Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel

by Charlotte Banchi

  Pamela Mitchell had been proud of the son she raised alone, even if she didn’t remember him anymore. Mitch missed being able to talk with his mother. Several months ago a stroke had taken not only her ability to walk and speak, but her memory as well. A sad end to a sad life.

  When Billy Lee died of cirrhosis of the liver, Mitch had inherited his kudzu-covered farmhouse, decrepit barn, and the Impala. His father’s possessions weren’t all that impressive. Billy Lee had never taken very good care of himself or the farm, and both had died early from neglect.

  Mitch let the place stand for eight years, then when he and Lisa set a wedding date, they decided instead of spending money to make the house habitable, they’d have it razed and sell the land. The amount they’d received had made a nice down payment on the brick house in town.

  “At least you didn’t kill the car, you old boozer,” he mumbled.

  The only noteworthy thing Billy Lee had ever done in his whole pathetic life was to have a good time. Of course, his father’s idea of a good time involved ferrying bootleg whiskey all over the county. His long running game of chase with the ATF agents and the Alabama State Patrol had resulted in numerous wrecked transmissions and burnt out clutches. To this day, if Mitch tried to push the Chevy beyond 65 mph, she’d choke, smoke, and then die in the middle of the road.

  He tried to remember when the Impala’s quirky engine behavior began. He recalled Billy Lee complaining it started around Christmas 1962, shortly after he’d bought it. As the story went, his father had been trying to outrun a carload of ATF agents on the old highway the first time she quit on him. Billy and his sidekick, some redneck idiot named Floyd Barnes, ended up celebrating the holidays in the Maceyville lock up.

  Prior to raising the hood, Mitch ran the soft buffing cloth over the entire automobile body, periodically scrubbing at microscopic dirt specks. His face, reflected in the high gloss wax job, captivated his attention. He appeared haggard. The dark circles ringing his blue eyes made him think of a raccoon. Agitated, he ran a hand through his ginger-colored hair.

  He looked like an old man with one foot in the grave. Or one foot in the past. Images of dried up Egyptian mummies, which would blow away with the slightest breeze, raided his brain. He’d seen those prune people in the museum, and he didn’t look one whole hell of a lot better right this minute.

  “James, old boy,” he told his twin, “you closely resemble a carcass my dog once dragged home.”

  Could his brief foray into 1963 have altered his biological clock? Going back and forth in time, no telling what might happen to your body.

  “That settles it,” he muttered. If a single jaunt screwed him up this much, it would take a whole army and then some to get him to try it again.

  Oh yeah, he knew exactly what Kat would propose the next time he saw her: Another trip back in time. She’d drag out that damn computer printout, point to another name on the Arson/Fatality list and play the sympathy card. “But Mitch,” she’d say, “if we can prevent so and so’s murder, then we are morally obligated as officer’s of the law.”

  Bull pucky. Any Tom, Dick or Harry who died that long ago should stay dead. What business did he have traipsing through the past stirring up Lord knows what kind of mischief?

  “I’ll tell you this, Kathleen Rayson Templeton,” Mitch shook a finger in his partner’s imaginary face. “We’ve got more than enough criminal activity on our plate in the here and now. There is no reason for us to look for more.”

  Mitch fished in his pocket for the car keys. He’d go see Kat and tell her exactly what was what. When he withdrew his hand, the crumpled computer sheet fell to the ground. He stooped to pick it up. Bent over, hands on knees, he froze, holding his breath. Laying there all balled up, it made him think of a coiled rattlesnake. If I touch it, the damn thing will bite me, he thought. Bite me so bad no one will be able to save me.

  Suddenly a puff of wind rolled the paper several inches closer to his feet; it began to unfold like a flower.

  Childishly, he began to bargain with the monster hidden within the paper. “Here’s the deal, if you open up any more I promise to take another shot at Park Street. On the other hand, if you stay wadded up, I’ll forget all this nonsense. What do you say?”

