Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel

by Charlotte Banchi

“That was almost forty years ago,” Kat said, bringing her thoughts back on track. “What on earth made you think about that house tonight?”

  “In the springtime my memories get all stirred up. Been happening for years.” Dreama gently raised the record needle and turned off the player. She leaned her hip against the cleaning cart and stared into space. “I was barely thirty and already been working the clubs for nearly twelve years when I ended up in Maceyville. That particular March I was goin’ round with a handsome devil named Maximilian Devore.

  “I recall it being early in the month when it all started. On that night, my man come down to The Blue to ride me home after work. As we come up to that fork on Riverside and Azalea, we saw the house explode. Girl, the whole sky lit up like Christmas morning. The whole neighborhood was a running all over the streets in their night clothes.”

  “What happened to the folks in the house?” Kat asked. “Did they get out safely?”

  The cleaning woman shook her head. “Everybody tried to help put out the fire, used garden hoses and buckets. But none of that helped. That place burned to ashes in no time. I often thought if me and Taxi only got there a little bit sooner, ‘stead of stopping along the way for a kiss or two, things might have turned out different for that poor man.”

  Kat’s skin prickled. The similarities between Miss Simms story and her own experiences were eerie. On March 5, she and Mitch had caught a shots fired call on Riverside, male complainant. Shortly before they arrived, a second report had been transmitted about an explosion at the same address.

  “Do you by any chance remember the victim’s name, Miss Simms?” she asked.

  “I remember. I remember them all, honey. His name was Dilmer Richards,” Dreama said. “I knew him from the church choir. Officer Templeton, they never caught up with the men. Now that I think on it, a few days before there’d been another house fire in the east Hollow, way over on Tenth Street. That time a woman died.”

  “Gladys Pauley,” Kat whispered. “Her name was Gladys Pauley.”

  Dreama Simms laid down her dust cloth and stared at the officer. “That’s right, child. But how come you to know that?”

  Kat cleared her throat and gestured to the computer. “I’ve been transferring lots of old files lately. Her name must have stuck in my memory.”

  “There was a great deal of burning back then,” Dreama said sadly. “I reckon you’ll be coming across it in your work. A few days later it happened all over again. This time on my own street, Mountain View. I lived in a duplex along there until the city moved us out so they could tear them old buildings down. ‘Course that was long before you got borned. Nowadays that area is full of fancy custom-built houses. No more shanty town. No more colored folks.” She gave a mighty shove and the heavy cart rolled through the doorway. “See you tomorrow night.”

  Kat nodded absently, her thoughts elsewhere. Tenth Street, Riverside, and Mountain View. Three crimes, same locations, yet separated by almost forty years. A silly coincidence? It couldn’t be anything else, she told herself. But the hairs on the back of her neck curled and her arms broke out in goose bumps.

  * * *

  An hour later Kat gave up all pretense of working and brushed aside the stack of manila folders. The stories Miss Simms had shared kept interfering with her assigned job. What were the odds of the dates, names, and addresses duplicating themselves? Sure there were dozens of Jones’ and Smiths in town … but how many Pauleys were around?

  Determined to sort out the mystery, Kat cleared the NEW FILE screen and entered her security code.

  Five years ago the department had begun the arduous process of converting hundreds of outdated files into a data base. The cases went as far back as the late fifties, which allowed Kat the luxury of pulling up information with a few keystrokes rather than crawling around the spider-infested basement in search of a dusty box of files.

  She doubted Miss Simms’ memory would be wrong about the dates. A series of house burnings in your own neighborhood wouldn’t be easily forgotten. So she requested: March-April, 1963 ARSON/FATALITY.

  In a few minutes she’d unravel this impossible thread linking the year 2000 to 1963.

  The computer went to work. The hard drive whirred and clicked as it scanned nearly forty- years of stored data.

