Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel

by Charlotte Banchi

  Biggers rested a hand on his back. “Wait up. Jackson’s still calling the shots. I don’t think it’s a done deal yet.”

  “Those boys are playing for keeps. They want him dead. This is going to end real soon. And end badly.”

  “You Yankees are always forgetting how slow things move in the South. We’re nowhere near the end of this evening’s soiree. We still have time to get our hands dirty.”

  “You’re going to sit here and let them beat him to death?” Biggers’ cavalier attitude didn’t set well with Mitch. His police training focused on intervention not wait and see.

  Biggers grinned. “Now that ain’t gonna happen.” He pointed to the yard. “You watch out yonder.”

  * * *

  Billy Lee kicked half heartedly at the preacher, then backed off. “How’s your memory now, tar baby?” he taunted. “Bet you’ll remember this night for a long time.”

  Gordon lifted his head and smiled. “And so shall you.” He raised his trembling Bible once more.

  Car doors opened. Passengers climbed out. People emerged from their homes and the two groups joined forces in a silent march toward Gordon’s yard.

  A hooded man pointed to the sidewalk. “Trouble coming.”

  Billy Lee glanced over his shoulder. He froze for a moment then turned to face the oncoming marchers. “You niggers stop right there,” he ordered. “Stop right there I said.” When they failed to obey his commands, he turned back to the downed preacher. “Tell them to git on out of here or I’ll finish you off.”

  “You tell them yourself, you’re the boss man,” Gordon said.

  Billy Lee swung the chain one last time before he motioned for his men to retreat. Still throwing hate filled insults and threats, the nine climbed aboard the truck and left the east Hollow.

  =TWENTY-FIVE=

  From her position in the sidewalk procession, Lettie Ruth saw Timothy Biggers motion from the side of the house and left the marchers.

  “Kat won’t let us near her,” Mitch explained when she stepped into the shadows.

  “You want to give it a try?” Biggers asked. “See if you can settle her down enough so we can get her back to the clinic.”

  Low pitched keening emanated from the huddled figure in the bushes. Lettie Ruth dropped to her knees and crawled under the drooping honeysuckle. She lay on her side, eye to eye with Kat.

  “Them men is gone, honey,” she said softly. “Come on out now.” Lettie thought she heard a slight break in the sing-song wailing. She held her hand inches from Kat’s closed eyes. “Take hold of me, baby. Alvin’s waitin’ in the car to drive us home.”

  “My Pop’s here?” Kat whispered, her eyes opened slightly.

  “He sure is,” Lettie Ruth answered, although certain she must have misunderstood the question.

  “Not in the hospital?”

  “No hospital. We’re taking you home.”

  Kat reached up and grabbed Lettie Ruth’s hand.

  * * *

  Lettie Ruth sat on the edge of the bed humming softly. Her hand made lazy circles on Kat’s back. The panic attack was over, and the sedative Timothy had administered seemed to have kicked in. However, the drained shell in the bed frightened Lettie more than the huddled soul she’d found under the honeysuckle bush.

  What had happened at Pastor Gordon’s to have put her in the state? Lettie Ruth pulled the sheet over Kat’s shoulder and tiptoed out of the room. She needed to talk to Mitch and find out how it all started.

  * * *

  “How’s Kat?” Mitch asked as Lettie Ruth entered the TV room.

  “She’s sleeping now, ought to be better when she wakes.”

  “What caused the relapse? She’s been acting fine.”

  “You just answered your own question, Mitch. Kat’s been acting fine. Given what all happened to her, it’s a wonder this didn’t come about sooner.”

  “Will it happen again?”

  “Got no way of knowin’. Sometimes panic attacks are triggered by something real specific. Sometimes not. That’s why we gotta try and figure out this puzzle.”

  “I think the reason is obvious, Lettie Ruth. Men wearing Klan costumes. Kat’s never seen anything like that except in text books.”

  Text books? What kind of Southern colored never saw the Klan act out? This seemed to be one more of Alvin’s crazy puzzle pieces. Lettie didn’t want to get into the why for’s at the moment. Her main concern was fingering the cause of Kat’s panic. She sat in the recliner and popped the footrest. “Kat never talked about robes or hoods being part of the rape, so it don’t seem a likely cause to me. But I guess it’s as good a reason as any.”

