Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel

by Charlotte Banchi

  He shoved open the perpetually squeaky door, which obviously hadn’t seen an oil can in decades. It felt as though he’d come home.

  The Blue was a long rectangle constructed from three double wide railroad boxcars hooked end to end. The small tables haphazardly arranged near the door, thinned out toward the back to make room for three pool tables. The stage, as Broodman called it, was nothing but upended wooden flats resting six-inches off the floor.

  Although Mitch didn’t know the two guys making music, one blowing a real sweet sax and the other fingering the guitar, no matter the year he wasn’t going to be shy about making himself at home on the piano bench.

  Mid-way to the stage the hairs on his neck began to squirm, stirred by something he couldn’t put his finger on just yet. Until he’d accounted for his unease, he decided to stay close to the exit and veered left toward the bar.

  He climbed on the brown leather stool and tried to catch the bartender’s eye. Within ten seconds, everyone seated along the counter relocated, leaving Mitch alone. After the mass exodus the low murmur of conversation dwindled off and the two guys on the stage stopped playing. The whole building was tomb silent. Every head in the room was bowed, all eyes trained on the floor.

  Had he inadvertently crashed a private party? He glanced around, but didn’t see any banners proclaiming Happy Birthday or Good Luck. But there was definitely something out of kilter. Nobody looked like trouble, if anything they were too well dressed for a neighborhood bar. Suits and ties for the men; the women in dresses. Orderly.

  And black.

  The realization hit like a truck load of bricks. The familiarity of The Blue had temporarily blinded him to the fact his was the only white face in the building.

  “‘Scuse me, sir?”

  At the sound of the soft voice, Mitch nearly jumped off the bar stool. If a crystal chandelier had hung above the bar, he’d have been dangling from it about now. He gripped the edge of the counter to keep his hands from shaking and turned to the speaker.

  “Yes,” he croaked. His stomach had crawled into his throat.

  “You be lost, sir?” asked a skinny old man about a hundred-years-old. He stood behind the bar, fidgeting and twisting a white towel nearly half to death. “You see, Sir. This … here’s … a Negro …’stablishment,” he pronounced each word individually, as though Mitch were an extraterrestrial recently landed who didn’t speak English.

  * * *

  Kat lay face down on a cotton plant. Her left hand, folded beneath her naked body, was useless because of the three broken fingers. Ripped and torn during the brutal attack, her body screamed louder with each passing second. Using her good right hand, she clawed at the loose dirt, dragging herself down the long row. She hurt from the inside out, and from the outside in. But she wouldn’t die in a tacky cotton patch.

  “If I don’t get out of this field I won’t make it through the night,” she whispered hoarsely.

  Seeking comfort, Kat reached for the boot pin from Mitch. She needed to touch her good luck totem, to draw strength from the much loved piece of jewelry. Instead of metal, her hand brushed across a bare breast and she winced. With a feather-like touch she traced the bite marks, smearing the oozing blood across her chest.

  Floyd. Little Carl. Louis.

  The men had passed her around like a blow-up doll at a stag party. Once they used up all their testosterone, they’d beat the living hell out of her.

  Anger quickly replaced her pain. And the anger that flowed within her was red. Red as the blood seeping into the Alabama soil.

  “You son-of-a-bitches ain’t getting away with it,” she told a nearby cotton boll.

  With determination forged from strong Rayson blood, Kat pushed up onto her knees. Lightheaded, due to a wicked concoction of internal injuries, concussion, and blood loss, she knew better than to try and rush it. Instead, she slowly shifted from one position to another, resting between the minute movements.

  Once upright, she staggered through the rows like a Saturday night drunk. Ever so often she saw double images or everything faded until only blurry shadows remained. But she refused to give in. Refused to lie down and let those pieces of scum win.

  Less than six feet separated the field from the dirt road when gravity took over and pulled her to the ground. The shadows around her deepened until nothing remained but night.

  “Open your eyes, honey.”

  The lazy butterscotch voice sounded sweet as a choir of angels. Kat felt her lips move, yet no sound emerged.

  “Wake up, girl. You can’t lay here in the clothes God give you.”