  Within seconds the screen came alive:

  MARCH-APRIL, 1963 ARSON/FATALITY

  03-02-63 Pauley, GladysN 23476 1:25AM

  03-05-63 Richards, DilmerN 23477 12:11AM

  03-07-63 Carpenter, AliceN 23478 01:03AM

  03-10-63 DeCarlo, MattieN 23479 1:30AM

  03-17-63 Beason, Harold 234800 6:50PM

  03-29-63 Peterson, Abel 23481 02:15AM

  04-01-63 Jefferson, TyroneN 23482 5:05AM

  04-02-63 Spencer, LeroyN 23483 5:20AM

  04-05-63 Doe, JaneN 23484 12:45AM

  04-10-63 Block, GriffinN 23485 02:00AM

  04-12-63 Norton, Richard 23486 07:00PM

  Kat pulled her little spiral patrol notebook out of her pocket and compared the information. Three names: Gladys Pauley, Dilmer Richards, and Alice Carpenter.

  Three dates: March 02, 05 and 07.

  All duplicates of the calls she and Mitch answered.

  Kat’s finger lightly traced Alice Carpenter’s name on the screen. Thirty-seven years ago, on March 7 at 1:03 A.M., this woman had reported a group of men threatening to burn her out.

  On March 7, 2000, another Alice Carpenter had reported the same incident, on the same date and at the exact hour. How could this be? There must be a logical explanation. An error in the record.

  Kat hit the EXIT key to return to the previous menu, where she selected: LOCATION.

  MARCH-APRIL 1963 ARSON/FATALITY

  2789 10th St. 3-02-63 Pauley, GladysN 1:25AM

  4721 Riverside 3-05-63 Richards, DilmerN 2:11AM

  801 Mt. View 03-07-63 Carpenter, AliceN 01:03AM

  5429 Park 03-10-63 DeCarlo, MattieN 01:30AM

  109 Blodgett 03-17-63 Beason, Harold 06:50PM

  900 Grant 03-29-63 Peterson, Abel 02:15AM

  7643 Elm 04-01-63 Jefferson, TyroneN 5:05AM

  654 Azalea 04-02-63 Spencer, LeroyN 05:20AM

  3449 Brook 04-05-63 Doe, JaneN 12:45AM

  2987 Oak 04-10-63 Block, GriffinN 02:00AM

  387 Riverside 04-12-63 Norton, Richard 07:00PM

  Tenth Street. Riverside. Mountain View.

  Once again she’d hit three-for-three on the addresses. Kat reached across the desk and dialed Mitch’s home number. What would her Yankee partner have to say about all this?

  Six years ago when she’d first signed on with the police department, Kat had endured several difficult months. She was breaking new ground, not only as the first female officer, but also as the first Black female officer in the department.

  She’d anticipated the rookie jokes and the gauntlet she must run before being accepted. However, she was unprepared for so much resentment and distrust because of her gender.

  And her color.

  Kat had come close to quitting the department all together. Then James Mitchell, a well-respected thirty-five-year-old, eight-year veteran, changed everything. Although born in Alabama, Mitch had left the South early on, spending his formative years in Pennsylvania. Growing up in the North had weakened the prejudicial attitudes that so effectively bound many others.

  The six-foot three-inch, 250 pound mountain, with ginger-red hair and a multitude of freckles, asked Kathleen Templeton to be his new partner.

  His request only opened a small crack in the door, and Mitch told her, “It’s up to you to prove yourself, Kat. Do that and then you can kick the door wide open.”

  His assessment had been accurate. Over time, the crude remarks and negative attitudes subsided and she was judged on performance alone. Not by gender. Not by color. The door hung by its hinges. Before long, Mitchell and Templeton were known as ‘The Red and Black Unit’. And as an exceptional team.

  They worked well together because
each brought different skills to the job. Gifted with flawless logic and a knack for negotiation, Mitch’s calm demeanor worked wonders with hysterical and frightened individuals.

  Kat operated from a different perspective, mostly instinct and attitude. Her strong and reliable street sense enabled her to quickly analyze a developing situation for potential violence.

  On their first anniversary as partners, Mitch had given her a small cowboy boot-shaped pin, made of copper and silver, with a brass spur. He said it would serve as a reminder that sometimes she might have to kick the door in. She wore it every day, pinned either inside her uniform or on public display. It was her good luck talisman. Like the copper and silver, she and Mitch were the ideal blend.

  She hoped their chemistry would be strong enough for him to buy into her latest scheme.

  * * *

  Mitch glanced up from the computer printout. “What’s this letter ‘N’ all about? It’s only next to certain names.”

