.”

  Her thumb was already swelling. Soon it would be as colorful as his face. He cringed. He truly hadn’t intended to startle her. Cupping his hand beneath her elbow, he steered her toward the little room used by the staff doctor. “Come on. The night-shift doctor can wrap that up for you.”

  She tried to wrench free of his grasp. “I told you, I’m fine. Let me go.”

  He gave her an impatient look. Why was she being so stubborn? “Carrie, your thumb clearly is not fine. Look at it.”

  She did.

  “It’ll be as large as a sausage if you don’t get it wrapped.”

  She clamped her jaw tight, but she moved along beside him without any further arguments. When they reached the infirmary, Oliver ushered her through the door. But the doctor wasn’t in the room. Oliver crossed to the door leading to the sick bay, opened it, and peeked inside. No one was in there, either. “Where could he be?”

  Carrie hovered near the doorway, cradling her thumb against her bodice. “It doesn’t matter. I can still hold a tack. I’ll go—”

  Oliver dashed across the floor, the sudden movement causing a slight ringing in his ears. Would dizziness follow? Catching hold of her elbow again, partly to keep her from leaving, partly to keep himself upright, he pulled her toward the examination table in the center of the room. “Climb up there,” he said. “I’ll wrap your thumb.”

  “Ollie, really, you needn’t—”

  Lowering his brows, he affected a stern frown. “I’m not going to argue with you.” He paused, allowing his lips to curl into a teasing grin. “You made sure my wound was tended. The least I can do is return the favor.”

  “You returned the favor all right.” She looked ruefully at her thumb and its blackening nail. “As they say, ‘Turnabout is fair play.’ ”

  He helped her onto the edge of the table and then began opening cabinet doors, looking for bandages. “Just be glad the hammer didn’t bounce off your head. You can’t get a concussion from a whack on the thumb.” He located a roll of thin strips and carried it to the table. “Hold out your hand, thumb up, please.”

  With her lower lip sucked in and her brow furrowed, she watched him unroll the narrow cotton cloth. Her obvious nervousness made him nervous, and he sought the means to put her at ease. Conversation might take her mind off his ministrations. While he wound the strip around her thumb, snug but not too snug, he asked, “What is it about our elevator that stirs your interest?”

  She yanked her hand back, unraveling the bandage. “Why?”

  He gathered up the strip and reached for her hand again. “Because you were going to tell me. Remember? We had a deal.”

  Shoving her hand behind her back, well out of his reach, she fixed him with a glare that could curdle milk. “Yes. We had a deal. But if I honor my part and tell you the reason, are you going to run off and report everything I say?”

  Her accusation set him back a pace.

  She went on, her tone brittle. “Tell me the truth. Have you been tattling on me?”

  The word “tattling” almost made him laugh. Such a childish word. But when he thought about it, wasn’t that what he’d done? He’d observed her without her knowledge, had gathered information, and had shared it with his father. He preferred to think of his actions as investigative rather than gossipy, but he supposed in this case they were the same. He didn’t know what to say, so he stood stupidly before her with his head throbbing and his heart aching.

  “You have, haven’t you?” She didn’t wait for his reply but hopped down from the table and pushed past him. “I can’t believe I trusted you. Relied on you. I—” Her voice broke on a strangled moan. She stifled the sound and held her chin high. “Stay away from me, Ollie Moore. I want nothing to do with you.” She darted out the door.

  Oliver started to run after her, but the room spun. He sagged against the doorjamb, one hand on his head. “Carrie!”

  She passed two other craters, who watched her race by and then turned their gazes on Oliver. Their faces twisted into matching, knowing smirks. Oliver inwardly groaned and moved to the examination table. He propped himself against it, willing the lightheadedness to pass. He needed to explain to Carrie the purpose of his reporting. He’d only wanted to prove to his father that they had no reason to distrust her. But how could he do so without divulging the truth of who he was? He’d gotten himself entangled, and there seemed to be no escape.

  The look of betrayal on Carrie’s sweet face pierced him to the center of his being. Now alone in the quiet infirmary, he experienced a longing to share this burden and find reparation from the One who held all the answers of the universe. But just as his prayers for Mr. Holcomb had been offered too late, he feared these prayers would be useless. She’d never trust him again. Unless …

  As quickly as his swimming head would allow, he headed for the janitor’s closet and the tin tube that held the blueprints for the elevator.

  “Moore!”

  The shout brought Oliver to a halt. The night-shift foreman, Alden, jogged toward him. Oliver shifted in place, eager to complete his own errand.

