Echoes of Mercy: A Novel (18 page)

Oliver hunched in the shadowy area behind a stack of empty crates. The mouth-watering aroma of chocolate mingled with the scent of fresh-sawed wood—an unusual yet somehow pleasant combination. He pinched the brim of the battered suede cap he’d swapped with a man on the street for a nickel and wriggled it until it rested just above his eyebrows and then flipped up the collar of his bulky jacket around his ears. The corduroy fabric brushed his jaw, and he scowled. His whiskers—allowed to grow unchecked to offer another means of masking his face—itched. He poked out his chin and scratched his grizzled cheeks with both hands, nearly sighing with relief. The moment he’d gathered enough information to convince Father that Carrie was no threat, he would razor his face clean of these prickly hairs.

His skin tingling pleasantly from the fierce scratching, he emerged from his hiding spot and snatched the broom from the corner. Head low, he inched across the floor, sending surreptitious glances in Carrie’s direction as he attempted to sweep sawdust and discarded tacks into a pile. Who knew the simple act of sweeping was so difficult? The housekeeper at home never scattered particles in all directions when she swept, yet his fumbling swipes often did more chasing than gathering. But maybe it was discomfort more than ineptitude that made the task seem difficult on this night.

His stomach twisted in nervousness. Such a disconcerting task Father had given him—spying on Carrie. For three nights he’d sneaked around corners, listened in on conversations, and observed her every move. Although his clandestine exploits set his teeth on edge—the entire situation made him feel like an interloper in his very own factory—he had to admit, some of Carrie’s actions stirred a hint of misgiving.

But instead of making him wary of Carrie, he was finding himself suspicious of Bratcher.

His first night on duty, he’d overheard her quizzing two other employees about Harmon Bratcher. She’d used a glib approach that seemed to fool the young men who moved the full crates to the shipping dock, but he’d perceived an intensity that went beyond mild curiosity. He’d filed away the information she’d gleaned, intending to share it with Father. According to the workers, Bratcher had been found first thing Monday morning, not Monday evening as Hightower had reported. If the workers were correct—and he tended to believe anyone over Hightower—then Bratcher had been in the factory on Sunday. But the factory wasn’t open on Sundays. What was he doing in the closed factory? How had he gotten in? Something didn’t sound right.

His chin tucked against his shoulder, he pushed the broom over the planked floor behind Carrie and peeked at her from the corner of his eyes. Father would have no complaints about her work ethic. Even while asking questions, she was industrious. Her hammer rose and fell on the round heads of tacks in a steady rhythm. The securing slats lay straight across the cushioning layer of straw, their ends aligned with the crates’ top edges.

The other new crater, a boy perhaps seventeen, was sloppy. His placement of the slats left gaps through which bugs could crawl. Some of the narrow strips of wood extended over the edge of the crate, making it difficult to stack the boxes neatly. The boy also wasted time meandering back and forth between the filled crates and the supply of slats, carrying only half enough strips of wood to cover one box.

But not Carrie. She gathered a large number of slats—enough to cover at least a dozen crates before needing to refill her supply. She worked steadily but not rushed, using her time wisely. He still pondered her fascination with Bratcher, yet his admiration exceeded his apprehensions. Whatever compelled her to question Bratcher’s untimely demise, she earned every penny of her wages. And Oliver would certainly assure his father of that fact.

He’d also inform Father of some other things he’d observed since arriving on third shift—workers lighting hand-rolled cigarettes in the boiler room, younger workers sleeping for hours between machines when they should be
working, two men who’d staggered in half-drunk the past three nights. The night foreman didn’t seem concerned about any of these breaches of conduct. In fact, Oliver was certain he’d glimpsed the man removing coins from the pocket of one of the sleeping workers. Father should be informed of such goings-on.

Carrie reached into the little leather pouch dangling from her waist and removed another tack. He watched as she pinched one between her thumb and forefinger, positioned it just so, and then gave it a few gentle taps with the hammer to hold it in place. With it secure she pulled her hand free and raised the hammer high.
Whack! Whack!
Two solid blows drove the tack into the soft wood.

Oliver bent down to pluck unused tacks from the collection of grit on the floor, stifling a chuckle. The other craters sported bandages from accidentally pounding their fingers rather than the tacks. If they’d take a lesson from Carrie, they’d suffer fewer injuries. He should have Hightower instruct the foreman on the proper handling of tools.

His observation of Carrie had revealed more than Father had expected. When he telephoned Father tomorrow morning, he’d be able to report more reasons to commend her than to criticize her, and a rush of satisfaction filled him at the realization. Odd how his feelings tumbled haphazardly where she was concerned. Did he admire her or resent her? Did he want to protect her or protect himself from her?

The break buzzer blared, and everyone put down their tools or set aside their carts and moved in a jostling stream toward the break room. Carrie melded into the center of the throng, and Oliver stayed at the rear, his head low in case she turned around and spotted him. Even with his chin whiskers and low-tugged hat, he was fairly certain she’d recognize him if their eyes met.

At least a part of him hoped she would.

She glanced over her shoulder, and he instinctively dropped into a squat, pretending to fuss with the rawhide string on his right boot. He waited several seconds to make sure she’d turned her gaze forward, and then he pushed upright. He followed the last of the stragglers into the break room and eased his way to the corner, snagging his Kesia-packed lunch tin as he went. Head angled
with his profile to the room, he scanned the tables with the corner of his eye. It wouldn’t do to sit in her line of vision.

He inspected every corner of the room once and then again. But he spotted no mobcap with spiraling bronze curls escaping the ruffled brim. A frown pulled his brows together. Where was she?