  “It stands for Negro.” Kat said. “Personally, I’ve always found that tidy little Southern euphemism to be insulting.”

  “Then do something about it.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  Southern traditions were slow to change because the folks kicked and screamed, fighting it every step of the way. But eventually the changes had come. To be honest, Kat knew some degree of racial tension still simmered beneath the moist soil, but it seldom erupted with the force seen in the turbulent sixties.

  Yet, in spite of all the progress, from time to time the old South reared its ugly head, and when that happened, she wanted to grab a sword and slice it off.

  Humming We Shall Overcome she glanced at Mitch then moved the blinking cursor to the N and hit DELETE eight times.

  “After chopping off all those ugly heads, I sure do feel a whole lot better,” she said as the last N disappeared. “How about you?”

  He grinned and gave her the thumbs up sign. “Now, regarding this other business. Kat, there is no way these arson cases are connected to the crank calls we caught.”

  “I know it sounds a little crazy,” her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “but they are connected. How else do you explain names, dates and addresses that match?”

  Mitch quickly responded. “A twelve-year-old smart ass computer hacker got into the system and played the department, and us, for fools.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. It’s too pat. My instinct tells me this is for real. Plus, you’ve got all the things Dreama Simms said.”

  He pushed away from the desk and walked over to the coffee corner. He poured a cup and added a liberal dose of creamer and Sweet n’ Low.

  Kat joined him at the coffee pot, wondering why he bothered with the artificial low calorie sweetner when he generally ate an entire box of Krisy Kreme doughnuts by himself.

  “In the five and half years we’ve partnered, have I ever steered you down the wrong path? Trust me.”

  He held his hand up. “Stop. This isn’t about trust and you know it. You’re a great partner and friend; I just wondered where this instinct of yours is coming from.”

  “It’s my New Orleans blood rising to the surface.”

  “Mumbo jumbo,” Mitch muttered.

  She could tell from his face that she was losing ground. She should have known better than to discuss anything so undisciplined as instinct with ‘Only the facts, ma’am’ Mitchell. Her partner didn’t have one drop of instinct in that barn sized body of his.

  “Okay,” Kat said. She had to try another route or give up the entire ball game. “Maybe instinct is a poor choice of words. You’re probably right; some kid hacked into our files and pulled our chain. But,” she paused, holding one finger in the air. “This type of 911 is dangerous. If these idiots keep on tying up the phone lines and street patrols, someone could get seriously hurt.”

  When two small lines appeared between Mitch’s eyes, Kat silently rejoiced. That was his ‘I’m listening’ frown. Which meant she’d made a first down.

  “Good point, Kat,” he said. “We can’t let a bunch of whiz kids run the department ragged.”

  “I have an idea.”

  His cornflower-blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What idea? You got a crystal ball stashed in your pocket book? Want to hold a séance, my New Orleans Voodoo Woman?”

  “Hardee-har-har. My partner’s turned into a stand-up comic.”

  He bowed to the empty room then treated her to his flawless Elvis impersonation. “Thank you, thank you very much.”

  Kat rolled her eyes and snapped the paper in front of his face. “Look at the printout, see where I’ve highlighted? On March 10, 1963, Mattie DeCarlo died at 1:30. Another arson fatality.” She pointed to the clock on the wall. “It’s eleven-thirty now.”

  Mitch ignored her and hummed Are You Lonesome Tonight?

  “In thirty minutes it will be March 10, Mr. Presley,” Kat continued. “I think we should be waiting in front of the house on Park Street at exactly 1:30 A.M. to see if another call comes in.”

  “What if it does?” Elvis asked. “Those kids aren’t gonna make the 911 call from Park Street.”

  “No, but they might show up to watch the fun. When they do, we’re already on the scene and can catch them red handed.”

  “I don’t know, Kat. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I see a close resemblance to the situation at Kolsky’s recital. Which, if you will recall, garnered us the desk duty in the first place?”

  “There’s not one little ole thing to bother about,” Kat assured him.

  “I’m not bothered, partner. I’m wondering how to explain our ghostly rendezvous with Mattie DeCarlo to the chief.”

  “I’ll do all the explaining to Chief Smith.”

