Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel

by Charlotte Banchi

  “Fat chance of that,” he growled. “No way in hell will you stand back and wait until Lettie Ruth goes missing. You’ll step in.”

  “Don’t be so sure, mister. I am capable of determining what should and shouldn’t be done.”

  “What makes you such an expert on should and should not?” Mitch challenged. “Your aunt was involved in issues and situations you’ve only read about in the history books. I’m willing to bet once you’re running around in 1963 you’ll find a lot of silt muddying the waters.” He stopped and looked her in the eye. “You won’t be able predict how a particular action on your part will turn out. Keep in mind, just by being there, your presence will alter the future.”

  Kat buttoned her sweater all the way to the neck, fighting the chills invading her body. He was laying it all out in front of her like a buffet of disasters. And it frightened the living daylights out of Kathleen Templeton.

  “You’ll be occupying a space that was either empty prior to your arrival, or you’ll replace someone else,” he continued. “Let’s take a look at a couple of what-ifs.” He began to pace the room, slipping into his lecture mode.

  Kat cringed. She absolutely hated his What-if lectures. Mainly because they usually ended up making sense. And right now she didn’t want his logic to mix in with her emotional objectives.

  “What-if, you’re riding down the road with Lettie Ruth on your way to a civil rights shindig, and get run off the road by a gang of good ole ‘Bama boys? Are you willing to die, Kat? Die because you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time? You can’t predict the what, where or when of that wrong place.”

  “Mitch,” she protested, hoping to derail his speech long enough to make a getaway.

  He ignored her and marched on. “And what-if, you discover Klan members plan to torch Lettie’s house or your Pop’s church? Are you going to call the cops and wait for a squad car? Think again, m’lady, they’ll throw your tail in the slammer first. You cannot go back and make things right, Kathleen. All you will do is get yourself hurt. Or killed.”

  “I can change one thing, Mitch. I can stop my aunt from—”

  “No, you can’t!” he shouted, raising his voice for the first time. “It’s stupid to think so. Want to know why?”

  “Sure, why don’t you educate this dumb little black girl.”

  He whirled on her, his face turning scarlet. “That’s a cheap shot, Kat. Don’t turn this into a black versus white issue. I’m talking about problems that could arise if you tinker with the past. Step outside your emotions a second and listen to me,” he pleaded. “Lettie Ruth disappeared, and because she did, certain events have followed. Things changed for Alvin, and for dozens of other people as well. If you alter one detail, one minute factor, no telling the repercussions that will follow.”

  “If you’ve dragged the boogy man out from under the bed to scare me, it ain’t working.”

  “It’s not an imaginary monster under the bed, Kat. This is a reality check.”

  “I don’t see how my presence in 1963 can screw up the entire world.”

  “Example. You told me how Pop met your mother after Lettie Ruth went missing.”

  “True. Mom came over to Dr. Biggers’ clinic where Pop was staying. She brought him her famous sweet potato pie. He said he lost his heart and stomach to Dolores Townson sitting on that front porch.”

  “Allow me to pose this question, if Lettie Ruth doesn’t go missing, will Alvin still meet Dolores? Will she still bring him that sweet potato pie? If she doesn’t do these things will they fall in love, get married and have a beautiful baby girl named Kathleen?”

  “That’s absurd. Of course they will,” she argued. She didn’t like the tone of their conversation. Mitch was beginning to make points.

  He pointed to the phone. “Call Alvin and ask if he’s willing to risk the life he’s led for the past thirty-seven years.” He stopped pacing and squatted in front of her. “Kat, there will be stuff going on in people’s lives that you know nothing about and maybe shouldn’t.”

  Kat shook her head so hard her hair fell across her eyes. She brushed it away and glared at Mitch, driving daggers into his mouth to shut him up.

  Mitch stood and resumed pacing. “With Lettie Ruth back in the picture, his life will take a different course. It has to. And it is possible your parents will never meet.”

  “He wants me to go.”

  He stopped pacing and turned to stare at her. “Alvin said that?”

