Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel

by Charlotte Banchi

  Suddenly someone screamed.

  The high-pitched wail of agony penetrated Kat’s adrenalin armor and the white-hot flames of fear began. “Oh, no,” she whispered. People needed her help, she couldn’t let this happen again.

  She fought against the clawing hands of terror, but lacked the strength to break free. The prickly sensation moved through her body. Nothing seemed real. She seemed to float down into the bathtub where she curled in a small trembling ball.

  Mixed up images filled the screen behind her closed eyes. The cotton field, men in robes, white pickups. Mitch, Lettie Ruth. The pictures rotated with such speed she felt nauseous. Somehow, in all this insanity Kat knew she was in the midst of another panic attack. She struggled with the raw surge of emotions, fiercely battling the demons of fear.

  “God, help me,” she whispered.

  * * *

  The three men rushed from the waiting area to the foot of the stairs when the shotgun exploded. After a murmured conference, one climbed to the second floor.

  A haze floated in the air and the smell of burned gun powder caused him to sneeze. Slivers of wood and chunks of plaster littered the hall. He hesitated, nobody had brought a weapon except Billy Lee, and he was still downstairs. So who pulled the trigger?

  He eased over to the wall and pressed his back against the plaster. His eyes swept back and forth with each sideways step toward the first open door. It was too quiet and not to his liking. After the front door blew apart, the folks inside ought to have been running around and making noise.

  First an eye, then his whole head poked around the door frame. The room appeared empty, but he couldn’t see behind the door.

  “Floyd?” he whispered. “You in here?” He stiffened when something hard and round pressed against his back.

  “Get on in there,” a deep male voice commanded, followed by increased pressure from the weapon.

  The second nudge enraged him. Who in the hell did these niggers think they were messing with? No stupid jungle bunny could order him around. He faked a step into the room, pivoted, his foot swung around, connecting with a pair of legs.

  Preacher man hit the deck with a thud, the rubber end of the toilet plunger he held above his chest waved in the air like a funeral daisy.

  The man bent over, butt sticking into the TV room, his hood gently swayed. “My daddy always told me a coon was dumber than a stump. What you gonna do with that, boy?” He thumped the black rubber. “Plannin’ on—”

  “This ain’t no plunger,” the female voice behind him said.

  This time he heard the distinctive click as the gun’s hammer was cocked.

  Preacher man scrambled to his feet, using the stair railing for support. Blood ran down his leg and pooled on the floor. “Back into the room, real slow,” he ordered.

  The white knight of the Ku Klux Klan complied as his mind raced to find a way out. He walked backwards until his legs bumped into the sofa.

  “Sit,” the preacher said.

  This will not do, he thought. I can’t let a couple of niggers get the drop on me. He bent his knees in preparation to sit, then spun around. His attack pulled up short by the double barrel shotgun in his face.

  * * *

  From within the safety of the dark foggy shell she’d erected within her mind, Kat heard voices. They were so faint she couldn’t make out all the words. As she concentrated, the trembling in her body gradually lessened, the hot flashes cooled, and she opened her eyes. The bathtub glowed in the strange afternoon light, rain beat against the narrow window pane.

  The smell of gunpowder drove a spike of reality into her foggy mind.

  Get up, Kathleen. This time the words were crystal clear. A calm and controlled strength began to push her panic aside.

  Although still lightheaded and terrified of the onset of another panic attack, she stepped completely out of the tub. She crept to the door, then to the head of the stairs. The stillness grated on her nerves. When things were noisy, you couldn’t pick apart each tiny little sound and conjure all sorts of interpretations as to the relevancy. You simply went about your business, and met things head on.

  She heard the floorboards creak at the bottom of the landing. Someone was moving around on the second floor.

  * * *

  Timothy Biggers had reached the end of his tolerance. Blowing up the front door had been annoying, but not worth getting his brains beat out. But now the two idiots were ransacking his exam rooms. They’d already destroyed several expensive instruments and seemed bent on inflicting the same punishment on the remainder of his medical equipment.