  The rumbling baritone caused Kat to twitch, as her body remembered the abuse at the hands of three men with similar voices. “Give it back,” she mumbled. “It’s mine.”

  “What you want?” Baritone asked.

  “Honey, what you say?” Butterscotch whispered. “What is it you be wantin’?”

  “Boot. My little boot,” Kat struggled to be understood. Of all the things wrong at this moment, the missing piece of jewelry seemed the most paramount. “They stole it.”

  “I’ll look ‘round for your boots,” Baritone promised. After a few seconds he said, “I don’t see nothing laying on the ground. Let me turn her over, maybe she’s on top of them.”

  “Lordy mercy, Taxi, you ain’t got a lick of sense. Don’t be touching that child ‘till you throw something over her.”

  “What you expects me to use?”

  “Take off your shirt,” Butterscotch ordered.

  “Dreama Simms, this here is my brand-new catalog shirt. Look at her. She’s bleeding all over the ground.”

  “Maximilian Devore, you cover that girl up right now.”

  “I puts this on her and it’s spoiled forever.”

  “Taxi.”

  Like a summer breeze, the fabric fell across Kat, shielding her from the rapidly cooling twilight. A gentle hand smoothed the hair away from her face. Murmured words of encouragement penetrated the final wall of her foggy state. She opened her eyes, relieved to see two black faces staring at her.

  “Don’t hurt me,” Kat whispered.

  “That’s all right, sugar. Just take it easy,” Butterscotch cooed.

  “Need him.” Kat grabbed the man’s hand. “Please.”

  “Who you be needing?” Baritone asked.

  Kat’s eyes filled with tears. She hurt so bad and wanted her sweet Pop to come and take her home.

  “Taxi, we gotta carry this girl to town, and get Timothy to take a look.”

  “Hos-hospital.” Kat’s voice sounded foreign, husky and ragged around the edges. She must make them understand the importance of her request. “Rape kit. Evidence.”

  “I knows, honey, I knows. Don’t be worrying ‘bout that now. Me and my man will take good care of you.”

  Two strong arms picked Kat from the ground. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the man’s bare chest, reminded of the way her Pop had carried his sleepy little girl to bed.

  Safe.

  She felt safe.

  * * *

  Kat’s eyelids fluttered open. Waves of excruciating agony pounded her body. Her thinking clouded by bits and pieces of flotsam.

  What happened to her? An accident? Was Mitch okay?

  The last thing she remembered was riding in the patrol unit. Or was that a dream? If thoughts were tangible, hers would have been flopping around like catfish on a river bank. Annoyed by her inability to remember clearly, she waded through the confusion, sorting and categorizing the clutter in her head.

  Eventually her addled brain began to cooperate. She remembered meeting two boys, Virgil and Lamar. An altercation in front of the barber shop. Miss Jane. Pink hair and a white sweater.

  A white stake-bed truck.

  The cotton field.

  The fear engulfed her so completely she couldn’t breathe. Kat struggled for air. Did they bring her here? Did the men wait beyond the closed door? Wait to rape her again? She lay paralyzed, her body rig
id, eyes rolling around in her head like a trapped animal.

  She shifted her weight and her bare buttocks landed in a cold moist depression in the mattress. She gingerly slid her good hand underneath, and withdrew it. Blood. The towel she rested on was saturated. She became aware of the steady warm trickle. Her life force pumped from her body with each beat of her heart.

  “Move, Kathleen. You gotta move,” she commanded, angry with herself for being so weak.

  She tugged on the sun-dried sheet tucked around her body until she could sit up. Someone had swaddled her like an infant and she didn’t much care for it. The restraint made her nervous. She yanked harder and her broken left middle fingers, splinted with wooden tongue depressors and white adhesive tape, throbbed painfully.

  She released her hold on the fabric and it fell around her waist. She wore a faded hospital gown, only the slit opened in front instead of in the back where it belonged.

  “Oh no,” she groaned, as the smell of Ivory soap and antiseptic escaped from beneath the covers. She’d been bathed and doctored. All the evidence washed away. No rape kit, no photographs or nail scrapings. Would the district attorney bring charges without evidence?