  “He asked me to try and prevent Lettie Ruth’s murder.” Kat looked away, she’d fudged the truth a little. Pop’s actual words to her had been ‘you won’t know until you get there.’ Which in her zeal she may have interpreted as ‘Go’.

  “Oh, suddenly your aunt’s been murdered instead of disappeared? When did her status change? What information is Alvin holding back?”

  Her temper flared. “Are you suggesting Pop hasn’t been one hundred per cent up front?”

  “I’m suggesting antecedent events,” Mitch answered.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “An antecedent event, a preceding event or cause.”

  “For God’s sake, Mitch, I know what the word means.”

  “Excuse me all to hell and gone. I only meant to be clear. What-if, he forgot … or sugar coated the details? One small, seemingly unimportant fact could be a major player with regards to your safety. A possibility which concerns me. A lot.”

  “Then come along and keep me out of trouble,” Kat countered. If he was so worried about her safety then he ought to jump at the invitation. “We can work the case together. Double the manpower and cut our time in half.”

  “Thank you no. I’ve seen as much of 1963 as I care to.”

  “Come on, Mitch, it shouldn’t take more than a couple of days to sort through everything and get it squared away.”

  Mitch sighed and sat on the sofa. “When are you going?”

  She unfolded her copy of the Arson/Fatality printout and spread it on the coffee table. “Like I said, three hours ago, I believe this Jane Doe entry, dated April 5, to be Lettie Ruth. So I took vacation days starting April 1. I’ll go then.”

  “Four days before anything happened? Isn’t that too early to show up, especially if you have no intention of interfering?”

  “Interfering or not interfering isn’t the issue,” Kat said. “The reason is very simple. If I don’t leave on the first, then I don’t go at all.”

  Mitch ran his hands through his hair. “April 1 or never? Elaborate.”

  “I’ve gone over to Park Street three times since we were there last Sunday,” Kat admitted.

  “And?”

  “And, on two of the trips I could have walked back and forth across Park all day and night without going anywhere, except to the other side of the street.”

  “No shrinking trees or magic cars?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s an interesting little side bar to all this,” Mitch said. “Got any theories on the how’s and why’s nothing happened?”

  “I believe it’s linked to the deaths,” Kat said. “The first time we were able to step into 1963 because that’s the morning Mattie De Carlo died.” She pointed to the printout. “Look here, see Harold Beason’s name on the 17th? That’s today. So on my way home tonight I decided to test my theory. I tried again, and it worked just like the first time.”

  “You did it?”

  “All the way into 1963. I only took a few steps, but it definitely worked. Since nothing happened the other times, I figure the window or doorway was closed. That’s when I decided passage was connected to a death.”

  Mitch ran his finger down the list of names on the printout. “Hey, there’s another door opening on April 2. You could wait another day before leaving.”

  “One day doesn’t make all that much difference. Assuming my theory is valid, the door should open again at 5:05 in the morning on April 1, when Tyrone Jefferson died. And that’s when I’m goin’.”
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br />   Mitch’s color paled and the paper in his hands trembled slightly. “This business spooks the hell out of me.”

  “Mitch, I’m not so sure you’re supposed to be part of this. From the get-go I’ve been dragging you along on this adventure. Otherwise…”

  “Otherwise, I wouldn’t know about the doorways. Or for that matter, about any of this stuff.”

  “Right. So maybe this is the way it’s supposed to go down.”

  “Once you get there, where will you start?”

  “Right there,” she said, tapping the printout. “The Jane Doe address.”

  Mitch bent over the papers and read the address out loud, “3349 Brook Street. Residential or commercial?”

  “I drove by yesterday and it’s a strip mall now. I don’t know what was there in 1963.”

  “You sure this Jane Doe is your aunt? Dead on sure?”

  “Maybe not dead on,” she hedged, dreading the beginning of another lecture.

  “So you’re working from a purely speculative base. Maybe it’s her. Maybe it’s not. Maybe she went missing on this date and time. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe, maybe, maybe!” As he spoke his voice gradually rose until the last word was delivered in a shout and he was back on his feet.

