Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel (11 page)

YEAR 2000

Mitch didn’t know
how long the phone had been ringing before the noise penetrated his sleep-deprived brain. He considered ignoring the demanding jingle-jangle, but he was enough awake he doubted he could get back to sleep.

He grabbed the receiver and barked an unfriendly greeting.

“Sergeant James Mitchell? This is Dr. Emmerson, at Maceyville Memorial Hospital.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m trying to contact Kathleen Templeton.” The doctor went on to explain when his efforts to contact Kat had proved unsuccessful, he had contacted the police station. They gave him Mitch’s number thinking he might have information regarding his partner. “Do you know where she might be found?”

“Afraid not, she took vacation time. What’s the problem?”

“It’s her father. Alvin Rayson suffered a heart attack early this morning.”

“How bad? Will he be all right?”

“The prognosis isn’t good, Sergeant.”

* * *

Mitch stood in the Cardiac Care Unit hallway and stared through the glass partition. Alvin Rayson was surrounded by enough medical equipment to supply an entire hospital wing. Ghostly white figures hovered around his bed, some adjusting dials, others fiddling with the pastor’s assorted tubes and wires. The beeping heart monitor and the gentle stream of oxygen were the only sounds in the room.

Three hours later the CCU nurse finally gave him the okay to enter the room.

Alvin’s eyes were open and he moved his hand slightly, motioning for Mitch to come closer.

He bent over the bed and took the preacher’s hand. “Hey, Alvin. Looks like they got you wired for the Internet.”

“I don’t do Windows,” Rayson whispered.

Mitch chuckled. “Me neither. How you getting along? Is there anything I can get for you?”

“Kat,” Rayson wheezed.

“Pop, I can’t get in touch with her right now. She’s pretty far away.”

“James, you gotta cross over too.”

“I think it would be better to wait, she’ll be back soon,” he said.

Heart attack notwithstanding, his opinion on time-travel remained the same—not a good thing. Alvin was as stubborn as his daughter and Mitch knew the pastor wouldn’t head for glory without telling Kat goodbye.

“Things I didn’t tell her. Bad things gonna happen.”

“What things?” A brief flicker of anger burned in Mitch’s eyes, the man in this hospital bed told her to go. Her own father, so tied up with his own personal drama that he never considered his daughter’s safety.

“About the day … about what happened before.”

A dark and ugly feeling stirred deep inside Mitch’s gut. As he feared, Kat had taken off without knowing the complete story on Lettie Ruth. He should have listened to his own instincts and hog tied her rather than allowing the time-traveling act.

“Tell me, Alvin. What does Kat need to know?”

“Troubles started before Lettie. On the day she—”

The heart monitor gave a high-pitched shriek and Mitch was shoved aside as a team of doctors and nurses went to work on Rayson.

Mitch paced back and forth in the small CCU waiting area, his emotions creating a crazy quilt in his head. Without Alvin’s information was Kat’s life in jeopardy? He wondered how much the reverend had held back. Before he could work his way through the conflicting maze, the doctor found him.

“You should try to locate Mrs. Templeton,” the doctor said. “Reverend Rayson’s condition is extremely critical. I don’t know how much longer he’ll last.”

“Critical? You mean he could…”

“He’s in bad shape, Sergeant Mitchell. Find his daughter.”

* * *

1963

Miss Jane’s Dress Boutique would be hard to miss even on a dark night, Kat thought. The building stood out like a big pink flamingo on a snowy white beach. And the bright yellow Waffle Shop next door lent a carnival look to the right side of the street.

To Kat it seemed as though half of Maceyville had decided to go shopping today. All the parking spaces along Webster Avenue were filled, and entire families sat in, or on, their cars to watch the people parade. As she walked down the street a sad looking cur dog, near a shoe store, stopped biting and scratching fleas long enough to let out a growl, then returned to his scratching.

Several stores down from the dress shop, three men took up space on the barber shop’s bench where they alternated talking trash and spitting tobacco juice into coffee cans. Their feet were sticking so far out on the sidewalk Kat’s path was blocked.

She gave them a cursory once over, then lifted her leg and stepped across the first set of outstretched legs. She was straddling the second pair when the dark-haired owner raised one foot high enough to rub against her crotch. Without thinking, she clamped her thighs around his muddy work boot and twisted sideways. The man landed on the sidewalk.

Before she took another step, a wiry blond, with a strawberry birthmark spread across his right cheek, shot up off the bench and grabbed her by the hair.

“What the hell you doin’, coon?” he snarled. “Got no right jerking Floyd down like that.” The words were barely out of his mouth before he drew back his hand and slapped Kat so hard she nearly bit her tongue in half.

Her mouth filled with blood, but he stood too close for her to spit without hitting him. So she swallowed, gagging on the metallic taste.

“I’ll handle this, Little Carl,” the man on the ground said. “She ain’t nothing but an uppity nigger bitch that needs taming.”

Kat’s spine stiffened, she didn’t want any more trouble from these clowns, but she refused to put up with their insults or physical abuse. More angry than afraid, Kat reached for the badge she no longer wore. Understanding struck home when her hand closed on the empty space. She’d come face-to-face with the anything goes Southern mentality regarding African-Americans. People of her color were considered subhuman, to be toyed with whenever it suited the ‘true’ sons of the South. What on earth could she have been thinking to stir it up with these boys?