  He continued his slow, but steady, route to the desk. Over the past ten minutes he’d inched his way from the foyer to the waiting area on his stomach. Another two feet would put him within grabbing range of his rifle. He paused to catch his breath and mulled over the anatomical areas in which he intended to shoot the men. Due to a rip-roaring headache, and an aching jaw from the boot kick, Biggers didn’t feel up to performing any lengthy surgeries this afternoon.

  The wounds should incapacitate the fools, he thought, not necessarily kill them. Although, if they busted up his new defibrillator, so help him God, he’d shoot them right between their eyes. He ducked when an otoscope came flying out of exam four, disintegrating upon impact.

  On his feet, he covered the remaining distance in record time.

  Biggers pressed his palm against the false panel on the desk. The fully loaded M1-Garand felt good in his hands. He assumed a rifleman’s kneeling stance and waited.

  * * *

  Mitch stopped the Impala short of the clinic when he spied Taxi’s De Soto. Now he knew the whereabouts of the car, and most likely who had taken it. He should have known Billy Lee would recognize the green junker after their run-in downtown early Tuesday morning.

  Mitch’s list of stupid mistakes continued to grow. At his insistence, Taxi had left his car parked near the Mitchell’s house. And when the Chevy turned up missing, Billy Lee made a connection. However, he’d connected the wrong dots.

  “Is your husband still at home?” he asked Pamela, hoping his postulations were incorrect.

  “I don’t know. I guess he could have come back to the house. He’d only been gone a few minutes before you picked us up. Why?”

  He pointed down the street. “A friend of mine left his car on your street. And now it’s here. I think Billy Lee may already be inside Dr. Biggers’ clinic.”

  “Why on earth would he come all the way to the east Hollow?”

  “Billy Lee may be looking for some payback because of the Impala.”

  “How would he know to come over here?”

  “On Tuesday night, Billy Lee and some of his pals paid a visit to Dr. Biggers.” Mitch pointed to the painted over clinic sign that read: DR. NIGGERS CLINIC. “That green De Soto car was parked out front. Then later, there was a second run-in downtown.”

  Pamela chewed on her fingernail. “You’re saying Billy Lee believes that the owner of the green car is the same person who took his Chevy this afternoon?”

  “Bingo. And if I’m right, there could be trouble inside.” Mitch cut the engine and opened the door.

  “Would you like me to talk to him? See if I can calm him down?”

  Her offer momentarily stunned him. He’d always believed his mother to be strong, but this went beyond strength. This was courageous. “That would be a very bad idea, Pamela. I want you and Carolyn to stay in the car until I come back.”

  She nodded, then held out the plaid shirt he’d placed over the baby earlier.

  “What’s this for?”

  “Han, you shouldn’t walk into trouble without a shirt.”

  The comment was so silly he laughed. “Is that similar to the clean underwear rule?”

  She blushed then began to giggle. “I suppose it is.”

  Mitch pulled on the shirt and buttoned it, then leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks, Mom, I appreciate the advice. Now remember what I said. You love
ly ladies stay put.” He climbed from of the car and hurried down the sidewalk.

  Before he reached his destination the heavens put on another lightening and thunder show, then the clouds split wide open pelting Mitch with pea-sized hail stones. As he cut through the yard next to the clinic, ice particles slowed his progress as he tried to avoid slipping.

  He closed in on Biggers’ clinic from the side, figuring a backdoor entry less risky than a full frontal assault. He didn’t know what was going on inside, but given Billy Lee’s temperament, it couldn’t be anything but bad. He checked the cylinder on his Smith & Wesson. Fully loaded. He pushed through the tall juniper trees screening the perimeter of Biggers’ property.

  The screen was closed, but the wooden door stood open. He quickly ascended the four steps and cautiously entered. The unmistakable odor of explosives and gunpowder sent a chill down his spine. Something bad had gone down.

  The kitchen table had been flipped onto its side, plates and silverware scattered across the floor. A smashed birthday cake lay amidst the wreckage.

