Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel (13 page)

Take the offensive
. The police academy self-defense instructions echoed in her head.
Go after them one at a time. Start with the closest attacker. Don’t hesitate, cause immediate serious pain and damage
.

Unless she freed her hands soon, the only one suffering any serious pain and damage would be Kathleen Templeton. She fought for the control necessary to systematically assess her situation, a feat which couldn’t be accomplished in a panicked state of mind. She concentrated on her breathing until it leveled off and her mind settled enough to function rationally. Floyd appeared to be the self-appointed leader of this mangy pack, which meant: incapacitate him first. Without the Alpha Dog’s influence, the other two might turn tail and run.

The truck came to a sudden halt and a suffocating blanket of dust enveloped them. The high-pitched screech of metal on metal as the tail gate was lowered caused Kat to momentarily freeze. All the players were present and the contest about to begin. Unfortunately, her game piece wasn't in position.

Floyd jumped out of the cab and hurried around to the back end.

He grabbed her ankles and with a mean chuckle, hauled Kat down the length of the truck bed. Her new denim skirt rode up around her waist and his intrusive hand snaked inside her panties. Still hog-tied, she had no choice but to endure the humiliation.

Her head rode a scant quarter inch off the ground as Little Carl and Floyd half-carried, half-dragged her into the field several yards off the road. Sharp cotton bolls snagged on her blouse and cut into her bare arms and legs.

Where was Louis? She had to keep track of each man, the last thing she needed was to be blind sided. Kat let her head fall back until it dragged the ground.

There he was. Louis trailed behind, panting like a winded hound as he maneuvered his bulk down the narrow row.

Without ceremony, Little Carl and Floyd suddenly released their hold. Kat’s head and back hit the ground. At the moment of impact her fairy godmother must have waved her magic wand, because the rope binding Kat’s wrists fell away.

“Shit! The nigger’s free,” screamed Louis, kicking at the coiled rope lying across his boot as though it were alive.

“Hells bells, you can’t tie a knot worth a damn,” Little Carl scolded.

“Louis, grab hold of her hands,” Floyd ordered.

Louis did as instructed, sitting on Kat in the process. His weight made it even more difficult for her to breathe. Wheezing sounds escaped around the rag filling her mouth.

“For Christ’s sake, he’s so fat he’s gonna squash her like a bug,” Little Carl complained.

“Get your big ass off my nigger bitch,” snarled Floyd, giving Louis a mean shove.

“Who gets first go at her?” Little Carl asked, greedily looking from Kat to Floyd.

“That coon is mine for sure,” Floyd announced. The bulge beneath his dirty jeans a clear indication of his intent. “Now git off her, Louis!”

Still down on all fours, Louis lifted one sausage hand and one leg, as he clumsily rolled off Kat. Grunting like a hog stuck in a mud hole, he got onto his feet.

Posturing for the other men, an overly confident Floyd motioned for them back off as he straddled Kat. “I’m gonna have you six ways to sundown…and then some,” he promised, removing the saliva-soaked wad from her mouth. He leaned forward and pinned her arms above her head, his face only inches away. “We’re gonna set this ole cotton field on fire, bitch.”

Kat held her tongue. Two things must occur before Floyd could set anything on fire. One: unfasten his jeans. Two: he must release one of her hands to accomplish number one.

She allowed a squeak of triumph to escape when he let go of her left hand to unbutton his fly. Floyd chuckled, stupidly mistaking her response for sexual excitement.

Action.
Kat grabbed the back of his neck with her freed hand. Elbow close to her body for more control, she pulled his head down toward her left shoulder.

Reaction
. Thrown off balance, Floyd instinctively released her right hand to stop from toppling over.

Kat went on the attack. She pressed her right fist against his temple and drove her thumb into his left eye.

His screams carried across the cotton field.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Little Carl and Louis step away from the unfolding drama.

Kat continued to increase the pressure to his eye as she turned his head away. As expected, Floyd’s body followed. She bent her right knee, planting her foot securely on the ground, then rotated her hips. Without releasing her hold, she rolled right along with him.

They now lay on their sides, face-to-face. Her left hand around his neck and her right thumb firmly embedded in his eye. For good measure, and because she was pissed off, she gave his head a couple of hard bounces on the ground. Sensing Floyd’s loss of desire to set the field on fire, Kat shoved him away. She quickly sat upright and pivoted, making sure to keep her feet between them.

When she finally looked over her shoulder, Little Carl and Louis stood behind her.

=TEN=

Mitch drove from
the hospital directly to the police station. He took the fire stairs to the file room to avoid running into anyone he knew. But his evasive measures were unnecessary, since it was after five he found the lower level deserted.

He rapidly gained access to the old records and printed a copy of the 1963 Arson/Fatality sheet. He ran his finger down the page and sighed with relief. He didn’t remember two doors opening today, but there they were in black and white.

The first, Tyrone Jefferson, Kat had used at 4:05 this morning.

Tupelo Josephs would open Mitch’s door at 6:12 this evening.

He glanced at his watch: 5:30 PM. He stared at the name and date. Here was his chance …if he chose to use it.