  The paper lay still, as though considering his offer, then it crinkled and another crease opened, revealing one name: Jane Doe.

  “Forget it. I’m staying right here. There’s too much voodoo shit in the air.”

  * * *

  The comforting aroma of chicory coffee filled the yellow shiplap house. Kat leaned her elbows on the counter and watched as the water completed its journey through the machine innards and into the glass decanter. Her sense of time was all screwed up. How could she have showered, and taken the weird trip to la-la land, before ten cups of water filtered through the pot? It made no sense. But then, the past few hours weren’t exactly stellar examples of the sane and normal.

  She removed the pot from beneath the drip spout, not caring as the final drops skittered and danced across the heated surface, she needed a jolt of reality. And nothing was more real than the bitter taste of chicory coffee.

  Icy fingers wrapped around the steaming mug, she pushed through the screened door and walked out to the back yard. She sat in a small patch of early sunlight, pulling the soft terry cloth robe tighter and tighter against her trembling body, hoping the warmth could drive the dark chill away.

  Like an excited child in a toy store, her mind raced from one thing to another as the sun climbed in the sky. Back and forth, between the disappearing Honda, to the man on Park Street, to the display window, to the phone call. On and on she raced, until an exhausted terry cloth bundle fell asleep in the bright morning light.

  As the sun dropped below the horizon, Kat retreated inside, carefully locking the door behind her. She traveled from room to room, turning on every light and closing the curtains at each window. Her nest secured, she curled up on the sofa and pulled her mother’s favorite blue afghan up to her chin. However, the old blanket, a cherished friend that had given her comfort since childhood, did little to assuage her fears.

  She’d had her fill of bodiless voices and phantoms. She wanted and needed the company of a real live person with red blood coursing through their veins. A person with warm skin and a beating heart. The question of with whom to share all her fears and mixed up thoughts loomed like a specter in the waning light.

  Logic dictated she select Mitch. After all, he’d been on Park Street; seen the same things. But he’d taken himself out of contention early on. After partnering for five years, she knew better than to expect him to change his mind. He’d made it painstakingly clear he intended to ignore the early morning events. To him, nothing had happened, and because of this stance, he wouldn’t be receptive to hearing about phone calls from a showerhead.

  She loved Mitch, but sometimes he could be a royal pain in the pahooty. And right now she needed an open minded person to listen and acknowledge her theories were possible, if not wholly credible. Unfortunately, her partner failed to meet those qualifications.

  That left one name on a very short list: her father, Reverend Alvin Rayson.

  Kathleen Ruth, was the only child of Alvin and Dolores Rayson. When she was six, her mother, the Switzerland of the family, the neutral ground on which her opinionated husband and equally stubborn daughter met, died of ovarian cancer. Without Dolores, and her peace making skills, the years that followed were often stormy and always dramatic.

  Shortly after high school graduation—in yet another grandiose display of her independence—Kathleen Rayson met, married, and divorced William Templeton all within six months.

  Her short-lived marriage had set off World War III between Kat and the reverend. Pop so intensely disliked the smooth talking, arrogant and sinful William Templeton that he’d isolated himself. His one man cold war lasted as long as her marriage did. With the husband gone, the father and daughter relationship resumed its stormy course.


  After a brief lull, their battles once again escalated. They finally reached epic proportions the day the twenty-two-year-old Kat announced, after three years at Howard University that she intended to switch her major from History to Police Science. And as a footnote added, “After graduation I’m applying to the Maceyville Police Department.” This Sunday dinner proclamation had ignited a series of high voltage debates which resulted in a polite truce between parent and child.

  The Reverend Alvin Paul Rayson, minister of the Demopolis Hope and Glory Baptist Church, maintained the position that, “Violence—or, God forbid, taking a life—was WRONG. Wrong because the Bible said, ‘Thou shalt not kill’. Period.”

  Six years after graduating from the police academy, Kat still fervently worked to convince her father that law enforcement didn’t necessarily equate to violence or killing. But their opinions were so diametrically opposed she doubted common ground would ever be reached. And she did not foresee any great changes in the near future.