  “Yes?”

  Alden took a look at Oliver’s face and barked out a laugh. “Guess the boss wasn’t kidding when he said you’d gotten a good knock on the noggin. Reckon that smarts some, huh?”

  Oliver grimaced. “Some.”

  “How’d it happen?”

  “Ran into a door.” A partial truth, but no way would he admit Carrie’d done it.

  The foreman laughed again. “Well, now that you
’re back, you got some catching up to do. Two nights ago one of the new hires fell asleep and let a boiler get too hot. A vat of raspberry filling bubbled over. Hightower said to leave it for you to handle when you got back on duty since he couldn’t trust the newly hired first-shift janitor to do it right.”

  Oliver nearly rolled his eyes. He knew better than to be flattered.

  “It’s dried and hard now—it’ll probably take a hammer an’ chisel to get that vat an’ the floor around it clean again.”

  Oliver edged toward the janitor’s closet. “You want me to do that now?”

  Alden scowled. “We can’t use the vat until it’s clean.”

  Stifling a groan of frustration, Oliver nodded. “All right. I’m on my way.” The blueprints—and Carrie—would have to wait.

  Caroline

  If Ollie’s head hurt half as much as her thumb, Caroline almost felt sorry for him. Pinching tacks became increasingly painful as the night progressed. By the time the lunch break buzzer blared, her thumb appeared twice its normal size, and the nail wore a purplish-black half moon. The constant throb beneath the nail made her nauseated. She’d been anticipating the apple fritter Kesia had packed for her midnight dinner, but food had lost all appeal. Which was just as well, because she had a more important task to tend to than eating.

  As workers filed toward the break room, Caroline sidled up to the other craters. “I’m going to the infirmary—see if the doctor is back so I can get my thumb wrapped.” She held up the purple appendage to validate the need. They nodded at her, one grimacing at the sight of her thumb. Satisfied they’d carry the tale to the other workers if anyone—namely, Ollie—happened to notice her absence, she turned and headed in the direction of the doctor’s little examination room. But halfway there, with a furtive glance over her shoulder to be sure no one saw her, she changed course and made her way to the janitor’s closet.

  Ollie had indicated the blueprints were on a shelf. The closet wouldn’t be so large she’d need assistance in locating a few drawings. Don’t let him catch me, please. The plea, more a demand than a prayer, exploded from her pattering heart. “Him” covered both Hightower and Ollie. One man had frightened her, but the other had shattered her. She didn’t have the strength to face either of them at that moment.

  She closed the door behind her, sealing herself in darkness. Arms outstretched, she moved slowly forward, and something tickled her cheek. She stifled a shriek—a spider web? No, she’d located the light’s pull cord. She gave it a tug, and a bare bulb sent glaring light through the small room. Blinking against the sudden onslaught, she turned a slow circle, her eyes seeking anything resembling a stack of drawings.

  Buckets, sponges, boxes packed with hardware, folded towels, and other assorted items filled the shelves, everything placed just so. The closet’s meticulous organization raised a wave of unexpected sadness. How could a man who took such care with inanimate objects treat her so callously? The two halves didn’t seem to fit with each other.

  Pushing aside thoughts of Ollie, she began shifting items, peeking behind every box and crate. She explored the bottom three shelves, which were at eye level or below, but the top shelf was above her head. She grabbed a bucket, turned it upside down, and climbed on its bottom, giving herself enough of a boost to view the contents of the uppermost shelf.

  A stack of folded papers held down by a tarnished tin tube caught her eye. She pushed the canister aside and lifted the papers. To her dismay they were only yellowed, mouse-eaten newspapers, apparently forgotten. Frustrated, she tossed them back on the shelf. They slid against the tin tube, rolling it over and revealing a paper label pasted on its side. A minuscule black-and-white drawing of the elevator filled the center of the label.

  Caroline’s pulse leaped in response. The blueprints! She grabbed the tube and hopped down from the bucket. Oh, how pleased Noble would be! She headed for the door, tube in hand, but before she stepped out, she made herself stop and think. She examined the tube, measuring it with her eyes. Fifteen inches in length and perhaps three inches in diameter, the tube was large enough to garner notice if she carried it in her hand. Should she slide it inside the full sleeve of her dress? There was ample fabric to accommodate the canister, but she wouldn’t be able to bend her arm. The shank of her lace-up shoes was too snug to slip the tube in next to her leg, and she had no desire to carry it beneath her skirt. But somehow she had to smuggle it out of the factory.

