Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel

by Charlotte Banchi

  Mitch pulled his car keys out of his pocket and unlocked the Chevy, he was about to slip inside when the front door opened. He ducked down just as Billy Lee stepped out on the small porch.

  His father lazily scratched his stomach, glaring at the darkened sky. Suddenly a noise from inside caused him to spin around and yell, “Goddamn it, Pam. Shut that brat up, she’s louder than a pack of hounds.” He hawked up a wad of phlegm, spit over the rail and stomped back inside.

  Crouched behind the Chevy, Mitch doubled up his fist and slammed it into the driver side door, denting the rolled steel. Torn between stealing his father’s toy and breaking into the house and beating the living hell out of him, Mitch punched the panel again. I had a sister. The memory of the innocent baby dangling from Billy Lee’s hand caused him to tremble with rage.

  If I don’t do something, that little girl will die again.

  He stood, eager to battle the evil ogre hiding within the clapboard walls. He saw his mother peek out the kitchen window and stepped away from the car, prepared to bolt down the street if she raised the alarm.

  Suddenly Pamela Mitchell smiled. “Take it,” she mouthed and waved her hand. “Go!”

  Mitch grinned, if his mother had given him permission to steal the sob’s plaything, what jury would convict him? Besides, a Southern gentlemen was raised with better manners than to ever argue with his momma.

  In less than thirty seconds he and Taxi were headed for the open road.

  * * *

  The black Impala sailed down the slick highway, plumes of rainwater trailing in its wake. The throbbing engine vibrated the floorboards and caused the plastic hula dancer hanging from the rearview mirror to shimmy provocatively.

  “Taxi, you asked for a here and now.” Mitch pressed the accelerator and the speedometer needle climbed steadily. “And this is it. When we hit 65, I predict this vehicle will do the following in this precise order: One, she’ll backfire twice. Two, the engine will begin to sputter and the exhaust will turn black. And Three, she’ll die deader than Robert E. Lee within thirty seconds.”

  As predicted by “future boy” James Mitchell, when the speedometer reached the magic number 65, Billy Lee’s car went through the pre-mentioned sequence and conked out.

  Taxi grudgingly admitted that might be proof. “Not very good proof, mind you,” he said, “but proof none the less.”

  They’d pushed the very dead Chevy a quarter mile further before spotting the open barn. The Impala currently occupied the lower level. The men reclined in the fresh smelling hayloft and waited out another rain squall.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something for several days,” Mitch said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How does a person go from being called Maximilian to being called Taxi?”

  “Used to drive a taxi cab.”

  “That’s it? No elaborate story?”

  “Nope, just me in a yellow cab.” Taxi rolled onto his back and pulled his hat over his face. “Gonna get me some sleep here.”

  “Think again, pal,” Mitch said. “We’re going to start our conversation from the very beginning.”

  “Don’t believe there is much to say ‘tween us.”

  “Looks like we’ll be in this barn for awhile. Might as well pass the time by talking to each other.”

  Taxi tipped his hat brim up enough to see Mitch. “This gonna be another time-traveling conversation?”

  “Yes. I’m from the future,” Mitch announced. “Yes, I know you’re not one hundred percent convinced I’m telling you the truth. But it doesn’t matter. If we don’t work together, people will die,” he paused, debating whether or not to continue along this road.

  To enlist Taxi’s support he needed the Mother of all motivators. Would knowing he was scheduled to die in two days motivate Maximilian Devore? Or would it have the opposite effect and fuck him up so completely he’d become more hindrance than help?

  Mitch took a deep breath and began, “Kat crossed over Park Street.” Taxi rolled his eyes and Mitch kicked his leg. “Stop screwing around and listen. She crossed because on April 5, thirty-seven years ago, Lettie Ruth died.”

  “Lettie Ruth is gonna die today?”

  Some of the tension went out of Mitch’s shoulders. Taxi had focused on the problem, not the time-travel issue. “That’s the way it originally went down thirty-seven years ago. But not now.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “I don’t know for sure.”

  “You got to know how things happened if you is gonna stop ‘em.”