  In spite of all their skirmishes, they miraculously maintained a loving relationship. When not on Sunday duty, Kat drove the twenty miles to Demopolis and sang in the Hope and Glory Baptist choir, then cooked dinner for her father. And no matter what, she could always talk to him.

  =FIVE=

  It had taken a full week before Kat felt capable of sharing what had happened on Park Street with her Pop. On Saturday night she’d fried chicken, made potato salad and baked beans to take to Demopolis. She wanted to talk to Pop, not have to worry about cooking after church.

  She drove over for the church service and then invited him to a backyard picnic. Braced by his rip-roaring sermon, she eased into the subject during the meal.

  Understanding Pop’s misgivings and worries each time she put on the uniform, Kat deliberately omitted a few facts. Facts such as why she and Mitch had gone to Park Street in the first place—the stakeout for a serial arsonist—and the weird 1963 connections. She simplified things by saying they’d been on patrol when they noticed a strange man lurking in the shadows.

  Pop had grown unusually quiet during her tale, but she was grateful for the interest reflected in his honey-colored eyes.

  When his silence continued as they packed up the remains of their picnic and moved indoors, Kat began to panic. Then she began to what-if. What-if, he thought the whole thing sounded like a ghost story designed to scare the britches off junior high girls on a stormy night? What-if, he didn’t believe anything she said?

  Once they’d settled on the sofa with their coffee, she couldn’t stand his silence any longer and blurted out, “So what do you think, Pop?”

  “It reminds me of some things I heard back in 1963 when I worked at a church in Maceyville. I was living with my sister back then. My, my but we spent some good times together. Lettie Ruth was a rare gem, Kathleen. Filled with laughter and a never-ending supply of energy. I’ve always felt you were cheated a little bit that she couldn’t be around once you come along. You two would have gotten along like greens and cornbread.”

  “She’s the sister that up and disappeared, right?” The Lettie Ruth mystery had been Kat’s childhood obsession. Of course she only became obsessed because no one in the family would talk about the woman, or why she’d disappeared.

  The topic had been so hush-hush and top secret that ferreting out morsels of information became all the more tantalizing. Unfortunately, Kat continuously ran head on into a brick wall of adult silence. The subject was taboo, and no amount of snooping or whining generated any new data or enticed one single relative to spill the beans.

  In twenty-nine years all Kat ever learned was that Lettie Ruth Rayson had never married, had been a nurse, and lived in Maceyville. Then in 1963 she’d vanished without a trace. Period. End of story. Finis.

  “Is she was such an amazing person, how come the family doesn’t speak about her, Pop?” Kat probed. After all these years plus her time and effort, she’d be darned if she’d miss out on a rare opportunity to garner one more a tiny scrap of Lettie Ruth trivia.

  He tilted his head to the side and rubbed his chin. “I suppose because it hurts too much.”

  Since her Pop tended to be up front about most everything and loved long detailed explanations, she found his evasiveness peculiar. Her police antenna wiggled in the air as she wondered what information he was hiding. She also found it annoying, especially now that she was all grown up.

  “Come on, Pop,” she cajoled. “You know something. You just admitted you were living with her when she disappeared.”

  “I was indeed.” Rayson’s eyes glazed over.

  She’d seen that faraway look before. As a girl she’d often found him in similar states when he mined deep into his own thoughts regarding Lettie Ruth. In the wee hours of the morning he would sit in the front room, holding his sister’s picture and crying. Kat always wondered what horrible memories he carried around inside his head.

  “Pop?” she said quietly, fighting the urge to physically yank him away from his secrets. Right now he was as far gone from this time and place as her aunt. And it frightened her.

  He shook his head and smiled.

