Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel

by Charlotte Banchi

  Gordon used the tiled rim for support as he exited the tub; the gashes on his legs were open and bleeding freely. As he stepped onto the light-blue bath mat, an ugly red stain spread around his feet. He grabbed the nearest hand towel, pressed it over the deepest wound on his left leg, securing it in place with the gauze bandage he’d removed earlier.

  He dug through the dirty laundry hamper until he found a pair of trousers and a shirt. Luckily the pant leg slipped over the bulky towel and gauze bandage. Within seconds the exposed wounds on his other leg had bled through the cotton fabric, but he didn’t have time to hunt for another bandage.

  He stepped toward the door and the trousers fell around his hips. Since Timothy was a good six inches taller and thirty pounds heavier, Gordon couldn’t keep the pants up around his waist so he yanked the cord off the Venetian blinds and threaded it through the belt loops.

  * * *

  As though his daddy’s shotgun was Aladdin’s magic lamp, Lamar Gordon rubbed his hand across the smooth wooden stock.

  “I wish,” he stopped and nibbled on his lip.

  If he only got three wishes, he wanted to be sure they were good ones. There were so many things. He wanted to swim in the city pool. Use the downtown library. Eat at a fancy lunch counter. Ride the bus to school instead of walking. He vigorously rubbed the stock. “I wish—”

  The explosion rattled the window panes and caused small pieces of plaster to fall from the ceiling. His hand closed around the shotgun and he yanked it free of the sofa cushions.

  Lamar squeezed his eyes shut and whispered, “I only got one wish and I wish I knew how to shoot this thing.” He’d been hunting with his daddy, but he’d never been allowed to fire the weapon. Taxi had promised him a full day of learning how to shoot for his birthday, but he needed to know how to shoot now. He tried to remember how to load the shotgun. Fumbling with the shells, he finally succeeded in awkwardly shoving them in the breech.

  He sat very still and listened. He knew better than to walk around. This old house had more creaks and groans than his grandma’s rocking chair. Even though he heard no voices, he knew folks were downstairs. And they were white, because Negroes had more sense than to blow up Dr. Tim’s clinic. The eerie quiet gave him a tingly feeling all the way down to his toes. He looked around. Even if he hunkered down behind the sofa they’d find him in a Dixie second. The closet, crammed full of doctor stuff, didn’t leave any room for a thirteen-year-old boy.

  Lamar slid off the sofa and knelt on the floor. “Daddy says to trust in you, Lord, and I do. So if you’re not too busy, could you look down here on this colored boy and help out a little? Amen.”

  The ceiling creaked suddenly. Someone was walking around overhead. He smiled. He’d plum forgot all about Miss Kat sleeping upstairs. But God had remembered and sent her to help. Being a policeman and all, she knew about guns and shooting.

  “Thank you, Lord.”

  * * *

  Kat dry swallowed the pill at the same instant the front door exploded, and nearly choked to death on the white tablet. Coughing and fighting the tears clouding her vision, she retrieved Timothy’s Colt from the top shelf in the closet. She checked the cylinder—fully loaded, but it held only six rounds. Each bullet must strike the intended target. She had no room for a wild shot.

  Luckily her the third floor location gave her a slight edge over the male guests and patients currently residing in what Lettie Ruth had dubbed the ‘Second Floor Boy’s Dormitory’. She ran a mental inventory of those downstairs right now—second floor: Pastor Gordon and Lamar. Lettie Ruth and Timothy were probably still on the ground floor. Mitch and Alvin were gone.

  Those who blew up the door would be searching from the bottom to top. Kat had no time to relocate to the lower floor so she could protect the Gordons. All she could do was to find a strategic post that could be defended. Preferably a position which would allow her to pick off the bad guys one by one as they ascended the staircase.

  The U-shaped layout of the floor offered little in the way of cover. She envied the cowboys in the old Saturday matinees. They always had a big boulder to duck behind.

  Sans a boulder, Kat decided her best bet was the bathroom. It faced the stairs and she could use the cast iron tub for protection. It would be tricky, she’d have to shoot through an open door, but it could be done. Must be done.