Caroline crept along the wide hallway. Her footsteps echoed against the concrete floor, an ominous sound. The hiss and clank of boilers faded behind her as she moved determinedly toward the service elevator. After weeks of waiting she finally had the chance to examine the workings of the elevator. As she eased toward the pine-planked platform suspended by ropes, cables, and gears, she removed the pencil and pad of paper from her pocket. She didn’t claim to be an engineer, but she was a fair artist. Noble could share her sketches with someone who possessed engineering skills, and perhaps they could determine whether a severed rope or faulty gear contributed to Bratcher’s accident.

She stopped a few feet away from the elevator, an uneasy chill creeping up her spine. A man had lost his life near this very spot. She felt as though she walked on sacred ground. And suddenly she longed for someone to stand alongside her.

Lord, help me find the truth so Noble’s concerns can be put to rest and Harmon Bratcher’s family will find peace
.

The prayer offered a breath of comfort that settled her skittering pulse. No other workers were near, but she wasn’t alone. God was with her. Tiptoeing, she approached the elevator and pushed aside the lattice-style gate. The hinges moaned in protest, and Caroline cringed. Would someone hear? Holding her breath, she froze in place and peered up the hallway. She counted several seconds, cold sweat breaking out across her back. But no one came.

She quietly released her breath and stepped onto the platform. Sturdy one-inch-thick boards, secured snugly with wide iron bands, supported her weight but creaked as the bed swayed from side to side. The motion, although very
slight, made her dizzy. She sucked in slow breaths and winged a prayer heavenward, willing her nerves to calm. The tactic worked.
Thank You, Lord
.

Standing as still as possible, she propped the pad of paper against her palm and began a meticulous sketch of the elevator’s chain-lift system. Since the elevator was only a platform confined by a shaft rather than a solid box, she could see the ropes that looped from an overhead exposed beam and snaked through iron rings soldered to square side posts. Tongue tucked in the corner of her mouth, she did her best to replicate the workings, but the sawtooth length of iron attached to the wall outside the elevator proved tricky. She paused, squinting at the jagged piece of rust-splotched iron. She touched the tip of her pencil to the page again, determined to draw it as realistically as her limited abilities allowed.

“What are you doing?”

The deep-throated question seemed to come from nowhere. Caroline released a squawk, her entire body jolting in surprise. A black line of lead marred her carefully crafted drawing. As she gazed in dismay at the paper, a man stepped onto the elevator beside her. The bed jerked, and Caroline reached out to grasp something to keep herself upright. To her chagrin, she caught his corduroy sleeve. Lifting her embarrassed gaze from his arm to his eyes—his unusually pale green eyes—she gave another start. Ollie Moore?

“What are you doing here?”

They spoke simultaneously, voicing identical queries, although his voice emerged low, with an undercurrent of suspicion, while hers reflected confusion.

Caroline yanked her hand free of his sleeve and glared into his whiskered face. Whiskers? When had he grown whiskers? “What are you doing here? You don’t work night shift.”

One side of his lips quirked into a sardonic smirk. “I do now. And as janitor, I have a reason to be in the service hallway. But craters only ready boxes for shipping. They don’t haul them to the loading dock. So what are
you
doing here?” His gaze dropped to the pad in her hand, and a scowl creased his brow beneath the short brim of a brown suede hat. “What’s this?”

Caroline stuffed the pad into her pocket and hurried out of the elevator. “Nothing.”

A hand curled around her upper arm, forcing her to face him. “Don’t lie to me, Carrie.” Anger glittered in his eyes—something new. When combined with the scraggly growth of dark blond whiskers and battered cap, he seemed a stranger.

She wrenched her arm free. “It’s just a drawing.”

“Of what?” He snapped the simple inquiry.

She longed to escape. How could she have been so careless as to allow him to sneak up on her this way? And how could she answer without lying? She detested this part of her job. No matter how hard she tried, mistruths never rolled glibly from her tongue.

Licking her dry lips, she stammered, “Of the elevator. It … it intrigues me.” She’d spoken truthfully. She prayed he wouldn’t question the reason for her interest.

“Why?”

Caroline stifled a moan. Wouldn’t God answer any of her prayers concerning Ollie Moore? “Because it does!” She affected irritation, hoping to put him off. “And I’m on my break, so I can use the time as I desire. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to—”

The buzzer blared, signaling the end of lunch break.

Caroline shook her head, throwing her hands outward. “Now I don’t have time to finish. Thank you very much, Ollie!” She spun and charged up the hallway toward her work station.

Ollie pounded along beside her, his face set in an angry scowl. “Would you slow down for one minute so I can talk to you?”

She lifted her nose and sniffed. “We have nothing to discuss.”

He sniffed, too—a teasing sound—and continued to walk alongside her, his stride matching hers. “If you’re really curious about the elevator, I could show you the blueprint. The drawing is very detailed.”

She came to a halt, spinning to face him. Not even those scraggly whiskers could hide his rugged handsomeness. She made herself focus on business. “You have a blueprint?”

He shrugged. “Sure. There’re copies of it in the janitor’s closet. The people
who installed it left them so whoever worked here could understand the elevator’s operation. In case repairs were ever needed.”

If she could secure a blueprint to send to Noble, it would be much better than anything she could draw. “I would like to see it. Very much.” Despite her effort to rein in her eagerness, her voice bubbled out. She regretted the mistake when Ollie snatched the battered hat from his head and fixed her with a penetrating look.

“I’ll show it to you on one condition. Tell me why it’s so important to you.”