  “I know the when, the where, and the time. Is that enough information for you?”

  Taxi rolled over on his stomach. “How you know all that?”

  “We have a list of victims, from the 1963 Maceyville Police Department files.”

  “And Lettie Ruth is on that dead list of yours?” he asked.

  “Yes. But now everything’s gone to hell in a hand basket.”

  “What you mean?”

  “The Arson/Fatality list. The damn thing keeps adding on names. And switching dates on me. I never know from one minute to the next who is living and who is dying.”

  “Arson?” Taxi’s eyes narrowed. “This is some story you be weavin’.”

  “Stay with me here, pal. The day Kat got here, there were only twelve victims listed. Then yesterday, four additional names popped up. Now we have sixteen people that are scheduled to die.”

  “This has gotta be the biggest pile of horse shit in the whole wide world.” Taxi stood, angrily brushing the hay off his clothes. “You don’t be respectin’ me. No sir, no respect.”

  “I respect you.”

  “Like hell,” Taxi roared. He swung over the edge of the hayloft and quickly descended the ladder. When he reached the bottom, he looked up at Mitch. “You been playin’ with my head for long enough, Mr. Mitch. I’m going back and get my car. You do what you want.”

  “Kat and I know all the new people on the list,” Mitch said, in a last ditch effort to redirect the conversation. “We’ve met them since we got here … met them in 1963. Something we’ve done, or are doing, is causing these changes.”

  Taxi paused near the door. Without turning around he asked, “Who be named? Who’s new on that list of yours?”

  “Lamar Gordon, Kat Templeton, Louis Smith … and Maximilian Devore.”

  “So I got my name on that dead list now?” Taxi slid the heavy wooden door open and walked out into the rain.

  Mitch lay back on the hay and covered his eyes with his arm. He doubted the breech between them could be mended. Distrust ran deep between the races in the South. Trust was hard won and even harder to keep. Once you betrayed that confidence, there was no going back. He’d made a major mistake disclosing this crazy time-travel business. What made him think any man in his right mind would buy into this nonsense? Hell, he was an active participant and at least once every hour he questioned whether or not he was dreaming.

  “Now what?” he asked the empty barn. “I’ve alienated one of the few friends I’ve made here. By the time I get back to the clinic, I’ll probably find myself without any friends.” He wearily swung over the edge and climbed down the ladder.

  He got as far as the barn door, and turned back. There was a Biblical scale rainstorm going on outside and he figured God owed him one. He climbed inside the Impala and turned the key. The black monster roared to life. At least he wouldn’t have to walk back to town in the rain.

  Mitch backed out of the barn and pulled a U-turn in the yard, keeping his fingers crossed the tires didn’t get stuck in the mud. When he reached the highway he wondered if Taxi would accept a ride back to his De Soto. “I could be ready to bite someone’s head off,” he told the wiggly hula dancer, “but if they offered me a lift in a torrential downpour I’d say yes.”

  Less than a quarter mile down the road he found a drenched Maximilian Devore despondently hunched on the shoulder. His hat had soaked up so much rainwater it hung around his face lik
e a woman’s head scarf. He looked like a drowned puppy.

  Mitch stopped the car and leaned across the seat. He opened the door and silently waited.

  In less time than it took to sneeze, Taxi was sitting beside him.

  =TWENTY-NINE=

  The Arson/Fatality list remained unchanged since yesterday. Kat’s tensed body sagged with relief. She folded the paper into a small square and shoved it in the pocket of her borrowed jeans. Like an American Express card, she never leave home without it again. She’d become paranoid, believing if she didn’t check every few minutes the list would undergo dramatic alterations.

  Her greatest fear—that a random act would set up another catastrophic run of events—colored her every action. Short of locking herself in this room until Sunday, she couldn’t figure out how to avoid changing the past. A conversation with a neighbor, a grocery store purchase, who could predict the ramifications of such simple acts?

  A prime example was the terrible death monster she’d conjured by just talking to Lamar Gordon. The attack on Pastor Gordon lay squarely on her shoulders. Because she talked to his son, the Klan had paid them a visit.

