Echoes of Mercy: A Novel (42 page)

“But, Ollie, he specifically warned me about ‘unpleasant consequences.’ What could be more unpleasant than falling down a dark elevator shaft?”

“He wouldn’t do such a thing!” Ollie roared the words, his cheeks mottled red with anger. He stormed over and leaned close, his face only inches from hers. “You’re wrong, Carrie. I know you’re wrong. If anyone is to blame, it’s Hightower—not my father!”

She understood his fury. If someone made allegations against Noble, she’d
react in the exact same way. And she ached at having caused him pain. She adopted a calm, even a placating, tone. “Then explain the discrepancy in him telling me all workers are compensated equally and the differences I’ve seen in pay envelopes. Surely you’ve observed some of the workers taking out their pay and placing it in their pockets or purses. Haven’t you noticed that the women’s and children’s envelopes always contain significantly less than the men’s? Something doesn’t make sense, Ollie.”

He remained bent forward, his narrowed gaze spitting daggers at her, and she braced herself for a verbal attack. But then he swept his hand over his face, and when his fingers trailed away, the intense rage was gone. He sank onto the crate and propped his elbows on his knees, his head hanging low.

“You’re right. Something … is amiss. Something … requires explanation.” Raising his gaze, he looked at her with such agony that tears spurted into her eyes. “When Father and I talked, he told me.” He paused, swallowing. “He told me Hightower has always followed his directions. If he told Hightower something had to be done about Bratcher—that Bratcher was causing trouble that could interfere with the factory’s successful continuation—then maybe … Maybe …” He covered his face with his hands. A groan poured out, a tormented release.

Caroline couldn’t bear watching him suffer. She longed to wrap him in her arms and offer comfort. During the course of their conversation, she’d become convinced that whatever had befallen Bratcher, Ollie had possessed no prior knowledge of it. His innocence thrilled her, yet she couldn’t celebrate, seeing how their inspection of the elevator and her sharing about the conversation with his father had wounded him.

“Ollie?” She spoke tenderly and waited for him to lower his hands. “What we need to do now is discover the truth concerning wages. We need to see the books. The truth will be found there.”

He nodded slowly and swallowed again, the sound loud in the silent hallway. “You’re right. As hard as it is for me to question my own father’s behavior, I have no choice.” Slowly, as if his joints had stiffened during the past minutes, he pushed to his feet.

Bending down, he caught the handle on the lantern. “The books will be
in Hightower’s office, I’m sure. He serves as bookkeeper as well as manager and hiring agent.” A rueful chuckle rolled from his chest. “Such power Father has bestowed on the man.” He held his hand out to her. “Come.”

She rose and caught hold. His fingers were icy—a sure sign of his turmoil. She’d save him the distress of branding his beloved father a liar if he’d allow it. “Are you sure you want to do this? I can go alone.”

A sad smile quavered on his lips. “I have to know the truth.”

She nodded, and she clung hard to his hand, hoping her grip might offer a touch of comfort. “All right.”

Ollie kicked the crates from the middle of the hallway and then turned toward the corner leading to Hightower’s office. “I’m sure one of my keys will open Hightower’s door.” His face was grim, his fingers clamping painfully around hers. “Let’s get this over with.”

The first three keys on Oliver’s ring proved ineffectual in opening Hightower’s door. Three remained, and he found himself offering an unexpected prayer—
Please, Lord, let this work
—as he inserted the fourth one in the lock. He let out a gasp of surprise when it turned and the door swung inward.

He gestured Carrie over the threshold, his body abuzz with nervous excitement. Even though the factory belonged to his family, he couldn’t deny feeling like a burglar as he entered the room. He paused for a moment just inside the door, then impulsively snapped the door closed behind them and twisted the lock. He turned to find Carrie staring at him with a wary look on her face.

He stepped toward her, concerned. “Are you all right?”

“Why did you lock the door?”