  =THIRTY=

  When Mitch turned the corner and saw the empty stretch along the curb on Blodgett Street his guts squirmed like a nest of rattlesnakes.

  Thank God he’d dropped the still angry Taxi at home with the promise to return with his car. Mitch didn’t feel up to the inevitable tongue lashing because the De Soto, a piece of green shit if he ever saw one, had vanished. He doubted anyone really wanted the car, much less have bothered to steal it. However, it was gone and that fact worried him.

  What had happened? If no one wanted it and no one stole it, where did it go?

  His questions dissipated like a puff of smoke when he saw the red-haired woman carrying a baby stagger down the steps of the small clapboard house. He hit the brakes so hard the Impala skidded several feet past Pamela and Carolyn Mitchell before the brakes caught. Leaving the car in the middle of the street, engine running and door open, he reached his mother just as her knees buckled. He scooped her and the baby up in his arms and carried them to the Chevy.

  His mother trembled so hard her teeth chattered. Mitch took off his damp windbreaker and wrapped it around her shoulders, then removed his plaid sports shirt to cover his shivering little sister.

  Carolyn’s tiny arms were a mass of purple black fingermarks. Her bottom lip swollen.

  Pamela’s bruised face and blackened eye told the rest of the story.

  Mitch swallowed his angry words. These two didn’t need another Mitchell raising hell. Without speaking, he closed the passenger door, went around to the driver’s side and got in. He looked at Pamela, when she didn’t protest, he shifted into drive and pressed the accelerator. His only goal, to put as much distance between his family and the son-of-a-bitch that had beaten them.

  After several minutes Pamela spoke, “I saw you from the kitchen window earlier. You were standing beside this car.”

  “Yes, ma’am. It was supposed to be a joke on your husband. I’m sorry if my silliness caused—”

  “None of this is your fault,” she interrupted. “Billy Lee had finished with the hitting long before he discovered the car to be missing. There’s something you need to know. All this,” she touched her face, “is because … it is all my fault. I aggravated him.”

  “What set him off?”

  She lowered her head and a curtain of red hair fell across her face. “The baby is teething and crying a lot more than usual. It really bothers him.”

  “You can’t let him get away with it.”

  “If I hadn’t argued with him, things wouldn’t have gotten this rough,” she said, then raised her head. “But I will never allow him to leave his mark on the baby. I was just protecting Carolyn, not trying to make Billy Lee mad.”

  “A man shouldn’t hit his wife and child. No matter how angry he gets.”

  “You’re the only one around here that feels that way.” She angrily brushed the hair from her eyes. “This is the South. Men beat their wives and children.”

  Mitch curbed the Chevy and turned off the engine. He pushed the seat back so he could turn sideways and face his passengers. “It doesn’t matter where you are—South, North, East, nor West—assault is illegal. You can have him arrested and take him to court.”

  Pamela looked at him, her blue eyes defeated. “That never happens down here. Wife beating is a sport, not a crime.”

  “Then leave him. Go back to Pennsylvania.”

  She stiffened and Carolyn began to whimper. She crooned to the baby, rocking back and forth on the seat. Once the child had settled she turned to Mitch. “How do you know about Pennsylvania?”

  He stared out the front window, watching the wipers swee
p the heavy rain off the glass. He’d spoken without thinking. A habit Kat had tried to break for five years. Now what do I say? Unless he came up with a plausible explanation, Pamela Mitchell would jump out of the car and run screaming down the street.

  “Your accent,” he said. “I’m from Pennsylvania and I guess I recognized a fellow Yankee.”

  “Not too many like us in Alabama.” She held out her hand. “I’m Pamela Mitchell and this is my daughter, Carolyn.”

  Mitch grasped her hand desperately trying to think up an alias. Why did names like Vito Correlone, Forrest Gump, and Rocky Balboa keep popping into his head? He needed something that remotely resembled the Pennsylvania Dutch names.

  “I’m Han Solo.”

  “Hans?” she asked. “Like in the children’s book, Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates?”