  She opened the door and stepped into the third floor hallway, then, as an afterthought returned to her room. She rummaged in the night stand searching for a pain pill. She’d never admit it to anyone, but her body was in revolt against the punishment it received. She felt as stiff and achy as an ancient grandma.

  Kat pulled aside the window shade at the sound of an engine. The rain beating against the glass distorted her view somewhat, but she could still recognize Taxi’s green De Soto. “It’s about time,” she muttered. Mitch and Taxi had been gone for hours. She was anxious to talk to her partner, she’d hurt his feelings last night and wanted to clear the air between them.

  * * *

  Pastor Gordon rolled over, wincing as the sheet snagged on his bandages. He swung his legs off the side of the bed and gingerly tested his weight. He dreaded the walk to Timothy’s fancy bathroom at the end of the hall, but the doctor had ordered leg soak therapy three times a day in his whirlpool. It seemed to Gordon the distance had doubled with each trip. Moving with the speed of a giant tortoise, he hobbled down the corridor.

  Since the second floor bathroom faced onto the secluded backyard, Biggers’ had installed a large plate glass window above the sunken tub. The top of the rose trellis peeked over the ledge and Gordon saw the bright red buds being washed by the storm. Fat raindrops pounded against the pane, and he thought he heard small bits of hail tapping on the glass.

  He dumped a couple of handfuls of Epsom salts into the tub, turned on the faucet, and sat on the tiled edge as it filled. With a groan, he set about the unpleasant task of unwrapping his wounded leg for the second time today. The chain Billy Lee Mitchell used had opened a deep chasm in his upper and lower right leg. By comparison, the gaping hole in his left leg looked minuscule.

  Being a modest man, the preacher lowered the Venetian blinds over the big window before disrobing. He gritted his teeth and stepped into the water.

  * * *

  Lettie Ruth finished cleaning the last exam room just as the green De Soto pulled up and parked in front of the clinic. She gave it a cursory glance out the front window, pleased to note Taxi and Mitch had managed to show up in time for supper. Their timely arrival didn’t surprise her; men were most always on time when it came to eating.

  She continued down the short hall leading to the kitchen, her mind on Lamar’s birthday supper that Kat had put together. The three layer chocolate cake sitting on the table looked real pretty with the white frosting and decorations from the five and dime. She peeked in the oven; the meatloaf sure did smell good. Lettie felt like a woman of leisure today, not having to juggle cooking and patients had been a rare treat.

  * * *

  Lamar Gordon snuggled into the blue and yellow blanket, humming Happy Birthday. His thirteenth birthday had been pretty exciting. He wondered what the whole next year would be like. His mind began to wander and the images flickering on the TV screen melted into scenes from his own life. Men in robes and hoods, his daddy bleeding on the ground, a Bible held high above his head. Lamar felt bad about last night, wishing he could have been braver. But those men scared the bejesus out of him. When they started hollering and beating on his daddy, he and Virgil quit peeking out the window and followed Dr. Tim to the back of the house.

  He’d been just as scared in the fire today, but this time he didn’t run and hide. Him and Mr. Mitch done good. And everybody in the neighborhood said his house would be okay once they painted and fixed up the burned parts.

  But what about those men? They’d come sniffing around again, he knew this battle wasn’t no where near over. In fact, Dr. King kept on preaching about colored folks standing up together and how things wouldn’t get better until people started changing and started caring.

  Maybe I ought to do a little changing in the way I handle things, he thought.

  Lamar tiptoed to the door and looked down the corridor. He heard Dr. Tim rustling papers in his office and the bubbling sound from the big tub meant Daddy was in there again. Assured he wouldn’t be observed, he scurried down the hall to his room. He’d sneaked the shotgun and a box of shells out of the house after the fire wrapped in a bundle of clothes. Next time those Kluxers came visiting he planned to show them how much this colored boy had changed. He shoved a handful of ammo in each pocket and carried the gun back to the TV room.

  First he tried to hide the shotgun behind the curtain, but it was too heavy and kept falling over. Next he shoved it in back of the cabinet TV, but the stock stuck out. When he heard the floorboards creak and steps coming his way, he stuffed it behind the sofa cushions and jumped on top of it. He threw the blanket around his shoulders to camouflage the bulge.