Oliver glanced behind him at the turned lock, then shrugged. “I don’t know for certain. It just seemed the right thing to do.”

Her wariness remained. “I’m not fond of being closed in this office.”

White walls barren of photographs or paintings surrounded them. A large desk, its top cleared of everything except an ornate oil lamp, and three leather chairs were precisely arranged in the center of the bare wood floor. Two tall oak cabinets, each with four file drawers, stood sentry in a corner. Oliver shuddered. The room was cold, impersonal. Much like its occupant. Being closed up in the room felt like being closed in a tomb. Yet he didn’t move to open the door.

He held his hand toward Hightower’s desk. “Let’s just get busy, hmm? The sooner we find those books, the sooner we can get out of here.” Cold sweat was beading across his body, making him fidgety. He’d make a lousy agent.

Carrie crunched her lips together into a scowl, but she crossed behind the
desk and began opening drawers. Oliver stood beside her, peeking at the drawers’ contents. Hightower apparently had a taste for spirits, as the large drawer on the bottom right held three half-empty bottles of liquor and a small glass cup. Office items—envelopes, pens and ink, notepads, rubber stamps—were neatly organized in other drawers.

Oliver frowned. “He has to have the books here somewhere.” He moved to the file cabinet and began rummaging through drawers. He discovered file after file of employee records, some dating back fifteen years. Oliver whistled through his teeth. Hightower might be cold, but he was meticulous. As Father had said, the man knew his job.

Behind him, Carrie released a little grunt. He looked over his shoulder and saw her yank on the bottom left-hand drawer. She shot him a disgruntled look. “This one’s locked.”

Oliver crossed to her and crouched down, angling the lantern to illuminate the brass-plated lock. “I don’t have any keys small enough to fit this, but …” He looked at her hair. “Do you have a hairpin?”

She pawed around in the heavy bun weighting the back of her head and pulled one loose. A coil of hair came with it and fell along her neck, inviting Oliver to travel its length. She caught him looking, and his face heated. He plucked the pin from her hand and set to work on the lock. After a few deft flicks, the catch clicked.

“Aha!” The exclamation left his throat without conscious effort. He pulled the drawer open and withdrew a black bound book. He placed it on the desk, settled the lantern beside it, and opened the cover. Carrie leaned in, and together they examined page after page of entries. As he looked, his elation began to build. He tapped a page, angling a grin at Carrie. “See? It’s just as Father said. Salaries are contingent upon the position and the number of years on the job. He told you the truth.”

Carrie’s brow puckered. “That’s what this says, but …” She stood upright, gazing into the gaping drawer for a moment. Then without warning she dropped to all fours.

Unnerved by her action, Oliver immediately ducked down beside her. He whispered, “What is it?”

She began pawing the drawer—one hand inside, one hand outside. “Something isn’t right. Look at the big drawer with the liquor bottles. It’s twice this deep, yet when viewed from the outside, the drawers appear to be the same size.” Her hands stilled and her face lit. “I knew it!”

“What?”

She tapped the bottom of the drawer with her knuckles, grinning at him. “It has a false bottom.”

He gawked at her. “For what purpose?”

She let out a little huff and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Ollie, think! The books don’t match what I’ve witnessed on payday. If Hightower is recording one amount but paying a different amount, some money is unaccounted for. Where do you suppose that money is?”

Excitement built in Oliver’s chest. “In the secret compartment?”

“At least some sort of records are probably there.” She bent over the drawer again. “Help me find a means of opening the compartment.”

Oliver lowered the lantern, and after searching for a few minutes, he discovered a metal catch. He pressed it, and what had appeared to be the bottom of the drawer folded upward on a hidden springed hinge, revealing a compartment beneath. The lantern’s glow fell on a second leather-bound book resting atop a flattened curl of papers. Oliver handed the book to Carrie, then reached for the papers. He unrolled them and stared in open-mouthed amazement. He’d found the elevator blueprints.