  “Almost, it’s just Han. There’s not an ‘s’ on the end. They forgot to put it on my birth certificate. My mother picked the name because she used to read a lot. She always loved fairy tales. You know, the ‘lived happily ever after’ stuff.”

  “I love to read, or at least I did before I married. When I attended the University of Alabama, I majored in English Literature.” She sighed. “Billy Lee says reading is a waste of time for a woman.”

  “Well Billy Lee is way off base. He’s trying to control you, make you as stupid as he is.”

  “He’s not stupid, Han.”

  “Okay, he’s not stupid. But he is acting like an ogre, and I learned a lot about ogres from my own father.” Mitch started the engine.

  “Your dad was a hitter?”

  “A champion hitter.”

  “Did your mother leave him?”

  His heart skipped a beat. That was a Catch-22 question. Another look at his mother’s face and the baby’s purple arms settled the issue. “Yes, she did. Only not soon enough,” he said. “She waited too long and it cost her a child.”

  “Oh God.” Pamela trembled and hugged Carolyn. “Your father hurt—”

  “Not hurt, Pamela,” Mitch said. “He killed my little sister.”

  “Your poor mother. Knowing if she’d only left him sooner…What a terrible thing to endure.”

  “Given the chance again, I’m certain she’d leave him the first time he hit the baby.”

  “I wish I had the courage. Sometimes Billy Lee gets so angry it scares me, and I’m afraid if I stay, something bad will happen to both of us.” She kissed the top of Carolyn’s head.

  “Sounds to me like you’ve already made the decision. Maybe you’re stronger and braver than you think.”

  “My whole life would change.”

  “Yes, and it would probably be a good change.”

  Mitch kept his eyes on the road, afraid Pamela would see the shine of tears in his eyes. He knew her life would be so much better if she left Billy Lee now. She was young enough to find a man to love her and Carolyn the right way. Wonderful things lay ahead, if he could only convince his mother to leave Billy Lee Mitchell.

  Of course, if he succeeded there would be another change.

  “Where to, m’lady?” he asked, praying she didn’t tell him to take her back home.

  Pamela shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t made many friends in Maceyville, I’m a little too Yankee.”

  He chuckled. “I think we’re both too Yankee for this place. But, I do have friends in Maceyville. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if you stayed with them.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know Dr. Timothy Biggers?” When she nodded, he continued. “I’m staying at his place and he’s got plenty of extra rooms.”

  “What about Billy Lee? He’ll come looking for us.”

  “Maybe not.”

  Mitch knew what the end result of this confrontation with his father would be, and had no qualms about moving his chess piece that direction. This woman deserved more happiness than she’d known, and he wanted her little girl to live. He held the power to ensure a better life for his mother and sister. And he intended to do just that, regardless of the consequence.

  =THIRTY-ONE=

  Lettie Ruth saw the bloodied doctor leaning against the check-in desk.

  Biggers raised his head high enough to meet her gaze.

  He may have been hurt some, but the fury in his eyes told her he would be all right. She figured the first chance to come his way Timothy would be running the show down here.

  Her escort gave her a rough shove, then twisted her arm behind her back.

  She didn’t fight his iron grip because she would be no use to the others if he started in on her. Once upstairs, and away from the other three men, she’d get down to business. Dreama Simms may have taken all those classes on nonviolent resistance, but Lettie Ruth Rayson had taken different classes. A girl didn’t grow up in the streets of New Orleans without learning how to take care of herself.

  As they cleared the landing, she saw the bathroom door inch open. In case the Pastor or Lamar hadn’t seen them, she thought it best to make their presence known.

  “Let go of me you redneck jackass!” she shouted. She jerked her arm free and swung wildly at her captor’s head. She felt a burst of satisfaction when she connected with his nose. A second later, a red blossom of blood stained the muslin hood.

  “Stupid nigger.” He grabbed a handful of hair and slammed her head into the wall. “You best learn to mind your manners.”