  Break would end soon, and she needed to return to her post, preferably with a wrapped thumb so no one would wonder why she hadn’t seen the doctor. Where could she hide the tube? Then she smacked her forehead. The recent lack of sleep had rendered her incapable of thinking clearly. Why take the tube? Blueprints were printed on paper. She could fold the drawings and tuck them inside her clothing without anyone noticing.

  The top squeaked as she twisted it loose. Tipping the tube sideways, she tapped it to release the drawings. Nothing fell into her waiting hand. She tapped it harder. When no rolled pages emerged, she turned the tube upright and held the opening toward the light.

  Empty.

  The tube was empty.

  Caroline slammed the lid on the tube and gave it a toss onto the closest shelf, growling in frustration. Now what? She’d promised to bring the drawings to Noble. If they weren’t in their protective tube, where were they?

  Oliver

  The buzzer blared. Oliver trailed the others leaving the break room. Although he’d hoped to see Carrie, perhaps steal a few moments of time to explain his reason for observing her, he was relieved to hear she was getting her thumb treated. He couldn’t help cringing, thinking of how much the thump with the hammer must have hurt. He found no pleasure in having caused her pain, either physically or emotionally. And clearly he’d hurt her or she wouldn’t run from him like a frightened deer.

  Cleaning the burned vat had taken the entire first half of his shift—such a mess! But now that he’d finished scraping the hardened raspberry cream from the sides of the vat and the floor, he could move on to less taxing duties. He’d never cared much for mopping, but pushing the mop would seem like child’s play after dealing with the stiff, sticky globs of two-day-old burnt filling. He would remember to heap praise on every cleaning person he encountered from now until his dying day. They deserved it.

  As he headed for the closet to gather his mop and bucket, he glimpsed the swirl of a navy-blue skirt darting around the corner ahead. He frowned. Hadn’t Carrie worn a navy-blue dress tonight? Yes, he’d noticed how the tiny white dots in the fabric stood out more when the white bandage fell across her skirt. But what was she doing on the opposite side of the factory from the infirmary?

  He started to follow her, but asking questions would only solidify her opinion that he was an informant. Rather than suspecting the worst, he would assume she had valid reasons for wandering the factory floor during her break.

  He reached for the door handle of the janitor’s closet and discovered the door was unlatched. Hadn’t he closed it when he’d left earlier? Of course he had. He’d distinctly heard the click. So someone had been in there. He stepped inside, pulled the string to the light, then swept the shelves with his gaze. His time of serving as janitor had left him very familiar with the room and its contents, and he easily spotted the one thing that was out of place.

  Snatching up the tube, he snarled in frustration. He clanked the tube twice on the edge of the shelf, creating a pair of matching dents. He’d tried so hard to convince Father of Carrie’s innocence, wanting to place all suspicion on Hightower’s shoulders instead. If she’d taken the drawings, Father would be incensed. But no more than Oliver was. He couldn’t defend her if she was going to engage in such sneaky shenanigans.

  Although on duty, Oliver left the mop and bucket behind and stormed to the crating station. He strode directly behind Carrie, caught her hand mid-swing, and turned her to face him. With the hammer raised, she presented a formidable figure. He pushed the hammer-wielding hand do
wnward and glared into her surprised face.

  “Where are they?”

  Yanking her hand free, she matched his glower with one of her own. “Where are what?”

  He gritted his teeth. He was in no mood to play games. “The blueprints, Carrie. What have you done with them?”

  “What have I done with them?” Her eyes widened. “You’re accusing me of taking them?”

  “Yes, I am. You wanted to see them. You obviously didn’t visit the infirmary”—he gestured toward her unbandaged thumb—“and everyone else was in the break room. So what other explanation is there?” He leaned in, pinning her with a narrowed gaze. “What did you do with them, Carrie? Tell me now.”

  She pressed her injured hand to her chest and gawked at him. “I did nothing with them. They weren’t even there!” Pink flooded her cheeks, deepening to a bold red as awareness seemed to blossom in her expression. “You … You!” She waved the hammer, her eyes narrowing to slits of fury. “Did you hide them in retaliation for me refusing to answer your questions earlier? I expected better of you, Ollie. You promised to show the blueprints to me. Promised! And I trusted you to be a man of your word. But instead you squirreled them away somewhere. Well, once again I’ve been proved the fool, but I will never—”

  He shook his head, the meaning of her emotional tirade filtering through his veil of anger. “I didn’t squirrel away those blueprints. How could I when you took them?”