The dark-haired Floyd clambered to his feet, his eyes coal-furnace hot. “Next time you pass this way, you step off the walk.”

He used his hand to wipe away the tobacco juice dribbling down his chin. His mouth stretched in an evil grin as he looked from the brown juice to Kat. He spit a wad of tobacco into his palm, then quicker than a snake, grabbed her breast. He squeezed hard enough to make her gasp. He laughed at her pain then released his hold. But he’d left his mark, a slimy brown hand print decorated the front of her tee shirt.

Kat’s honey-colored eyes narrowed as her temper rose to the surface like a mighty whale. “You lay another hand on me,
Floyd
, and I’ll slap your ass in jail so fast you’ll be asking your buddies where it went.”

As soon as the words were out, she realized her error in responding to his taunts. If she wore her police uniform no one would question the propriety of her response. But she didn’t have a uniform, and more importantly, she wasn’t in her own time period. This was 1963 Alabama. Kathleen Templeton had no rights.

“Floyd, why you letting a nigger get away with such sassy talk?” goaded the third man, a fat hunk of lard who remained glued to the bench, too lazy to move. But apparently not too lazy to offer his two cents worth.

“Shut the hell up, Louis,” Floyd hissed. “This coffee colored split tail ain’t gettin’ away with a fucking thing.”

The strawberry-marked Little Carl’s hand shot out and cupped Kat’s crotch. He snorted and pawed at the ground like a deranged jackass.

Floyd and Louis, brayed in response.

By this time a small crowd ringed the sidewalk and the few white men, in the predominately black audience, tittered obscenely.

Embarrassed by their own inability to intervene, all but one of the black faces looked away.

The elderly man, wrinkled and black as an old piece of used carbon paper, stepped forward. “I thinks you gentlemen best be leaving the girl be.”

Louis spun around, his fat belly jiggling. “That you, Tupelo Josephs?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Louis. And I said for y’all to stop messin’ with that girl.”

“Jesus, Tupelo Joe, how old you niggers got to be before you learn to mind your own damn business?”

“I turned ninety-two in February,” Tupelo Joe said.

Louis shook his head. “And you ain’t learned a damn thing. Tell you what we’re gonna do here—” he stopped mid-sentence when a boy, with a shock of white blonde hair flopping across his eyes, burst through the crowd.

The boy stopped in front of Louis. “Hey, Daddy,” he said, panting like a hot puppy. He bent over at the waist and gasped for air. “Momma said get your fat ole butt back to the car, she wants to get to the Piggly Wiggly before the on-sale weenies is all gone.”

The obese Louis grabbed the back of his son’s tee-shirt and yanked him upright. “Arlin Smith, tell your momma I’ll be there when I’m damn good and ready,” he snarled. “And tell her I said, don’t be sending you to fetch me no more.”

Kat stared in amazement. This dirty tow-headed kid was Arlin Smith? Thirty-seven years from now he would be the Maceyville Chief of Police. Just goes to show you, she thought, like-father like-son. The old man was a jerk and the Chief had turned out to be an even bigger jerk.

Arlin squeezed through the crowd and disappeared down the street. With the boy out of sight, the elder Smith turned his attention back to the old man. “Now, Tupelo Josephs, I don’t want to have to get on you about this. So just be on your way.”

Tupelo Joe stepped closer. “No, sir. This time you gonna listen to this here old colored man.” He grabbed Louis’ fat arm just above the elbow and squeezed. “I said to leave her be,” he commanded, his voice low and threatening.

Floyd snatched a bottle off the ground and swung it against the bench seat. The broken bits of glass made a tinkling sound as they hit the concrete. The silent crowd parted, as he moved toward Tupelo Josephs. The remains of the bottle, clinched in his hand, glinted in the sunlight.

“Shouldn’t done that, nigger.” Floyd raised the bottle waist high, then thrust the jagged point into Tupelo Joe’s hand. He smiled when the old man cried out in pain as he slowly drew the sharp glass downward.

Josephs’ hand blossomed bright red and he let go of Louis.

Being cornered brought out Kat’s survival instincts. Seeing the brave old man assaulted brought out her police instincts. She fought hand-to-hand combat with the urge to take Floyd down. But she knew such a response would not be very smart. In this scenario, the smart move was to get away. Floyd had just crossed the line into a dangerous new level of harassment, and Kat didn’t intend to stick around and see what cruel games he would invent for her transgression.

She back pedaled until her rear end rammed the parking meter. Her eyes swept the street, it would be fool hardy to take off without a clear and safe destination point. She saw Miss Jane’s Dress Boutique less than thirty yards. She could make it without breaking a sweat. These farm boys didn’t have the brains God gave a turnip and she’d be long gone before they uncrossed their eyes.

The second time Floyd made a grab for her, Kat ducked under his arm, pushed through the crowd and sprinted down the uneven sidewalk. The men’s taunting remarks nipped at her heels like stray dogs.

The little gold bell tinkled daintily as Kat raced through the door into Miss Jane’s Boutique. In her haste she tripped over the rubber floor mat, crashing head first into a three-tiered display of cardigan sweaters. She got tangled up and ended up face down on a pile of soft Orlon. She sat up and stared in horror at the lumpy gobs of tobacco her tee-shirt had deposited on a pearl-white sweater. The last thing she needed, in her current predicament, was a white sweater, but from the look in the clerk’s eyes, Kat felt it wise to produce a fist full of cash in a hurry.