Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel (21 page)

“You want some of this, white boy?” Billy Lee asked, gesturing over his shoulder at Taxi.

“Nope.” Mitch flashed his badge a second time. “You and your home boys go on, leave this man to me.”

“Well, well. Listen to the Yankee boy givin’ out orders,” Billy Lee sneered.

Mitch groaned inwardly. He’d forgotten to use his Elvis voice, and his Pennsylvania accent had given Billy Lee a nit picking point.

“This Yankee’s got a badge and a gun, pal. I suggest you get your ‘Bama ass in gear,” he ordered.

The other three looked at Billy Lee, awaiting their cue. Mitch mentally crossed his fingers. This confrontation did not bode well for a time-traveler. All the dire predictions he’d laid on Kat about making contact with her aunt were now reversed. Maybe he should listen to his own lectures some time.

A cold smile crawled across Billy Lee’s face as he flexed his fingers, making certain Mitch could see the brass knuckles.

Then again, if I stuck my whole damn arm in the history pie, would it make any real difference? Would the world stop spinning if, just once, I beat the living crap out of Dad?

As soon as he decided to take the old man on, a whole army of What-ifs marched through his head, banging on drums and blowing bugles.
What-if
, he pulled his gun and shot Billy Lee right between his mean eyes? Would James Mitchell cease to exist in that instant?
What-if,
Billy Lee killed him first? Would Mitch still be born in 1965? He rubbed the back of his neck. The strain of trying to figure out all the ramifications of this reunion settled into a big muscle knot.

“Why you riding in that nigger’s car?” Billy Lee challenged.

“I’m driving the car, not riding in it,” Mitch shot back.

“Makes no difference where you sit, Yankee. Y’all is still together.”

“See this?” He took two steps forward and shoved his badge within inches of his father’s nose. “This is a police badge, punk. And that means I can ride in any damn car I feel like. And I can ride in that car any damn time I choose.
And
with any damn person I want. You got that straight?” Mitch asked, poking him in the chest.

“I got it,” Billy Lee said, his tone incredibly surly. “We was only checking out the situation. No one knew y’all was on police business.”

Mitch turned to the other three men. “Now that you got it, climb back in that piece of shit Chevy, that won’t go over 65 mph, and get out of my face.” Mitch wished for a camera to take a picture of his father’s face when he heard the crack about 65 mph. He allowed himself a small smile as the men scrambled back in the Impala. In less time than it took to flush a toilet, they were gone.

Taxi called out the window, “How come you don’t sound like Elvis Presley no more?”

Mitch walked over and leaned back against the side of the car. “I’m working undercover, don’t tell anybody I’m not really from Memphis.”

“My mouth is shut tight. Mr. Mitch, you a real policeman?”

“Yes I am. Just not in this particular Maceyville.”

“Mmm, then it’s good them fellas didn’t look close at that badge, boss. I seen that dark one before and he’s got a hard on when it comes to Negroes.”

“I did notice something along those lines, Taxi.” Mitch wrinkled his nose at the stench of the drying urine on the windshield. “We’ll need several buckets of water to wash down your car.”

“It don’t matter, Mr. Mitch.” Taxi removed the coat hanger and shoved open the squeaky back door. “Not much paint left on her anyway.”

“She really stinks.”

“My momma always says a little ammonia is good for washing windows, Mr. Mitch.”

“Hey, Taxi will you do me one more favor?”

“What’s that, Mr. Mitch?” Taxi asked as he crawled out of the car.

“Drop the mister.” He stuck his hand out. “My friends call me Mitch.”

Taxi took his hand. “I reckon I can do that, Mitch.”

* * *

Kat shoved her arms through the sleeves of the navy blue sweater she’d found hanging behind the TV room door. The man’s shirt, from the laundry basket in the bathroom, wrapped around her body twice, but the trousers were a pretty close fit if she rolled the cuffs up. Unable to locate any street shoes, she’d settled for a sad looking pair of maroon house slippers abandoned under a chair in the waiting room.

The women didn’t fool her. All their sweet talk was a lie. Kat was a prisoner. Why would they sit outside her door for such a long time unless they were on guard duty? They’d only pretended to be her friends so she would lower her guard. What plans did they have after she’d relaxed? She heard them talking about burning houses and churches. Did that mean they would hand her over to Floyd so he wouldn’t burn their house down?

She needed to escape. Kat fumbled with the stubborn door latch, wasting precious minutes working the rusty bolt free.

The early morning light painted the neighborhood with a surreal brush. Shapes blended together, undefined edges softened by shadows. Kat hurried down the sidewalk, thankful no cars traveled past her. She had to put as much distance between herself and the clinic before Floyd returned.

Headlights bounced down the street and she dove for cover in the nearest yard. Huddled behind the overgrown rhododendron, she watched the green car stop in front of the clinic. Two men inside, one black and one white.

Floyd!

The women had sent someone for Floyd. Now he’d hunt her down like a blood hound.

She sprinted for the alley behind the house.