  “She might have recognized their voices.”

  “Could be. Lots of mean talk tonight. But somehow that don’t feel quite right either.” Lettie thought back on the scene in the Gordon’s yard, trying to see the things Kat had seen. “When did she start actin’ out?”

  Mitch looked up at the ceiling, his brow wrinkled in thought. “We got to the house, the boys were hanging out the window and she talked to them. Everything was fine.” He stood and began to pace. “Timothy climbed inside the window to be with the boys. Kat and I moved over to the corner of the house so we could monitor the action. That’s when she fell apart.”

  “What y’all lookin’ at around the corner when she got all worked up?”

  Mitch shrugged. “Nothing special. The yard. Pastor Gordon standing on the steps.”

  “That doesn’t seem enough to bring on her attack. Gotta be something we ain’t thinking about.”

  “Let’s run through it again. The house, the boys, Timothy crawling through the window.”

  “Pastor on the steps,” Lettie Ruth said.

  “And then the truck pulled up. The men got out.” Mitch stopped pacing. “You think it could be the men?”

  “Now we is back to the robes again.”

  “But everybody knew they were white underneath. And white men raped her.”

  “She knew the trouble would be white when we left here for the Pastors house.”

  “Okay, if not the men, what about the truck itself? Could it be connected to the rape?”

  Lettie Ruth nodded. It sounded reasonable to her. “I’m acquainted with that particular white truck myself.”

  “Is that the same white stake-bed truck you and Taxi ran into on Tuesday morning?”

  Lettie Ruth shivered. After what happened in the corn field the other morning, the sight of the truck—full of Ku Klux Klan—had caused her own heart to beat faster. If it belonged to one of the rapists, no wonder Kat had fallen into a deep well of panic.

  “That the same one, but my problems with them didn’t go very far,” Lettie Ruth said. “Mostly that type of man is full of beans and hot air,” she said. At her words, Mitch’s face flushed and his freckles glowed. For a moment she thought he might rip the sofa pillow in half.

  “Most men. But definitely not Floyd, Little Carl or Louis,” he spit out each name. “They’re mean as hell and enjoy causing innocent people pain. You saw the results of Kat’s encounter. And tonight, the same sort of scum whipped Pastor Gordon with a chain.”

  “Mitch, that’s the way things is around here when you’re colored.”

  “It’s wrong, Lettie Ruth. Color shouldn’t matter.”

  “Well it does. Folks like me, Kat and even the pastor, know we got to be cautious.”

  * * *

  Dr. Biggers knotted the final stitch in Pastor Gordon’s head. “You ain’t gonna be as pretty as you were this morning, Jackson,” Biggers said. “However, I am an outstanding surgeon and can guarantee the scar will be rugged and masculine.”

  Pastor Gordon chuckled. “That’s good news. I’ve been worrying some about my rugged masculine appeal lately.”

  “You got yourself some broken ribs,” Biggers said. “But they’ll heal. It’s your chewed up leg that’s gonna require more treatment. I’m keeping you here, and off your feet, for a few days until the swelling goes down.�
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  “I’ve got work to do at the church,” Pastor Gordon protested.

  “Alvin’s capable of tending to your flock,” Biggers said. “Listen to me, Jackson. The rusty chain that boy was swinging, cut clean to the bone, even nicked it in a couple of places. Infection is likely, and I don’t want to see it turn into gangrene.”

  “What about Lamar?”

  “He’s welcome here. I’ve got plenty of rooms and he can help Lettie around the clinic.”

  “I’m afraid we’re heading into a dark period, Timothy. I don’t want to be carrying that kind of darkness through your doors.”

  “I’ve been on the Klan’s list of favorites for a long time, Jackson. Shoot, if some good old boy didn’t bust out a window or dig up my flowers every couple of weeks, I’d feel down right neglected.”

  “Going to be more than foolishness this time. The voter’s registration and lunch counter sit-ins have got them all riled up, Timothy. They are looking for an excuse.”