  She recognized the falsity of that smile when his dimples, so like her own, failed to show. His mouth must be rigid as steel for them to remain unseen, she thought. Kat knew from personal experience their dimples were impossible to hide. She’d spent most of her childhood trying to keep the sink holes from forming in her cheeks each time she smiled or laughed. Eventually she’d come to realize the futility of the task. Like Pop, she’d been blessed—or cursed—with the ‘what-darling-dimples-you-have’ syndrome.

  Kat tucked her arm through his and gave a little squeeze. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course I am,” he snorted. “You are a bigger worry wart than your momma.”

  “It’s not worrying to be concerned about someone you love.”

  “I hate causing you to fret so. I’m getting older, Kathleen, and on occasion I get caught up in the past.”

  “Is the past where you went this time?”

  “Yes,” he said. “To 1963. I was twenty-seven, fresh out of the Army and ready to start at the seminary come fall. And so full of myself I barely fit in my britches.” Rayson chuckled and his ample mid-section jiggled.

  “How old was Lettie Ruth?” Kat asked, bringing the conversation back on point. And keeping her fingers crossed the question didn’t trigger another backward slide.

  “Thirtyish,” he said vaguely.

  “Did she disappear from New Orleans?”

  “No, from Maceyville. On the fifth of April, 1963. It happened the Friday before Palm Sunday,” he said quietly. “The rest of the family still lived down in New Orleans, so I called them with the bad news.”

  He looked so sad and haunted Kat wished she never broached the subject. “I’m sorry, Pop. I didn’t mean to bring all this unhappiness down on you.”

  “I’m fine, child.” He glanced at her. “Sometimes I see Lettie Ruth in you.”

  “How so?”

  “Like you, Sister leaned toward an independent life. She left home to attend nursing school at Fisk University up in Nashville, and never came back to New Orleans. Instead, she moved to Maceyville and worked with Doctor Timothy Biggers.”

  “Did she have her own house?”

  “No, the doctor ran a clinic out of his home and she moved into some extra rooms on the third floor. It was during this period that she and a girlfriend got involved in all sorts of civil rights things. The Freedom Riders, lunch counter sit-ins, the voter’s registration campaign, why those two women even marched along the side of Dr. Martin Luther King. My big sister was a bona fide civil rights activist before she disappeared,” he said proudly.

  Kat hated to burst his happy bubble, but the words civil rights activist and disappeared set were not compatible. “Pop, in those days activists didn’t just up and disappear. They were out right murdered.”

  “What do you know about that, child?” His body suddenly sa
gged as though someone had dropped a load of cement on his shoulders.

  “I’ve read the books, Pop. They teach classes on the movement in college.”

  “But what do you know?”

  “I know about the dogs and fire hoses. I know about the beatings and lynchings. I know the next year, in June 1964, three Freedom Summer Project volunteers were shot in the head by Ku Klux Klan members,” Kat declared.

  “I knew them,” Rayson said, his voice taking on the respectful hushed tones of a funeral parlor. “They were good boys. Andrew Goodman came from Queens College, James Chaney, a twenty-one-year-old black man out of Mississippi, and Michael Schwerner, a New York social worker.”

  “Do you think Lettie Ruth met a similar end?” If her aunt got involved in the movement, she probably ruffled a few feathers. And the local Klan wouldn’t hesitate to teach an independent black woman a lesson or two.

  “Some things are for the knowing, and some for the telling, Kathleen.”

  “What’s the big secret?” she snapped. “I’m a card-carrying Rayson, Pop. And I’m certainly not a child anymore. I deserve a straight answer.”

  “And you’ll get one by the by,” Rayson said sharply. “But right this moment we’re goin’ to keep on discussing your experience … not Lettie Ruth.”

  Kat recognized the stubborn set of his chin and settled for a simple nod. She’d let it pass for now, but they would return to this subject.

  Rayson cleared his throat then began. “As I said, I came up from New Orleans to help out at the church in Maceyville. Soon as I stepped off the bus I saw Lettie Ruth was all worked up. She started jabbering away about some fool notion of studying up on the spirit world.”

  “I thought we weren’t going to talk about your sister?” Kat asked.