Mitch broke out in a cold sweat recalling his nightmares of Lisa walking through him because he didn’t exist. On Park Street, the firemen had walked through him.
What-if
, he arrived in 1963 and no one could see him?
What-if
, when he returned to the year 2000 no one could see him?

With trembling hands he folded the printout and shoved it in his pocket. He couldn’t ignore the strange premonition that this single decision would forever alter his life.

* * *

Pushing his fears to the back of his mind, Mitch returned to his apartment to pack his gym bag. He concentrated on the objective; with military precision he planned the mission. After consulting the list once again, he calculated the shortest amount of time available for him to locate Kat. On the other side, he should be able to easily find his wayward partner within the allotted ten hours. In spite of her protests to the contrary, he knew where she would go. She would seek out her aunt. Once located, he and Kat would wait out the clock … wait for Leroy Spencer to die at 5:20 A.M., April 2, 1963. Mitch closed his eyes when the callousness of his plan registered.

Acting as judge and jury, he’d sentenced the unknown Mr. Spencer to death. But the idea of stepping in and changing things wasn’t an option. If he did, he and Kat couldn’t return to the year 2000. Of course, all they had to do was wait until the next name popped up, then cross. He buried his face in his hands, what kind of a monster had he become to consider someone’s death a ticket to the E-ride?

The god-like power over life and death was difficult to comprehend. Did James Mitchell have the right to decide between Alvin Rayson’s life and Leroy Spencer’s? He believed Kat should be given the opportunity to see her Pop one last time. But if the doctor’s predictions held true, the preacher was going to die with or without his daughter’s presence.

Mr. Leroy Spencer’s death was another matter. If he and Kat were correct about a serial arsonist being responsible for the deaths, a phone call to the people listed would alter the past. Who decreed that because someone’s name turned up on a thirty-seven-year-old list, he absolutely must die?

Forever the optimist, Mitch reminded himself for each problem, a solution could be found. All he had to do was design an alternative method of opening the door between the years.

Before 5:20 tomorrow morning.

* * *

1963

Mitch paused, right foot suspended above the white line dividing Park Street. “Thank you, Mr. Tupelo Josephs,” he whispered. And lowered his foot.

It took only a single step for Mitch to travel from April 1, 2000 to April 1, 1963.

He slowly crossed the scraggly patch of half-dead grass wide eyed and his mouth hanging open like a trap door. The scene unfolding around him brought to mind a book he’d owned as a child. When he rapidly flipped through the book, the characters drawn on the pages did a jerky dance. And the constantly changing landscape all around him displayed the identical frenetic quality. Objects underwent rapid fire alterations as an invisible hand flipped through the pages of time.

Suddenly a big tupelo tree popped up in the same place he occupied and he rammed his nose into the rough bark. From that point on, Mitch made certain to remain dead-center on the sidewalk. He thought it unlikely another tree would be lying in ambush on the concrete path.

“This is spooky as all get out,” he said, mainly to see if he sounded normal. At the rate things were shifting he wouldn’t count on anything being normal.

When he arrived at the fork of Riverside and Azalea, he sighed with relief. The familiar neon sign still turned the front of The Blue into a buzzing blob of colored lights. The bar had been his refuge from the world for eight years. Whenever he dropped by, he could always hook up with a couple of fellas looking to put together a trio. Mitch enjoyed the impromptu jam sessions, and his skill on the piano guaranteed him a seat.

The Blue’s owner, Dean Broodman, was too cheap to pay for live entertainment and thus initiated one of the first open-mike establishments in Alabama. Mitch couldn’t recall exactly when the old skinflint took over the place; it seemed he’d been clomping around behind the bar since the dinosaurs roamed the earth. Of course, this being the past, if Broodman was around at all he would be in his late thirties.

He shoved open the perpetually squeaky door, which obviously hadn’t seen an oil can in decades. It felt as though he’d come home.

The Blue was a long rectangle constructed from three double wide railroad boxcars hooked end to end. The small tables haphazardly arranged near the door, thinned out toward the back to make room for three pool tables. The stage, as Broodman called it, was nothing but upended wooden flats resting six-inches off the floor.

Although Mitch didn’t know the two guys making music, one blowing a real sweet sax and the other fingering the guitar, no matter the year he wasn’t going to be shy about making himself at home on the piano bench.

Mid-way to the stage the hairs on his neck began to squirm, stirred by something he couldn’t put his finger on just yet. Until he’d accounted for his unease, he decided to stay close to the exit and veered left toward the bar.

He climbed on the brown leather stool and tried to catch the bartender’s eye. Within ten seconds, everyone seated along the counter relocated, leaving Mitch alone. After the mass exodus the low murmur of conversation dwindled off and the two guys on the stage stopped playing. The whole building was tomb silent. Every head in the room was bowed, all eyes trained on the floor.

Had he inadvertently crashed a private party? He glanced around, but didn’t see any banners proclaiming Happy Birthday or Good Luck. But there was definitely something out of kilter. Nobody looked like trouble, if anything they were too well dressed for a neighborhood bar. Suits and ties for the men; the women in dresses. Orderly.