  * * *

  Timothy Biggers hurriedly finished the last of his paperwork in his office, lured by the delicious aroma of meatloaf. From the kitchen smells he figured Kat must be as good a cook as Lettie. As he passed the bathroom he heard the muted rumble of the water jets, noting with satisfaction that the pastor had followed his orders.

  He waved to Lamar and received a sparkling smile in return. The boy was curled up in front of the TV, a brightly crocheted blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

  “Anything worth watching?” he asked.

  “I like them soap operas,” Lamar said. “You white people sure are funny, Dr. Tim.”

  Biggers laughed and continued down the hall. The boy’s resilience had impressed him. Witnessing his father’s beating by the Klan, the next day having his house set on fire, and the kid could still smile. He was tough, and would grow into a fine man—if he lived long enough.

  He saw two silhouettes through the stained-glass front door as he reached the bottom step, and assumed it to be Mitch and Taxi.

  As he moved to let them inside, the door exploded inward.

  The concussion force propelled him backwards. He landed near the foot of the stairs. Colored glass fragments and splintered wood sprinkled down on him, smoke shrouded the foyer and hallway.

  Through the fog like haze he saw four men enter the clinic. They wore street clothes, but their faces were hooded. Biggers scrabbled across the foyer, his goal to reach the rifle stowed under the false panel behind the lobby desk. A fit of coughing slowed his progress and he bumped into a pair of legs.

  He looked up and said, “A step closer and the blast would have blown my face off.” A heavy work boot smashed into his cheek.

  * * *

  The tallest man tossed a length of rope to one of the others, pantomiming tying Biggers’ hands. He didn’t want to speak, the doc knew his voice. He glanced around the waiting area, disappointed there weren’t any bloody niggers lying in the floor. He’d hoped to take out two or three with the dynamite.

  Satisfied the doctor was neutralized so that no one would be shot to hell and gone this time, he headed toward the kitchen. Even through all the smoke and sulphur he could sm
ell a meatloaf cooking.

  A smile filled the inside of his muslin hood when he found Lettie Ruth Rayson cowering beneath the kitchen table. Rather than crawling after her, he gripped the table’s edge and heaved it upwards. The heavy oak furniture toppled over on its side like a wounded elephant and a birthday cake landed upside down on the floor.

  “Hey, girl. Whatcha doing down there?” he asked, not caring whether or not she recognized his voice. In the long run it wouldn’t matter, because dead folks made lousy witnesses. He prodded her balled up figure with his foot. “Get on up.”

  As she got to her feet, it pleased him to see her tremble. At least one nigger in this town had enough brains to be afraid of the West Central Alabama Ku Klux Klan. He reached out to brush a smudge of flour off her cheek, when she flinched he felt a slow heat building below his belt.

  “You and the doc the only folks home?” he asked.

  Lettie Ruth nodded.

  “Sure about that, nurse nigger?”

  “Check on upstairs if you don’t believe me.”

  He didn’t care for her insolent response and especially didn’t like the fact she’d stopped shaking all over. He took a long hard look in her eyes. He didn’t see fear. The only thing staring back at him was anger.

  “Let’s you and me both check the upstairs,” he said, allowing his tone to deliver the unspoken part of his message. He grabbed her upper arm and piloted her out of the kitchen.

  * * *

  Pastor Gordon’s first thought when the explosion rocked the clinic was of his son. He had to find his boy and get him to safety. Forgetting the seriousness of his injuries, he popped out of the water like a cork. Caught off guard when his leg buckled, he landed face down in a swirling eddy of Epsom salts. He wiggled around until he could sit upright, but in the process cracked his head on the chrome handle of the spigot. The water immediately turned a murky pink. He grabbed the washcloth and held it to his forehead fighting the dizziness and nausea threatening to overpower him. He needed to get out of the tub right now.

  He knew those responsible for the explosion would search the building, and the idea of being caught naked as a jaybird in the bathtub held little appeal for Jackson Gordon.