Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel

by Charlotte Banchi

  The woman chuckled. “Don’t he just.”

  Lamar moved around to the front for a better look. “That’s gonna hurt some.”

  “Not according to Mrs. Doctor here,” he said and the woman lightly slapped his chest.

  The boy gestured toward the woman. “Mr. Mitch, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Woodard. She knows almost as much as Dr. Timothy about tending the sick.”

  Mrs. Woodard snorted. “Timothy ain’t but a little ole puppy when it comes to sickness.”

  “She worked with the doctor before Lettie Ruth come along,” Lamar explained.

  “Now that Rayson girl is smart,” she said. “Got herself a college diploma sayin’ she can doctor. I never had me one of those,” she said sadly.

  Mitch touched her shoulder. “You don’t need a diploma, Mrs. Woodard. You’re a natural born healer.”

  She smiled up into his face. “Why thank you, Mr. Mitch. Those are kind words.”

  He slid his hands across his chest. “It feels better already, thanks to you.”

  Lamar waved to someone across the street. “Hey, Taxi,” he shouted. “Come on over.”

  As Taxi Devore trotted across the flooded street, his shoes sent sprays of water squirting sideways. His black nylon shirt and khaki trousers stuck to his body, rain dripped from his pork-pie hat brim onto his shoulders. “Happy Birthday, Lamar,” he said. “I came by to see if you was ready for those shootin’ lessons, but it don’t look like a good time.”

  “Things been exciting around here,” Lamar said, as he wiped the rain off his face.

  “Ain’t it kinda wet to be standin’ in the yard?” Taxi asked.

  Mitch pointed to the house. “It’s just as wet inside.”

  “They tried to burn our house down, Taxi,” Lamar said. “And on my birthday too.”

  Taxi took his hat off and smacked it against his trouser leg. “You don’t say?”

  “Yeah, but me and Mr. Mitch put it out,” Lamar said, then covered his ears as a series of giant thunderclaps echoed off the houses.

  Hat again in place, Taxi looked around the yard. “Where’s your daddy, Lamar? He get hurt?”

  “Daddy’s over to the clinic. Been there since last night.”

  “What happened last night?”

  “Kluxers come callin’.”

  Mrs. Woodard plucked at his sleeve. “Bunch a damn fools. Wearing bed sheets and pointy Halloween hats,” she said. “Stood right here in this yard and beat up on the Pastor.”

  “He’s okay,” Lamar said quickly. “Dr. Timothy just wants him to stay in bed a day or two. And he knew if Daddy come home he’d be off visiting folks and never get off his leg.”

  Mitch saw the anger swirling in Taxi’s eyes and in the way he clenched and unclenched his fists. He wondered how much longer the man would sit on the sidelines. The day Maximilian Devore finally let it loose there would be one hell of an explosion, and the folks in west Maceyville would be wise to take cover.

  “You know about this?” Taxi asked, glancing sideways at Mitch.

  “Yeah.”

  Lamar hopped from one foot to the other. “You shoulda been here, Taxi. Cars all over the place, and hundreds, maybe even a thousand, colored people marching down the sidewalk. When those Klan boys seen us, they turned tail and run off.”

  “You put an end to it, Mitch?” Taxi asked.

  “No. The preacher ran the play his way. His orders were: ‘No violence’.”

  Taxi dug a hole in the mud with the toe of his shoe. “No violence is gonna get somebody killed,” he said.

  “But it worked, Taxi,” Lamar said. “Daddy stood his ground and they run off.”

  “Not before your daddy got hisself hurt.” Taxi squatted in front of the boy. “You can’t mess with the whites around here. They kill one of us most every day just for fun.”

  Lamar shook his head. “I ain’t afraid. Like Dr. King says, if we want things to change—”

  “Did you see Dr. Martin Luther King in this yard last night?” Taxi asked, his voice harsh. “Did he take the beatin’ for your daddy, Lamar?”

  “No, but if he’d been here, I know he would have.”

  “Lamar, this is dangerous business. People are gettin’ killed.” Taxi gestured toward the Gordon’s house. “Their places were all the way burned to the ground. All these marches and sit-ins and I ain’t seen nothin’ changing.”