  “In-bred pieces of crap,” Biggers muttered. “Makes me ashamed to be a Southerner.”

  “So how did you manage to grow up so different from these boys?”

  “I didn’t grow up different. I went off to war. When you fight side by side with a man, it’s a whole lot harder to see color. Especially when both of you bleed red.” Biggers sat on a wooden chair in the corner of the exam room. “In the Marianas, in the South Pacific, the Negro Marine Ammunition-and depot companies were in the thick of it along with the rest of us. Their shore parties were specially trained to move the supplies and ammo from the landing craft to the inland troops.”

  “Did you know Dilmer Richards? He owned that gas station east of town? He was over there too, at Peleliu I believe,” Pastor Gordon said.

  “Yeah, we were over there at the same time, and on occasion we’d talk. I remember how fast his company unloaded the beach craft, even under enemy artillery fire. They’d haul the ammo to the front lines, and then they’d turn right around and carry the wounded back to shore.” Biggers leaned back in the chair until it rested against the wall, balanced on two legs. “Almost every day, round sundown, I’d watch little bunches of Negro Marines heading to the front lines to fight the Japs. And that was after working all day.”

  “Dilmer always was a hard worker.”

  “I felt real bad when he died in that house fire last month.”

  “He was active in the voter’s registration, Timothy. Klan didn’t like it.”

  “Klan don’t seem to like Negroes, no matter what you folks do.”

  “You don’t seem to have a problem liking Negroes.”

  “Sure I do.” Biggers laughed. “I can’t stand Chester Newton.”

  Gordon chuckled. “Nobody cares much for Chester. White or colored.”

  “He’s an arrogant and mean SOB. Maybe he ought to consider joining the Klan.”

  “You got an interesting way of thinking, doctor.”

  “My way of thinking about people started changing on Peleliu.” He got up and started arranging the gauze dressings on the instrument tray. “When I got back home and saw how folks treated the war veterans it made me sick inside.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Pastor Gordon.

  “I mean all those parades and barbecues. Good jobs handed out like Halloween candy. The folks back here couldn’t do enough for the veterans. But I never saw a colored face marching in a parade or up on the stage. No medals, no cheers. And sure as hell, no jobs.”

  “That’s the way things is down here, Timothy. You ought to know that.”

  “Don’t make it right. It’s old time thinking, which should have been buried with the War Between the States.”

  “Maybe this is the war that will change things,” Gordon said.

  “You mean this civil rights war Dr. King’s preaching about, Jackson?”

  “That’s the one, Timmy. That’s the one.”

  * * *

  Kat smiled when Mitch stuck his head in the door. “I’ve been wondering about you,” she said. “Come on in.”

  “You feeling better?” he asked, pulling the rocking chair closer to the bed and sitting down.

  She sat up. “I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

  He rocked slowly. “Lettie Ruth said you had a panic attack.”

  “That’s the damn truth.” She fingered the ribbed edges of the chenille bedspread. “When I saw their truck again I lost it. I really lost it.”

  “Lots of unpleasant memories must have surfaced all at once,” Mitch said.

  “Will I react like that every time I see a white stake-bed?” The question had been rattling around in her head for hours. “A police officer can’t afford to have a panic attack every time a white truck drives past.”

  “There are methods of dealing with your fears, once we’re home, we’ll find someone to help you.”

  Kat shook her head. “I can’t go to the department shrink. If Chief Smith gets wind of this, he’ll pull me off the street.”

  “Then go see a private doctor. What Arlin Smith doesn’t know, can’t hurt you.”

  “I’ve discovered the opposite. What you don’t know, can hurt you.” She leaned back against the headboard. “I’m tired, Mitch. Tired of everything in this time period. It’s ugly and it’s dangerous.”

  “You’re strong, Kat. I know you can make it until Sunday.”

  “Then what? Am I supposed to go on home and forget all this happened? Forget about Lettie Ruth?”

  “Didn’t we decide this afternoon to let things run their natural course? I thought we agreed that you and I shouldn’t be tinkering with events.”