  Kat snorted in disgust at her silly delusions. Charges? What a stupid thought. Those men left her in the field on purpose. They hadn’t treated her wounds or moved her to a nice clean room so she could sic the police on them. Nobody cared if a black woman got raped and beat up. She was a nonperson. A creature to be tolerated. A servant. A nigger.

  They’d kidnapped her off the street in the middle of the day and abused her because they knew they could get away with it. And they made certain she suffered so there would be no misunderstanding about her place in this world. They hurt her—hurt her bad, all because her skin happened to be dark.

  Even in the dim light cast by the small table lamp she could see the numerous indigo bruises decorating her arms. She separated the two sides of the gown, shuddering as the fabric rubbed across her wounds. Kat touched the bite marks on her breasts, instantaneously reliving the moment fat Louis inflicted them. Her stomach contracted and she rolled to the edge of the bed, trying to avoid soiling the pretty bedspread.

  The simple movement caused hot claws to dig into her wounds, twisting and pinching until she cried out in pain. Not even the physically fit body of a twenty-nine-year-old policewoman could withstand the brutality she’d experienced today.

  She drifted into a restless demon filled sleep until her own screams woke her. Howls of terror bounced off the blue flowered wallpaper. Once again she fought her attackers, swinging wildly at the phantom images floating in the air. The water glass on the night table became the first casualty as it hit the hardwood floor and broke into large pieces. Desperate to escape, Kat eased her legs over the side of the bed and planted her foot squarely on a sharp edge.

  The pain ignited a hidden reservoir of strength and determination. She would no longer be a victim. She intended to take control of her life and of her body once again.

  She hobbled across the room, a bloody trail of footprints followed close behind. She struggled with the window, trying to raise it high enough to crawl through. But no matter how hard she pushed, it wouldn’t budge. The nails holding it in place allowed only three or four inches of movement.

  She whirled around, searching for something to break through the glass panes. Before she located anything of use, a black cloud slipped down over her eyes, blanking out her vision. She began to tremble and her knees buckled.

  * * *

  Lettie Ruth Rayson nearly jumped out of her skin when she discovered her patient lying in a heap on the hardwood floor. Not until she saw the terror in those honey-colored eyes did Lettie realize she still held the big cooking fork. She lowered her hand and dropped it on the floor, then kicked it out into the hall. No sense giving this half crazed girl a weapon, she thought.

  “It’s all right.” Lettie Ruth held out her hands, palms up, in what she hoped would be interpreted as a peaceful gesture.

  The woman jumped as though Lettie had stabbed her with the fork. The frightened patient scrambled backwards, her bloody bare feet slipping on the polished floor.

  “Nobody’s looking to harm you.” Lettie Ruth kept her voice soft and without emotion. She’d worked the Psychiatric Ward during nursing school and knew how little it took to send a frightened patient over the edge.

  The woman continued to scoot backwards until she hit the wall. She drew the ragged old hospital gown across her trembling body and raised her head. Her eyes were clear and Lettie Ruth could see a lot of fight left inside.

  “Where am I?” she demanded.

  “You’re at Dr. Biggers’ clinic. I’m his nurse and we fixed you up.” Lettie Ruth took a step toward the woman, testing the waters. If she could get closer, this whole little drama might wind itself down to nothing. Meeting no resistance, Lettie continued to edge in until she stood directly in front of the woman.

  “You got a name?” Lettie Ruth asked softly.

  “Kat.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Kat.” She pointed to the bloody floor. “How’s about letting me take a look at those feet of yours?”

  Kat studied her for several seconds, then nodded.

  As the patient struggled to stand, Lettie Ruth stepped aside. She would hate to jinx things by moving in too fast. The woman had some difficulty, but from the stubborn set of her jaw and determined expression, Lettie Ruth figured she could make it on her own.

  While Kat continued her slow and painful journey back to the bed, Lettie Ruth prepared the solution to clean her feet. She made a quick trip down the hall to the bathroom for warm water. When she returned, she found her patient seated on the edge of the bed.