  “It will,” Mitch said. “It’s going to take a few years, but I promise you, the old ways will die out.”

  Taxi got to his feet. “How you know?”

  “Later on we’ll talk about how I know. For the moment, I’m asking for you to accept it as the truth.”

  “Does you knowing things got something to do with those fancy white shoes of yours?”

  Mitch looked at his filthy athletic shoes. Somebody had finally noticed.

  =TWENTY-EIGHT=

  “The year 2000.” Taxi pushed back from his kitchen table and walked to the refrigerator. “The year 2000.” He opened the door and stuck his head inside, moving things around on the shelves. “You got to be shittin’ me,” his words echoed in the near empty ice box.

  Mitch poured anther cup of coffee and remained silent, allowing Taxi time to digest all he’d heard. He hadn’t reached the decision to confide in Taxi easily. But with Kat’s reliability in question—due to her unpredictable panic attacks—his back was against the wall. He needed an ally. There were too many people in jeopardy now; there was no way he could cover everyone alone.

  After dropping Lamar Gordon off at the clinic, with a promise of double shooting lessons, Mitch had suggested they go to Taxi’s place for a powwow. If they’d tried to have this conversation at Biggers’ someone would have interrupted them every five minutes. And Mitch didn’t want to be interrupted. It would be a difficult tale to explain, and the listener didn’t need any extra distractions.

  Taxi finally withdrew his head from the refrigerator and looked at him. “You must think I’m one dumb nigger boy, Mr. Mitch.” His words were as cold as the air coming out the open door.

  Mr. Mitch? Good God, I’m right back where I started.

  “No I don’t.” He knew time-travel wouldn’t be an easy sell when he’d started, but he certainly hadn’t anticipated such a negative reaction. “You’re far from dumb, Taxi.”

  “Then why you spinning this tale?” Taxi slammed the door. “Only some willie what just fell off the pickle boat is gonna buy into this.”

  “I understand your problem. Jesus, if you came up to me claiming to be from the future, I’d probably deck you and ask questions later.” Mitch waited. This deal could go one of two ways, he’d either be picking himself up off the kitchen floor or…

  Taxi walked over to the table and plopped down. “Let’s see if I got this right. You crossed a street and all a sudden it’s a whole new year?”

  Mitch nodded. “Bingo. I jumped from the year 2000 right into 1963.”

  “Why you want to do something like that?”

  “Kat.”

  “Her too?”

  “Her idea. Taxi, would a grown man be crazy enough to do something like this on his own?” Receiving no response to his attempt at humor, he pushed on. “I get the feeling you still don’t believe me,” Mitch said.

  “Would you believe me if I was the one spinning this yarn?”

  “I might. I do know I’d give it some thought before deciding you were a liar.”

  “Tell me about this here 2000 of yours.”

  “I can’t do that, Taxi. Sticking my finger in the past and stirring things all around could cause major problems in my time.”

  “Sure makin’ it hard for me to believe your story, Mr. Mitch.”

  He couldn’t think of another way to prove anything he’d said. And without proof, it looked like he was dead in the water. “I’ll admit it is one hell of a wild story. But I give you my word as a gentleman it is God’s own truth.”

  Taxi began to pick apart a piece of bread crust left over f
rom their lunch. After a few minutes he looked up. “How come everybody crossing that street don’t go back and forth in years?”

  Mitch allowed a little flicker of hope to spark. At least the man had begun to ask questions, which could mean Taxi didn’t completely discount the possibility of time-travel. “I don’t know how it works, but I know we’re here for a reason.”

  “Why cain’t you and Miss Kat go on back?”

  “I could answer your question, but I’d rather not right now.”

  “If you’s expectin’ to be believed, Mr. Mitch. Then you just best be getting on with the answering.”

  Mitch worked on keeping his Irish temper under control. He couldn’t allow Taxi’s needling questions and attitude to push his buttons. It would be better to answer one innocuous question now, and save the fancy foot work for later.

  “The doorway between the years only opens when somebody dies.”

  “Lots folks dying every day.”

  “This door only works with specific people. People on a very specific list.”