  “If you feel this way, just go on home and let me tend to my business.”

  “That’s the first smart thing you’ve said all night.”

  * * *

  From across the room the wrinkled and smudged computer printout stared at Mitch. It wouldn’t leave him alone.

  Agitated by the way things had turned out with Kat, he couldn’t stop throwing stuff around. A good thing he didn’t have any real furniture in his apartment or he’d probably end up tossing it off the balcony as well.

  What was going on in Kat’s mind? No amount of talking, cajoling or yelling could deviate his hard headed partner from her course. Convinced unless she went be-bopping to 1963, her Pop would crumble into a thousand pieces, made reasoning with her impossible.

  For nearly forty years Alvin Rayson had lived with the knowledge something bad happened to his sister that April. The old man knew how things were back then. Hell, the entire state of Alabama knew what went on in those days. Lettie Ruth Rayson had been knee deep in the civil rights movement. She’d probably pissed off every KKK white knight within a twenty-mile radius of Maceyville. Of course she’d been murdered.

  But for Kat to believe that she alone could change her aunt’s fate made him want to puke purple. A person didn’t mess around with history. What a crock. If everybody started sticking their fingers in the ‘once upon a time’ cake, the world was done for.

  “Which makes no sense,” he shouted to the bare walls.

  =SEVEN=

  April 1—Monday

  One hour before sunrise, Kat Templeton stepped off the curb and began the journey out of her own time.

  In preparation for this adventure, she’d spent all her off duty hours at the library, studying old newspapers and magazines, immersing herself in the early 1960s. She memorized details, little bits and pieces of trivia. It would be imperative to avoid drawing attention to herself. Chances were high she would encounter people she knew. The only advantage she held was that they wouldn’t know her.

  She took one final look over her shoulder, knowing full and well if her resistance lowered one itsy bitsy inch she’d turn tail and run. The notion of time-travel seemed extraordinarily feeble minded as Kat neared the point of no return. What could she be thinking? The only reason she stood at this very odd doorway was because of voices and visions. Merry Christmas! Like Joan of Arc, Kathleen of Maceyville was setting out on a crusade to change things for the better.

  Mitch’s rational arguments against this venture continued to fight against her emotional need to intervene. She slowed her pace, then came to a complete halt a foot from the white dividing line as she recalled yesterday’s conversation with him. At the moment it seemed such a long time ago…

  …She’d been loading her backpack while a highly agitated James Mitchell drove her antique French rocker in short furious spurts. For the umpteenth time her partner hammered the facts home. Lettie Ruth Rayson’s fate had been determined nearly forty years ago. Anything Kat did to alter that could have serious repercussions.

  “Repercussions?” she shot back. “Since when is saving a life considered a repercussion?”

  “You know what I mean,” Mitch said, his calm tone grated on her nerves. “Action equals reaction.”

  “Are we going to get into another time-travel tussle here?”

  “Fictional time-travel is different from reality, Kat. Once in motion you won’t have the option of going back and rewriting the script. Could be you’ll dabble in dangerous waters, little girl.”

  His little girl comment raised Kat’s hackles and she had to consciously resist the urge to grab the rocker and dump him head first onto the floor. Instead, she busied her hands by stuffing a third, then a fourth set of unnecessary clothing in the pack. Which she immediately removed because any extra clothes she required could easily be purchased at her destination.

  Kat removed her driver license, credit cards, library card, photographs from her wallet and placed them in the desk drawer. Her police identification and .38 were in a safety deposit box at the bank. Remembering the scene in the movie, ‘Somewhere In Time’ when Christopher Reeve’s character discovered a penny with a future date and was yanked back to the present, Kat made certain all her folding money dated pre-1963.

  “I won’t dabble in anyone’s business, Mitch. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, I only want to try to find out what happened to Lettie Ruth.”

  “And once you get it all figured out? Are you going to confront the good ole boys down at the Klan hall? Get the local law to arrest them?”