  “You bet your Café Du Monde beignet you will.”

  “Okay, grab your jacket and let’s hit the street.” Kat smiled. Fourth down and goal to go.

  Mitch poked a finger in her dimpled cheek and grinned. “I love a take charge gal.”

  “I’ll drive, big guy. Look on the bright side, you might get a chance to see The King of Rock and Roll in concert.”

  “Think he’ll be wearing that cool white jump suit with the eagle on the back?”

  “I’m sure of it. And I’ll buy you a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts too to keep you occupied until Elvis turns up.”

  “Thank you, thank you very much,” Elvis commented.

  =THREE=

  “Elvis believed in ghosts, you know,” Mitch informed her, as he tossed the empty red, white, and green Krispy Kreme box into the back seat of Kat’s red Honda.

  “That is most enlightening. What time is it?”

  He pushed the button on his watch to illuminate the dial. “The witching hour is upon us, Voodoo Woman. It’s 1:20 in the A.M., only ten minutes to go. Elvis believed he could contact his mother, Gladys Presley. You believe you can contact Mattie DeCarlo?”

  Kat refused to respond to his baiting. She concentrated on the road as her red Honda bounced along the weather worn east Hollow asphalt. The rains continuously eroded the poorly maintained roadway leaving crater-sized pot holes behind. The citizens had repeatedly voted down road improvement bonds, not wanting any increase in their property tax. One of these days they’d figure out it cost them a whole lot more to replace a set of shocks every six months than two or three dollars a year in extra taxes.

  She pulled over to the curb directly opposite 5429 Park Street. She rolled down the window to study the blue trimmed house. During the construction boom in the mid-seventies, the east side of Maceyville, called ‘coon hollow’ by a few rednecks, had evolved from tar paper shotgun houses into compact single story L-shaped dwellings with separate garages.

  Without entering the house, Kat already knew what the floor plan would be. Her Aunt Della still lived in a similar house a few streets over.

  “At the beep, the time will be 1:25, m’lady,” Mitch drawled as he slid down in the seat. “Be sure wake me if Casper DeCarlo shows up. Definite
ly let me know if Elvis pays us a visit.”

  “Uh-huh,” Kat mumbled.

  Physically she sat next to her partner, but mentally she was in the front room across the street. The hardwood floors were shiny as a new penny from repeated hands and knees waxing and buffing. Straight through the door and into the kitchen. A cast iron skillet permanently rested on the stove top, blue and white checked curtains at the windows, potted herbs on the sill. Kat could almost smell the cornbread as it baked in the oven. Beyond, a single bathroom and a bedroom filled with heavy dark mismatched pieces of furniture.

  Mitch’s noisy snoring broke her trance. She glanced his way.

  His slouched posture, chin touching his chest, all indicated a conversion to full sleep mode.

  She returned her attention to the street. In her brief absence a light fog had crept into the neighborhood and now muted the street lights. An odd occurrence on such a clear warm night, she thought.

  Suddenly materializing from out of the fog, a man crossed the street and onto the narrow strip of grass. He squatted near the Honda’s front bumper, pulled a bent cigarette from his shirt pocket, and shoved it in his mouth. He scraped a fingernail across the fat head of a kitchen match.

  In the flickering light, Kat caught a glimpse of a narrow mean face, the details shadowed by the brim of his baseball cap.

  He stared at the house across the street, seemingly oblivious of both the automobile and the two passengers inside. He shifted slightly and she saw the glass jug, with a ragged strip of cloth sticking out of the top. A homemade Molotov cocktail.

  When the man got to his feet Kat blindly tapped Mitch’s arm to rouse her sleeping partner, her eyes trained on the dangerous stranger. “Can’t let him fire bomb that house,” she whispered. She withdrew the .38-caliber service revolver from her holster, but kept it low on the seat, out of line of sight. She could bring it into firing position in less than a second, if necessary.

  She held her breath when the man started walking, convinced he would hit the right fender. But instead of banging into it, he moved through the car and into the street. Kat rubbed her eyes, it was late and she must have imagined his impossible feat. She’d bumped her shins and been rewarded with purple bruises too many times to actually believe a person could walk through a solid object.