  Taxi snorted. “You got a way to wiggle out of everything don’t you? But I ain’t gonna sit here and let you make me out to be a bigger fool.” He stood and jammed the still damp pork pie hat on his head. “I’ll ride you back to the clinic, after that, I don’t want to be seein’ or hearin’ from you again.”

  “Wait.” Mitch leaned across the table and grabbed for Taxi’s arm, but his fingers slid off the slick nylon shirt. Stretched across the remains of their lunch, he didn’t see Taxi’s incoming fist until it connected with the side of his head. The blow knocked him off the chair and onto the floor.

  Taxi grabbed the front of Mitch’s shirt, yanking him upright. “I had enough of your white boy shit. Get the hell out my house.” He spun Mitch around like a top and sent him stumbling toward the door.

  It took all of Mitch’s 250 pounds to stop the forward momentum. He spun to face his angry host. “You get one free punch,” he said. “Don’t try it again.”

  “Then you best bop on out of here, future boy.” Taxi drew his fist back.

  Mitch didn’t have a choice. He grabbed Taxi’s elbow, and burrowed his thumb into the tender inner flesh until the man gasped with pain. “Settle down,” he said, then released his hold.

  “My arm and shoulder, done gone dead,” Taxi moaned.

  “I just pressed on a nerve ending; you’ll be okay in a few minutes.”

  “White folks is all the same, a colored don’t do your bidding, you cause him pain.”

  Mitch kicked a chair into the middle of the room. “Sit!” he barked.

  “Sure, boss.” Taxi gave him a fierce scowl, before taking a seat. “Whatever you say, boss.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Taxi. This isn’t a game, I need your help.”

  “Don’t know what help you be needin’ from this boy,” he said, rubbing his elbow.

  “What’s it going to take to get you to listen?”

  Taxi stared at him for a moment then said, “Tell me somethin’ that ain’t yet come to be.”

  “Shit.” Mitch’s brain went blank, what could he say to solidify his position? He couldn’t announce that four little girls will be killed in the bombing of the Birmingham 16th Street Baptist Church on September 15. He couldn’t say that on November 22, President John Fitzgerald Kennedy will be shot in Dallas by Lee Harvey Oswald. There must be something else. Some fact less dangerous.

  “Commander Neil A. Armstrong will walk on the moon July 20, 1969,” he blurted out.

  Taxi shrugged, unimpressed. “That’s a long time to wait to find out if you be tellin’ the truth, Mr. Mitch. Ain’t you got something in the here and now?”

  “In the here and now?” Mitch closed his eyes and prayed to one of Kat’s voodoo spirits for inspiration. It must have worked because an image of Billy Lee’s sleek black Chevy drove into his head. His eyes popped open. “Oh, yeah, I got a here and now for you.”

  * * *

  Kathleen Rayson Templeton felt like she was twelve-years old again and had been called on the carpet to answer for her misdeeds. This time the issue wasn’t whether or not she’d skipped bible class to go downtown with her girlfriends, or whether or not she’d kissed David Finder behind the chapel. This meeting had been called by Alvin Rayson to discuss the truth … the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  Her father and aunt had cornered her in the TV room shortly after Mitch and Taxi had dropped Lamar off. Now, seated in the recliner Kat dreaded the next few minutes.

  Alvin Rayson threw the opening punch. “Who are you and where did you come from?”

  And she countered by sidestepping. “I’m Kathleen Templeton. My folks are from New Orleans.”

  “I see,” he said.

  Kat found his ensuing silence ominous. Her father may have been thirty-seven years younger, but he’d already cultivated the tone and magnificent frown which indicated his displeasure. If this was to be a battle of wills, Kat feared she was seriously out-gunned.

  “Me and Alvin is from New Orleans,” Lettie Ruth said.

  Great, Kat thought, another country heard from. Not only must she contend with her father’s grilling, but her aunt had joined the Rayson inquisition team. And both of them were as suspicious as a pair of mice around a cheese-filled mousetrap. If she could only lead them down a false path, she might survive this impromptu family meeting.

  “It’s a real pretty city,” Kat commented, taking the first step on the New Orleans pathway. “I especially like the area around Jackson Square.”

