Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel

by Charlotte Banchi

  Like a deflated balloon, Pamela Mitchell collapsed on the quilt. Mitch couldn’t hear anything, but her body shook and he knew his mother was crying.

  A sister. I had a big sister no one ever told me about. What had happened to her?

  What did Billy Lee do?

  * * *

  Mitch waited until the clinic’s temporary patients and guests had settled down for the night before he tapped on Kat’s door. Humiliated and angered by his father’s behavior, he rode an emotional roller coaster and needed to talk it out.

  Kat opened the door and he slipped inside. “Rough day?” she asked.

  “In many different ways and for many different reasons.” Like two lovers in a secret rendezvous, they conversed in whispers.

  “Timothy told me what happened last night. He said one of your relatives was there. Is that the reason you’re all worked up? Because Billy Lee was at the pastor’s house?”

  “He’s part of it.” Mitch sat on the bed and leaned over. Arms resting on knees, he stared at the floor. “Every hour that passes I feel more and more detached from reality. I’m not sure who I am any more.”

  “You haven’t changed, Mitch,” she assured him. “It’s the world around us that’s different.”

  “That’s the problem. Because things are so different, I’m not acting right.”

  Kat sat on the floor in front of him. Forcing him to look her in the eyes. “I don’t understand what you mean by, ‘not acting right’?”

  “If a mob pulled a stunt like last night’s in the year 2000, what would you do?”

  “Step in.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “But I didn’t. I stuck to the shadows and let my own father assault an innocent man.”

  “Mitch, you had to let things play out the way Pastor Gordon wanted.”

  “Why? Why did I have to let it play out?”

  “It’s the way things—”

  He interrupted. “So help me God, if I hear ‘it’s the way things are’ one more time I’m going to put my fist through the damn wall.”

  “Can’t change the truth by molesting a wall, Mitch.”

  Her attempt at humor failed, he didn’t even crack a smile.

  “I’m sick and tired of things I can’t change,” he said, ignoring her comment. He wanted to be angry. Wanted to take his anger out in the most physical way possible.

  She smiled at him. “You’re having difficulty with this concept because you’re white.”

  “Odds are that I will remain white for a long time,” he grumbled.

  “Hush up, I’m tryin’ to teach you something. Because you are white, you’ve never run up against racist attitudes. All this bull shit you’re witnessing, I wade through it seven days a week.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “This is still going on? Even in our time?”

  “You poor white child, the things you don’t see.” She held her hands out, “Help me off the floor.” He pulled her to her feet and she curled up in the corner rocking chair. “Maybe we should’ve talked about it a long time ago.”

  “About what?”

  “About me being black. And you being white.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Mitch said.

  “No it’s not. We are friends and partners on the job, but what do you know about my private life?”

  Mitch thought about her question. It was true, they’d worked together for five years and occasionally gone out to see a movie or for dinner, but beyond that, she was right. He didn’t know how she spent her free time. And Kat didn’t know any more about his activities.

  Why didn’t they know?

  “Have you ever wondered why our off-duty relationship is so different from our on-duty relationship?” she asked. “Why our friendship hasn’t moved to the next level?” When he didn’t answer, she continued. “It’s because I’d be uncomfortable in your white world, and you’d be uncomfortable in my black world.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Honey, it’s so true that if it was a rattlesnake, you’d be bit and layin’ dead in the floor by now.”

  “We’ve gone places together. We see each other outside of work.”

  “Do we?” Kat asked. “When’s the last time you called me and said, ‘Let’s go get some barbeque down at Little Joe’s’? Or asked if I wanted to go to a University of Alabama football game with you?”

  “I didn’t know you liked football.”

  “Stop it, Mitch. You can’t make the facts disappear by ignoring the reasons behind them. Have you ever dated an African-American woman? Other than myself, do you have any black friends?”

  “No, to the first question. And yes, to the second.”

  “What do you and these black friends do together?”