Lifting his gaze to Carrie, he shook his head. “What all has Hightower been doing?”

Carrie had opened both books and was examining them side by side. She gave him a brief, grim look. “He’s been stealing from the factory. Apparently for several years. I need to show these records to Noble. He’ll be able to determine the extent of the financial damage.” She tore out several pages from the middle of each book, folded them together, and jammed them into her pocket. After flipping the record books closed, she shoved them toward Ollie. “Put everything back like we found it, and let’s go.”

Oliver rose and picked up the lantern. The light bobbed around the room like a bouncing moonbeam. “You’re leaving the evidence?”

She patted her pocket. “I have all the evidence I need right here. But if Hightower finds the books missing, he’ll know we’re on to him. We can’t take them with us.”

Oliver nodded, acknowledging the sense of her statement. Even so, it infuriated him. He wanted to confront Hightower immediately.

Carrie must have guessed his thoughts, because she touched his hand. “Justice will be served, Ollie, but we need to do this correctly. Allow the authorities to deal with Hightower.”

Oliver sighed. “Very well. Let’s—”

Footsteps intruded. Someone was climbing the stairs.

Oliver and Carrie froze in place, their gazes colliding in wide-eyed looks of shock. Carrie clawed at his hand and mouthed the words, “We have to hide.”

He quickly extinguished the wick on the lantern, then searched the room—a foolish expenditure of time. There weren’t any hiding places in the stark space. But his gaze found the square observation window that gave Hightower a view of the factory floor. He tiptoed to the window, opened the shutters, and looked out. A narrow ledge—perhaps ten inches wide—ran the length of the loft and overlooked a fourteen-foot drop. He broke into a cold sweat just thinking of stepping out on that ledge, but where else could they go?

Someone fumbled with the door lock, and he frantically motioned to Carrie. His brain screamed,
Help, help!
As she scurried to his side, a soft clatter, followed by a muffled curse, told him whoever was trying to get in had dropped the key ring. They’d been gifted with a few extra seconds to escape. Panic making him clumsy, Oliver lifted Carrie onto the window ledge and helped her swing her legs to the other side. She stepped out, pressed her back to the wall, and inched sideways. Oliver placed the lantern on the ledge, then scrambled out. He pulled the shutters into position as the lock squeaked and the door hinges whispered.

He braced himself against the wall on the opposite side of the window, his head turned so he could look at Carrie. She stared back, her eyes wide and her lips set in a taut line. Hightower’s cheerful whistle drifted from behind the shutters. What was the man doing here on a Sunday? And when did he plan to
leave? Dizziness assailed Oliver as he glanced at the dangerous drop at the end of his toes. They couldn’t stay here all day.

Another prayer formed in his mind—
Lord, help us, please
—and on its tail came an idea. Moving slowly and cautiously, he hooked the lantern’s handle in his fingers, then gestured to Carrie to move as far from the window as possible. He began inching the other way, gritting his teeth at the soft
skritch
sound of his clothing catching on the rough wood wall behind him.

Carrie nodded in understanding and eased in the opposite direction. When he’d gone as far as the ledge would allow, Oliver realized the shadows had completely swallowed Carrie. Unease gripped him, but he reassured himself with the knowledge that if he couldn’t see her, Hightower wouldn’t easily spot her, either.

With sweat dripping from his forehead to his chin, he pressed one damp palm to the wall behind him and angled himself to give his other arm room to swing. The lantern’s handle squeaked as it swayed, and he cringed, expecting to hear Hightower walking to the window. But the man’s whistling apparently hid the soft squeak. The tune continued as if nothing was amiss.

For a moment Oliver hesitated. Would the shrill, discordant tune also cover the sound of the lantern hitting the floor? If so, the plan would fail. He’d have to make sure the noise was loud enough to capture Hightower’s attention. Gritting his teeth, he braced himself and swung his arm as hard as he could without losing his balance. The lantern flew from his hand and sailed toward the floor, where it landed with a crash.