  “The Café du Monde,” Lettie Ruth sighed.

  “Beignets,” Kat said reverently. The women looked at each other and broke into laughter.

  “If you ladies are through extolling the virtues of New Orleans—”

  “Men don’t understand food the way we do,” Lettie Ruth said to Kat.

  “That’s ‘cause men are from Mars and women are from Venus,” Kat said.

  Lettie Ruth laughed. “That’s the best way of explaining it that I ever heard.”

  “You should write a book about all the differences between men and women,” Kat suggested.

  “And I’ll call it ‘Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus,’” Lettie Ruth announced.

  “Lettie Ruth!” Rayson sputtered his exasperation showing in his tone. “I’m tryin’ to be serious here. Quit interrupting with men and women differences and book talk.”

  “Oh for goodness sakes, Alvin. Kat’s sittin’ right here in front of us, she didn’t run off down the road. You got plenty of time for serious talk.”

  Kat stood. “Actually, I do need to take care of a few things. Could we postpone this discussion for an hour or two?”

  Rayson snorted and gave his sister an icy glare.

  “Of course, you can, honey,” Lettie Ruth said. “But don’t tire yourself. When you get done, I want you to lie down and rest.”

  * * *

  Kat paused for a moment outside the TV room and allowed relief to flood her system. This must be the way Daniel felt when God had sent the angel into the lion’s den. Her aunt Lettie Ruth had shut Alvin’s mouth just as surely as the angel had shut the lion’s mouth.

  The enormous crash of thunder rattled the entire house and Timothy Biggers stuck his head out of his office door. From the way his hair stood on end and the rumpled white doctor coat, Kat assumed he’d been sleeping on the office sofa before the thunder alarm went off. He’d spent last night guarding the Webster Avenue church and looked like he needed an extra twelve hours in a real bed.

  The hallway lights flickered. “Is the power gonna hold?” she asked, a cold chill spread up her arms.

  Biggers shrugged. “This is an old building. Sometimes the wiring gets cranky when a storm this size blows in. I better hunt down the candles just in case.”

  “Don’t you have a back up generator?”

  “We used to, until somebody dumped a pound of sugar in the tank a couple of days ago. So it’s doubtful it will do us much good.”


  Kat shivered. Would his generator have been tampered with if she wasn’t here? She nodded to the doctor and hurried down the hall to her room. She wanted to check the damnable list again, just in case someone new had suddenly appeared.

  * * *

  Mitch pointed to the black Impala half way down Blodgett Street. It was parked rear end first in the driveway of the clapboard house. “I own that car in the year 2000. And I guarantee, if you push her to 65 mph she’ll die and roll belly up on the road.”

  “So says you.”

  Mitch opened the car door and climbed out. “Give me five minutes and I’ll prove it to you.”

  “Where you goin’?”

  “Going to make a temporary appropriation. Be ready to hop in when I pull along side.”

  “You expectin’ me to leave my car here?” Taxi asked, eyeing the white neighborhood nervously.

  “It will be all right. Nobody’s out in this storm and besides, what would they want with an old 1946 De Soto?”

  Taxi frowned. “She may be ugly, but she’s paid for,” he said indignantly.

  “No offense meant. Believe me, your ride will be fine parked here for a half hour.”

  Taxi looked angry, and far from convinced, but he nodded. “Not much street traffic this afternoon, I reckon she’ll be waitin’ when I comes back.”

  Mitch nodded and shut the door. He trotted down the sidewalk, grateful the weather had created a false twilight. The thunder and lightening were still battling in the skies as the rain continued to fall in heavy gray sheets.

  He jogged past Pamela and Billy Lee Mitchell’s house once to get a feel for the situation. He had no desire to run into his father, especially since he planned on liberating the Chevy.

  All the front drapes were closed; apparently his parents were riding out the storm indoors. He crept along the side and chanced a quick look inside the first undraped window.

  He saw the back of a man’s head, the hand on the chair arm held a can of beer. The TV on, volume turned up high. He remembered his father’s favorite past time—other than running moonshine—had been watching television. The noise from the program, plus the storm, should mask the Impala’s growling engine.