  “We make music at The Blue.”

  “So you call these fellas and say ‘Hey, let’s go down to The Blue, I’ll drive?”

  Mitch shifted uncomfortably. “I doesn’t work that way. We kind of drop in. It’s not real organized.”

  “Why not? If you like making music together why don’t you go together?”

  “Damn it, Kat, guys don’t go around making plans all the time.”

  “Have you ever come down to the east Hollow for a pick-up basketball game? The black officers play twice a week. Or do you stick to the high school gym on the west side of town?”

  He didn’t like the picture she painted. The longer she talked, the more he was forced to examine his lifestyle. For someone who proclaimed to be non-racist, James Mitchell led a very white life. And to be honest, he didn’t have any black friends, only black acquaintances.

  What was Kat’s status? A friend? Or an on the job partner that happened to be black? Fair weather friend. Grandpa Paddy’s words haunted him.

  “I don’t know why we are having this discussion now,” he said. “None of this applies to our current situation.”

  “You have to shake free of all preconceived ideas about race before you can get a handle on our situation. No history or sociology text book will ever be able to explain the nuances of black and white interactions in this time period.”

  “How am I supposed to acquire this handle if everything I’ve read or been taught is wrong?”

  “Open your eyes, Mitch. Listen to what Lettie and Dreama have to say. Watch Taxi and Pop. They are your text books.”

  In Mitch’s opinion, this lesson in race relations was a colossal failure. As far as his text book examples, all he’d seen Taxi do was shrink away from a confrontation and ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ any white person he ran across. He’d listened to Dreama’s angry diatribe against whites. And so far, Lettie hadn’t said or done anything of note.

  “My text books haven’t been very enlightening,” he informed her. “What about my father? Could I use Billy Lee as a model of the Southern white male?”

  Kat released an exasperated sigh. “You are being purposefully obtuse, James Mitchell.”

  “No, I’m not. I just haven’t seen anything to contradict what I’ve been taught. The blacks still kowtow to the whites. A few are angry and want changes, while the majority sit back and do nothing.”

  “You really don’t see it do you?”

  “See what?” His frustration level rose at a rapid rate. In what direction did his partner want this conversation to go? What did she expect from him? “Kat, I’m not black. I have never been black. And I never will be black. Given those three irrefutable facts, how can I possibly understand all the nuances?”

  “It’s not the nuances I want you to see and understand.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I want you to see black people are made of flesh and blood and bone. We are just like you.”

  =TWENTY-SEVEN=

  APRIL 05—FRIDAY

  When Mitch emerged from his room the next morning, his mood matched the stormy skies overhead. Bruised clouds, swollen by the rain they carried in their bellies, had turned the sunny day into a premature twilight. Thunder rumbled ominously as the dark gray c
eiling lowered over Maceyville.

  Lightening zig-zagged across the horizon. Fat rain drops began to fall as Mitch and Lamar Gordon spread plastic tarpaulins over the exposed lawn furniture. They raced for the back door arriving seconds before the deluge.

  Lamar shook from head to toe like a dog, leaving a fine spray of rainwater on the kitchen floor. “It’s gonna be a big ole storm,” he said. “Hope somebody thinks to shut up our windows at home.”

  “If you want, I’ll drive you over to the house to check,” Mitch offered. Any activity was better than being stuck indoors all day. Especially given the morose mood that had infected Bigger’s clinic.

  “That would probably be a good idea, Mr. Mitch. I know for sure nobody thought about a rainstorm comin’ in when we left last night.”

  “Run upstairs and see if your dad wants you to pick up anything while we’re there and let the others know where we’re going.”

  * * *

  The streets were rapidly becoming mini-rivers, and in the low lying areas the water had already crested over the curbs. Two blocks from the Gordon’s Mitch hit a flooded intersection and the Ford gave out. He and Lamar managed to push it to the side of the road, then hiked the rest of the way to the boy’s house. The umbrellas they’d borrowed from the clinic offered little protection from the wind driven slant rain. By the time they reached their destination, they were drenched and left a trail of wet footprints on the hardwood floors inside the house.