  Kat sighed loudly, annoyed with his unending supply of sarcasm. “Okay Mr. James ‘I-Know-Everything’ Mitchell, what do you suggest? Lettie Ruth’s disappearance has haunted Pop for 37 years. I remember waking up in the night and finding him sittin’ out in the front room with her picture in his hands. His body would be shaking, his cheeks dripping with tears. This thing has been nibbling away for years, Mitch, and if I don’t do something, it’s gonna eat clean through him.”

  By the time she finished her speech, the rocking chair stood motionless. Mitch sat like a stone statue, his blue eyes saying much more eloquently than words how he felt. “Knowing is sometimes worse than not knowing, Kat. You feel up to rubbing noses with the rock hard truth about Lettie Ruth? Are you sure your Pop wants to know?”

  “I think we already know the truth.”

  “Then why in the Sam Hill are you risking getting caught up in that same net?”

  Kat had spent several days wrestling with that particular question. Family obligation? Old-fashioned curiosity? It made no difference either way, she knew if she passed on this opportunity she’d be the one sitting up all night looking at a faded photograph.

  “I have to go,” she told him.

  He sighed, an indication the argument was over. “When will you come back?”

  “There are two entry doors. April 10 and 12.”

  Mitch gave her a bear hug. “Come home on Wednesday the 10th. It’s sooner.”

  “I’ll see you in ten days, scouts honor.”

  “I’ll be waiting on Park Street at two o’clock sharp, partner,” he’d told her. “Don’t be late.”

  Time to go.

  * * *

  1963

  Kat hitched the backpack higher on her shoulders and focused on her destination. As she stepped across the center line the fog turned thick as gumbo, with little chunks of 2000 and 1963 floating around together. As though cued by an unseen stage manager, the L-shaped houses were replaced by tar paper shacks and ramshackle shotgun houses. The trees lining the street began to shrink, or completely disappeared. Neat yards turned to weed and dirt plots littered by an assortment of broken furniture, tires and all around junk.


  Things even smelled different. Instead of honeysuckle and sweet jasmine, rotting garbage and rancid sewage permeated the air.

  Although it had taken only seconds, by the time she reached the other side she was exhausted and walking around on spaghetti legs. Unwilling to immediately dip into her limited cash, she opted for a secluded patch of grass in a nearby vacant lot rather than a hotel room. And because of that decision, nosy fingers were now poking in her chest.

  Kat kept her eyes closed, waiting for the scene to play out. She prayed the prying digits belonged to a curious child rather than an adult.

  “Don’t touch her, Virgil. She’s dead.”

  “Tain’t neither. Lamar, see how her girl things are a movin’ up and down.”

  At the sound of the young voices discussing her anatomy, the tightly wound coil of tension in Kat’s stomach loosened. She could handle a couple of kids.

  Her eyes flew open as she grabbed the chocolate colored wrist poised above her breast. With a roar she sat upright, determined to teach the little stinkers to keeps their hands to themselves. The stunned expression on the boys’ faces made her laugh. She’d succeeded in scaring the bejesus out of them.

  Kat released her grip and stood. She brushed the loose grass from her jeans and tee-shirt, periodically shooting the boys her best Maceyville cop glare. “Didn’t your mommas teach you any manners?” she demanded.

  “Yes’um,” they answered in unison as they shuffled backwards.

  The boys were like two antsy colts, ready to jump the coral fence at any second. Unless she wanted to draw a whole peck of attention down on her head, she needed to keep them low keyed and calm. Otherwise they’d high tail it out of here and spread the news all over the east Hollow of a strange woman sleeping in the bushes. Not a very auspicious beginning.

  “What are your names?” Kat asked, softening her glare and tone slightly.

  “I’m Virgil,” answered the chunky owner of the prying finger. “And that there’s Lamar standing off yonder under the tree.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Virgil. My name is Kat.” She turned to the second boy. Unlike the short and pudgy Virgil, he was tall and skinny as a rail post. His skin was such an exact color match to the bark he practically disappeared into the tree trunk. “Come on over here, Lamar. I won’t bite.”