  “Knowin’ what’s coming around the corner makes it hard to stick my hands in my pocket and stay clear of it. I want to jump in and do something.”

  “I do too, but look at the changes we’ve already instigated. And the only thing we’ve done so far is to have come here.”

  “You ever get the feeling something greater than both of us is calling the shots?”

  Mitch nodded. “It’s weird. Every time I look in a mirror I half expect to have disappeared.”

  A foreboding sense of inevitability grabbed her heart and squeezed. “Can we go home?” Kat asked.

  “Sure we can, in fact we’re going home on Sunday.”

  His words didn’t soothe her tumultuous feelings. And the flicker of doubt in his blue eyes confirmed her suspicions. They both knew this trip through time would end badly for one member of the Red and Black Team.

  =TWENTY-SIX=

  APRIL 04—THURSDAY

  Last night events had left a gritty residue of tiny particles that had worked their way into Mitch’s head, slipping between the folds of his defensive barriers. Confused and uncertain as to where he fit in this new world, James Mitchell decided to go in search of his roots. Childhood memories of his early life in Alabama were yellowed with age and colored by the stories his mother shared. He wanted to dig down, get to the rock bottom truth of his past.

  He parked Timothy Biggers’ gold and white Ford Fairlane on Blodgett, across from Billy Lee and Pamela Mitchell’s house. Counter to his memories, the small clapboard wore a fresh coat of paint and the flower beds were bursting with spring color. A twenty-foot high magnolia tree spread its green arms over the roof, protecting the little house from summer heat and winter rains. In the future, Mitch’s tire swing would hang from one of its strong branches.

  A pretty red haired woman, wearing a sleeveless lime green blouse and flowered skirt, came out a side door. She balanced a laundry basket on her hip as she navigated the four steps to the yard.

  Mitch slid lower in the seat, in case she happened to look his direction. A lump formed in his throat as he watched the familiar movements. The way his mother’s hands moved as she shook out the damp clothes, the toss of her head when a strand of hair fell out of place.

  She seemed happy, or at least his interpretation of what her happiness should look like. He’d never seen his mother really happy. Even
after they’d moved to Pennsylvania, a deep sadness remained in her eyes. As Mitch got older, he frequently wondered what Billy Lee could have done to destroy all the joy in her life.

  She bent over and removed a tiny pink shirt from the basket and hung it on the line. Pamela Mitchell continued to hang baby clothes until three rows fluttered in the spring breeze.

  Baby clothes?

  Mitch searched his memory banks for any mention of his mother having cared for another child before he’d been born. He was the oldest of his cousins, on both his mother and father’s side of the family, and an only child. He concluded she must be helping someone else with their laundry. Then he heard a baby cry.

  Pamela hurried toward the house and in a few minutes returned carrying a chubby red-haired infant in her arms. She spread a colorful patchwork quilt under the magnolia and sat with the child in the shade. The little girl—Mitch had decided the child must be female because of the pink hair ribbons—smiled and made happy baby sounds.

  He heard the growl of the Impala’s engine long before it turned the corner. Billy Lee swung it into the graveled driveway and hopped out. He frowned and walked toward his wife and child.

  Mitch lowered the window another three inches so he could hear what was being said.

  “What’s she doing out front?” Billy Lee asked.

  “I was hanging out the laundry and Carolyn started to cry,” Pamela answered.

  “Won’t hurt her none to cry. That’s what they do.”

  “There’s no reason to let her cry when I’m right here.” Pamela lifted the baby onto her lap, wrapping her arms protectively around the small body.

  Billy Lee looked around at the neighboring houses, then squatted beside the quilt. “You know my feelings on this.”

  “And you know mine.”

  Billy Lee’s hand shot out like a rattlesnake and he slapped Pamela’s cheek. “My own wife won’t be giving me sass.” In one smooth motion he jerked the baby from the protection of her mother’s arms and stood. Carolyn dangled by one arm. “This is the last time I’m telling you, Pam. I won’t have the neighbors gossiping about us. Keep her out of sight.” He tucked the screaming infant under his arm and marched into the house.