  She shook her head, clearing the stars swimming in front of her eyes. It could’ve been worse, she thought. He could of taken a baseball bat or a chain… Her thoughts faded as she looked him over. This particular Klansman didn’t carry anything in his hands, no weapon that she could see. Of course he might have a gun tucked in his belt, but then again, he might not.

  * * *

  Lamar heard the confrontation in the hall and knelt behind the couch, the shotgun propped on the back cushion and aimed at the open door. He took slow breaths and tried to control the trembling in his hands. Right now the gun wiggled so much he wouldn’t be able to hit anything. He laid his cheek against the stock and sighted down the barrel, his finger curled around the trigger.

  He didn’t know if he could pull the trigger. ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’. That was the sixth commandment. No matter how mad he got at those Egyptians, even old Moses knew better than to break that rule. And Lamar didn’t like the idea of spending eternity in the fires of Hell. On the other hand, he didn’t much care for people exploding Dr. Tim’s house and beating up on the people inside.

  When Lettie Ruth stumbled through the door, followed by the hooded man, all of Lamar’s earlier doubts and nervousness disappeared. He felt ice cold. His hands steadied.

  It took several seconds for the situation to register on the hooded man, but Lettie Ruth was quicker. She immediately dropped to the ground, giving Lamar a clear shot.

  He held his breath and pulled one hammer back on the double-barrel shotgun. He jerked the trigger.

  * * *

  Lettie Ruth opened her mouth to tell the boy to stop, but when she saw the murderous rage in the Kluxer’s eyes she fell to the floor. If Lamar missed, the man would kill him.

  The shotgun roared like an angry fire-breathing dragon bent on destruction. A wide section of doorframe vanished as the dragon took its first bite.

  The recoil knocked the boy backwards and he disappeared behind the sofa.

  The man jumped over Lettie Ruth and clambered across the flowered cushions. Within seconds he reappeared, with Lamar in one hand and the shotgun in the other. He twisted the boy’s arm behind his back and shoved him toward the center of the room.

  “You ought to know better, pickaninny.” He held the gun over his head, then threw it into the hall like a javelin. “Your pop toy ain’t no match against mine.”

  Lettie Ruth’s fears came to pass when he pulled a handgun from inside his shirt. She figured Lamar had about thirty seconds to live if she didn’t do something. The TV room didn’t stock a supply of weapons, so her resources were limited. O
ther than a few magazines and jigsaw puzzles, there wasn’t anything of use. While the man toyed with Lamar, she eased a hand down her leg until she touched her shoe. A size eight, white nurse’s oxford, probably wouldn’t be the ideal weapon for defense, but under the circumstances it seemed pretty damn good.

  Slipping the shoe off her left foot, she gripped the toe end. Plotting her moves like a choreographer, she brought her arm around in a sweeping arc at the same time shifting from a prone position to kneeling.

  Sensing her movements, the man turned toward her, which left his groin vulnerable.

  Lettie Ruth rammed the one and a quarter inch rubber heel into his testicles.

  He screamed and doubled over. In a second he lay moaning in the floor, curled in the fetal position. He still clutched the gun near his head and she kicked his wrist with her right foot, the heavy oxford sent the gun sliding across the hardwood floor and underneath the sofa.

  “Get it, Lamar,” she told him.

  The boy slithered under the sofa and soon emerged with the weapon.

  “Point it at him,” she instructed. “And if he so much as blinks an eyelash, you shoot.” With a final glance at the fallen man, she moved toward the door. The shotgun lay in the hall. If she could reach it in time this fight was about to change.

  * * *

  The lightening flashed like a strobe, and thunder rumbled ominously. The storm hovered over Maceyville like a dark and evil spirit bent on revenge. Kat fidgeted in the cast iron tub. Fueled by adrenalin she found it difficult to remain still. When another volley of thunder roared through town, she stood.

  Standing, with one leg outside the bathtub and one leg inside, she froze when the shotgun blast echoed throughout the three-story structure. Who’d fired? And who got shot? Her next action depended upon the answer.

  If the wounded party was one of the invaders, hurrah for the good guys.

  If not, one of her new friends needed help.