* * *

“That girl sure knows how to hit,” Dreama said, examining her friend. A nasty looking bruise decorated Lettie’s shoulder and lump was growing on the side of her head.

Lettie Ruth pressed the ice pack against her temple. “She’s just scared, didn’t mean to do me any real harm.”

“I’d be hatin’ to see what you be lookin’ like if she’d
meant
to hurt you.”

“She’s near crazy on account of what those boys done to her,” Lettie Ruth said. She pulled her blouse over the bruise and worked on the buttons. “We need to go after her.”

“You want to bring that wild cat back here?” Dreama shook her head. “If she’d been beatin’ on me, I’d let her be.”

Lettie frowned. “I’m not going to let her be. She needs help. Yours and mine.”

Dreama rested her hands on her hips. “She needs to be locked—” A knock on the door interrupted her thought. “We’ll be discussin’ this when I get back.”

“No discussion. We’re going after her.”

“Lettie Ruth Rayson, you ain’t got to take in every stray you run across.” Dreama glanced over her shoulder when someone pounded on the door.

“She ain’t a stray. That girl’s special. I got a feelin’ about her.”

“Well, she ain’t family neither, so quit actin’ like a mother hen.”

* * *

Mitch rested his head against the car window and closed his eyes, torn between depression and fear. The door to the year 2000 had banged shut twenty minutes ago. Now he and Kat were stuck here four more days, until April 5th—the day Lettie Ruth Rayson would disappear. No, that’s not right, he corrected, recent experiences and seeing the hatred whites held for blacks, had shed new light on the past.

Lettie Ruth wouldn’t disappear on Friday. She would be murdered.

When the car stopped, he opened his eyes. The address painted on the porch post caused a sharp pain to shoot through his head: 3449. The Jane Doe, assumed to be Kat’s aunt, had disappeared from 3449 Brook Street.

“What the name of this street?” he asked.

“Brook Street. And this here is Dr. Tim’s clinic.”

Everything has come a full circle. And I don’t like the shape of this particular circle.

They climbed from the car and hurried to the door. Taxi glanced nervously over his shoulder at the silent neighborhood, then knocked. “They better get this door open. I don’t care to be standing here letting the neighbors see our business.”

Mitch tried to keep most of his freckled body tucked into the shadows, but he was a big man and the porch wide open. A white man in the east Hollow at daybreak wasn’t the norm. His presence would draw unwanted attention and if someone happened to mention seeing his red hair it would only be a matter of hours before Floyd and his crew arrived.

“Are you sure she’s still here?” he asked.

Taxi answered by giving the door a good pounding.

“The doctor could be out on an emergency call,” Mitch suggested, when no one responded to the horrendous beating Taxi inflicted on the door. “Or maybe Kat got worse and he took her to the hospital.”

“Ain’t no colored hospital close by. All the doctoring we got is right behind this here door. Besides, Dr. Tim don’t go hauling his stuff all over town. You get sick, you over come here.”

When Dreama Simms opened the door Mitch took a step backwards. Thirty-seven years and an equal number of pounds were gone, but there was no way to disguise the saucy expression or her familiar high energy smile. Within a split second the smile faded and the future Police Department housekeeping manager stared at him with distrust.

She stepped aside enough to allow Taxi to squeeze through the narrow opening, but before Mitch could get one foot across the threshold the door slammed in his face. He was still rubbing the sore spot on his nose when Taxi opened the door and yanked him into the house.

An indignant Dreama stood with arms folded and foot tapping. Her volatile expression dared Mitch to say one word. He offered a smile. She snorted and marched out of the room.

“What’s wrong with her, Taxi?”

“The woman’s gone and got herself an attitude, that’s what’s wrong.”

“You didn’t tell her about me,” Mitch accused.

“Things heated up around here before I come to fetch you, Mitch. No time to get into it.”

“So what happens now? With that thunderstorm expression she’s wearing there’s no way she’ll let me see Kat.”

Taxi squared his shoulders and hitched up his pants. “I’ll be taking care of that little thunderstorm right now. Yes sir, right now,” he declared and followed Dreama.

Mitch took a seat in the waiting room, and waited. His experiences were growing more bizarre by the second. First he’d run head on into his father. And now Dreama Simms. He dreaded what lay ahead. Good thing he hadn’t been born yet, because he wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to meet himself this afternoon.

The voices coming from the other room rose and fell as the argument escalated. Mitch did his level best to keep from eavesdropping, but with his name repeatedly mentioned he couldn’t help but tune in.

“Dreama honey,” Taxi said. “I’m tellin’ you, Mitch is her friend.”

“What you mean ‘her friend’? And why you keep on calling him Mitch?”

“He asked me to do that. Mitch ain’t like them others, baby. He’s good white folk.”

“How you know he’s good? He could be one of them from the field. You consider that?”

“He ain’t part of that bunch. I seen him beat ‘em up at Bubba’s.”

“Well there you go, Taxi. You tell me he beat on someone and that’s supposed to make him good white folk?” Dreama asked, sarcasm dripping off each word.

“Baby, you not hearing me. No sir, not hearing at all.”