  Lettie Ruth smiled. She’d been right. This one still had some spunk left. She poured the pitcher of water into her Grandma’s porcelain washbowl and added the hydrogen peroxide solution. She carried it over to the bed and sat cross-legged in the floor. She gently raised Kat’s foot, then lowered it into the wash basin.

  As she used tweezers to remove the glass shards, Lettie Ruth kept up a stream of light chatter, trying to draw out her mysterious patient. Unfortunately, Kat seemed reluctant to reveal any information other than the fact she’d been attacked by three white men.

  There was something so familiar about the girl, and Lettie Ruth kept staring, trying to place where she might have seen her. She finally decided since they were near the same age, they may have gone to Fisk together. Kat was a pretty thing, kind of a creamed-coffee color, with shoulder length curls and striking honey-colored eyes like Alvin’s. Lettie thought she must be at least five-feet eight-inches tall, because the bed was high and she didn’t have any trouble sticking her feet in the basin on the floor.

  As Lettie pulled a large hunk of glass out of her heel, Kat jerked her foot back so hard her knee nearly hit her own nose.

  “Sorry,” Kat mumbled, eyes skipping around the room. “It’s been a piss poor day.”

  Laughter erupted before Lettie Ruth could catch it and tie it down. Belatedly she slapped a hand across her mouth and looked apologetically at Kat. “Girl, I am so sorry.”

  Kat attempted a smile, dimples digging holes in her cheeks. “It’s okay.”

  “Those big ole dimples you got are sure fire man pleasers,” Lettie Ruth commented. “My little brother has dimples just like yours. Doesn’t seem fair for a boy to get all the good looks in the family.”

  “My Pop has dimples too,” Kat said. “When I was little he used to tell me they were contagious.”

  Lettie Ruth let out another whoop. “Jumping Jesus! I forgot all about my chicken. By the way,” she shouted, as she raced out of the room, “I’m Lettie Ruth Rayson.”

  * * *

  Kat’s mouth dropped open. Lettie Ruth Rayson? Much like Humphrey Bogart’s character Rick in the film, Casablanca, she wondered how, out of all the houses in Maceyville, she’d ended up in this one.

  Some of Mitch’s what-if arguments must ha
ve taken root, because Kat knew she had to distance herself from her aunt. And her father. She remembered Pop’s story of the Spring he’d spent with his sister hunting ghosts. And here she was, smack dab in the middle of that April, which meant Alvin Rayson could walk through the door any second.

  What-if, she happened to say or do the wrong thing? Did something to change the previous pattern. The ripple effect from her interference could wipe out Kat’s future. As soon as she could move, she had to get out of this house and away from her family immediately. Later on she’d figure out how to protect her aunt from the approaching danger.

  =ELEVEN=

  Kat Templeton took a small bite of fried chicken, gagged, and spit it out. This made her third attempt to eat something. Chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans. No matter what went in her mouth, it tasted nasty.

  It tasted like the men in the field.

  At first only her hands trembled, soon the tremors spread throughout her body. She shook so hard the brass headboard rattled against the wall. The white sun-dried sheets rippled like an ocean. Memories of the attack flooded all her senses. Once again she saw the blue spring sky above as she lay on the ground. She felt the sun warmed dirt against her bare back. Smelled their sweaty bodies. Heard the grunts as they pounded and punished her body, invading every opening.

  Now they leered at her from the shadowed corners. Fat Louis stood beside the dresser, her blood smeared across his mouth. Little Carl peeked out from the closet, his tobacco stained teeth glinted yellow in the semi-darkness. Floyd, in the corner by the door, unfastened his jeans.

  Kat couldn’t hold back the terror. Screams bubbling from a molten pool within her soul erupted with volcanic force. Her fear and rage filled the pretty blue and white bedroom, contaminating everything.

  “Shhh, baby, shhh. Lettie Ruth is with you. Things gonna be fine.”

  Kat curled up in a ball. A tiny ball could hide. If she could only make herself small enough, they wouldn’t be able to find her under all the covers.

  “Kat, you come on back now. Quit screaming, child. Open up your eyes.”