  As Lamar gathered the items on his father’s list, Mitch closed the windows. In some rooms the rain had already soaked the curtains. In others, the painted walls were dripping. Suddenly the thunder and lightening let loose another volley. The transformer on the corner gave a loud pop and the power went off, filling the long skinny house with shadows. Mitch repeatedly banged into pieces of furniture as he navigated through the maze to reach the back bedroom.

  He found Lamar fighting with a stuck window. The rain blowing through the half-open glass created puddles on the floor. The nearby bedspread was a soggy mess.

  “Looks like you could use a little help,” Mitch said.

  Lamar nodded. “This window’s been stuck since February. Don’t think we can get it movin’.”

  “Well, maybe the rain loosened it up some, what you say we try one more time?” Mitch added his muscle, and together they managed to get the water soaked wooden frame to lower until only an inch remained open.

  “That’s surely a whole lot—” Lamar began, then abruptly stopped when the front door slammed shut.

  Mitch put a finger to his lips and motioned the boy to get inside the closet. He slipped the .38 from the ankle holster and pressed his back to the wall nearest to the bedroom door. He tried to breathe shallowly, so he could hear the furtive noises coming from the front of the house.

  The narrow shot-gun style architecture of the Gordon’s house precluded any offensive action. If he stood in the doorframe, he could see directly into the living room, which meant the prowlers could see him. With Lamar on the premises he didn’t want a gun battle. The walls were so thin the bullet velocity wouldn’t be lessened enough to prevent serious injury.

  Lamar stuck his head out of the closet and his brown eyes grew wide at the sight of the weapon in Mitch’s hand.

  Before Mitch could respond, the door snicked shut again. He heard muffled thuds from inside and a few seconds later the door opened, this time the boy held a double-barrel shotgun.

  Mitch shook his head and pointed to the ground, ordering him to put it down.

  When Lamar stepped out of the shadowed closet, his face seemed to have aged ten years, his mouth forged into a determined line.

  Mitch knew there weren’t enough words in the world to convince the kid to back down. There was no warrior so fierce as the one defending his loved ones and his home. But the anger he saw in the boy’s eyes worried him.

  Lamar grudgingly lowered the shotgun until it rested on its stock, muzzle pointing at the ceiling. His hands trembled and a wet sheen of perspiration coated his face.

  Mitch nodded in approval. He gestured to an empty space next to the chifforobe, between the bed and window. This location would put the young Mr. Gordon as far from the action as possible.

  Following his instructions, the boy wedged himself between the chest and bed, then dropped to one knee, shotgun at the ready.

  A cannon roar of thunder shook the window panes. In the silence that followed Mitch cocked his head to the side trying to determine the source of the trickling water-like sounds he heard. The storm raged outside and he assumed the old roof sprung a leak. Within seconds the odor of kerosene drifted into the back bedroom.

  “Never assume,” he muttered, “to do so almost always makes an ass out of you and me.”

  Whispers and shuffling accompanied the lantern fuel smell as the prowlers moved closer. “That’s all of it,” someone murmured. “Ain’t got no more.” An aluminum gas can bounced through the open door.

  “Let’s get it lit up,” a second voice said, as they returned to the living room.

  Mitch figured once the blaze was set they’d take off. Cowards didn’t usually stick around for applause. These guys would want to be clear of the house before the smoke alerted the neighbors. He looked around the room mapping out a strategy. As soon as it was clear he’d shut the door and shove something in the crack. Hopefully buying he and Lamar enough time to break out the window and climb to safety.

  Unfortunately he couldn’t do anything about the fire. A kerosene ignited fire burned hot and fast, allowing little time for intervention techniques. Once he and the boy got out of the house, they could grab a hose and try to limit the damage to the front. It all depended on how the arsonists had laid down the accelerant trail. The flames would jump if they’d doused both furniture and walls, but if they’d concentrated primarily on the floor, it would move slower.

  Crackle and popping filled the house. The hungry inferno consumed the dry wooden floor. When the lazy tendrils of black smoke eased into the back bedroom, Mitch slammed the door shut and yanked the white chenille spread off the bed. On his knees he tried to poke the fabric between the floor and door, but it was too fluffy to fit snugly in the narrow space, so he ripped off his damp shirt and shoved it in the crack.

  Lamar shook a bed pillow free from its case, wrapped the cotton shell around his hand and punched out the window panes, shattering the glass.

  Mitch used the shotgun butt to bust through the remaining wooden slats. As soon as he’d cleared a large enough opening, the boy scrambled out and he followed.

  They raced along the side of the house. Suddenly Mitch hit a patch of mud, slipped and landed on his back. Lamar turned around, but he waved him off yelling, “Get a hose!” They needed to get a jump on the fire. If the kid used precious seconds to help a clumsy Irishman to his feet, the Gordon’s wouldn’t have a house left.

  Lamar ducked under the porch and came out with a coiled green garden hose slung over his shoulder. The galvanized steel water spigot stood at one end of the porch, he knelt in the quagmire created by the rain gutter and struggled with the brass fittings. His mud caked fingers transferred gobs of clay-like soil to the nozzle threads. He spit on the casing and rubbed it clean, the two pieces slipped into each other.

  Covered from head to toe in muck, Mitch slogged through the water logged yard. The rain continued to pound the earth, dark clouds swirled menacingly in the southwest and he hoped a tornado wasn’t about to touch down. He saw the kid almost had everything put together, so he grabbed the free end of the hose and dragged it onto the porch.

  The arsonists weren’t smart enough to have soaked the outside planks with kerosene, at the moment the fire was contained within the structure itself. As soon as the water began to flow, Mitch kicked open the door.

  A black cloud billowed out the door and he doubled over as his lungs filled with the acrid smoke. When it cleared slightly, he saw the living room engulfed in flames, the sofa and curtains were three quarters g
one. Hoping to create a fire break, he directed the hose to the undamaged area, dousing the furniture. The orange-red flames lapped up the water like a thirsty beast. In other parts of the room the demonic glow continued to ravish the Gordon’s belongings.

  Suddenly glass burst through the side window, followed by a second stream of water. Then a third stream shot through the room from the opposite side. The neighborhood was answering the alarm. The glowing fingers gave one last feeble attempt to grab onto a chair, before dissipating into puffs of white smoke.

  * * *

  Mitch stood in the middle of the Gordon’s yard in almost the same spot where Billy Lee and his gang of Ku Klux Klan had savagely beaten the preacher. A steady rain beat down on his body, washing the mud and soot away. His chest and arms, burned during his fire fighting, blossomed with clear blisters.

  A tiny old woman in a plastic rain bonnet marched across soggy grass. She stopped in front of him, dug a handful of grayish green lard-like substance out of a crock and slapped it on his chest without speaking. Since she barely reached his elbow, she tugged on his arm until he bent over. She then proceeded to vigorously rub the goo into his tender skin.

  He couldn’t decide which hurt more—her treatment, or his injuries.

  “Hold still, sonny,” she ordered. “Gotta get you greased up, don’t want no more blisters.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am.” He tried to dodge a second handful but she was too quick. “I think you have greased me up enough already.”

  “Who’s doin’ all the doctoring here? You or me?” she asked, her lips smacking around the bare gums.

  “You are, Ma’am.”

  “Then stand still.”

  Mitch heard a snicker behind him and glanced over his shoulder, he didn’t dare move for fear the old lady would brain him with her crock. Lamar leaned against a tree, a big grin spread across his face.

  “What’s so funny, kid?” he asked.

  “Mr. Mitch, you look like one of them pink greased pigs I seen at the county fair.”