  He scanned the area, looking for bloodstains. Or bodies. None found, he allowed a pin prick of relief. Although someone had trashed the room, no one appeared to have been wounded or killed. At least not in the kitchen.

  He paused next to the door.

  * * *

  “Hey, jackasses, y’all come on out here,” Timothy Biggers yelled. Locked, loaded, and ready, he waited for the two men.

  They sauntered out of the exam room bent on kicking his butt. When they caught sight of his rifle, their body language altered dramatically. Instead of the cocky walk with doubled up fists, they slumped. It reminded Biggers of the scene in The Wizard of Oz, when the wicked witch began to melt.

  “Take a seat.” Biggers inclined his head toward the sofa, the rifle barrel remained steady. “Oh, and I’d appreciate if y’all would remove those silly goddamn hoods.”

  Billy Lee Mitchell and Louis Smith jerked off their white muslin hoods and threw them in the floor. Eyes on the doctor, they slowly moved across the foyer and into the waiting area, stopping inches from the sofa.

  “I said SIT!” Biggers roared. When the men plopped down on the cushions, he smiled. “Don’t y’all think it would’ve been easier to use the doorbell?”

  “Fucking nigger lover,” Billy Lee snarled.

  “That’s Doctor fucking nigger lover to y’all,” Biggers corrected.

  “Think you could maybe point that rifle of yours another direction?” asked Louis.

  “Don’t worry about where it’s pointing, Louis. You ought to worry about whether or not I’ll pull the trigger.”

  “He ain’t gonna shoot nobody,” Billy Lee said. “That would be cold-blooded murder, cause none of us got a gun.”

  “I don’t care if you have a damn gun or not, Billy Lee. I got every right to defend my property, it’s in the Constitution.”

  “Fuck the Constitution.”

  “That was down right ugly, son. And un-American.”

  “What’s ugly and un-American is you socializin’ and livin’ with a nigger bitch.”

  The Garand in Biggers’ hands exploded, the deafening sound reverberated off the walls. The bullet went through Billy Lee’s right arm. Ping! The ejected cartridge case bounced off the wall and hit Louis in the forehead.

  “If I was you, Billy Lee,” Biggers said calmly, “I’d close my fucking mouth before something vital gets shot off.”

  * * *

  The sound of additional gunfire brought Kat down the stairs to the second floor. She rounded the corner of the second floor TV room, her .45 in the lead.

  Two men sat in the floor, hands bound with a Venetian blind cord, Pastor Gordon held a shotgun on them.

  Kat glanced over her shoulder to make certain the hallway remained clear, then walked closer. She reached down and jerked off the first hood. Floyd’s malevolent black eyes stared up at her. Hand trembling, she removed the second white hood. Little Carl.

  Lettie Ruth touched her arm and Kat nearly pulled the trigger.

  “Move on back, honey,” her aunt said. “We’re in charge here. No need for you to get all worked up.”

  Kat nodded, too shaken to speak. Until this moment she’d believed the horrible events in the field were buried in a deep hole in her mind. Memories destined to never see daylight again. But here they were, less than two feet away. She could feel their eyes undressing her with each blink. Raping her with each glance.

  Kat cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger.

  Floyd twitched once, then his eyes closed.

  =THIRTY-TWO=

  Mitch had tensed at the sound of gunfire, but with the second shot coming so soon after the first one, he charged through the door. In an aerobatic maneuver reminiscent of his New Orleans Saints days, he dropped to the ground. His shoulder hit first and slivers of glass from the front door cut through his shirt as he rolled. Rising to a crouch he aimed his .38 into the waiting area.

  Timothy Biggers had two men in his rifle sights.

  “Those must hurt like a bitch,” Biggers said, referring to the glass shards embedded in Mitch’s shoulder. “When things settle down a bit I’ll take a look.”

  Mitch pointed to the shattered front of the building. Sheets of hard driving rain blew in through the gaping hole; the entire foyer was fast becoming a small lake. “Looks lie you have lake front property now, Timothy.”

  “Damn fools tried to blow my place up.”

  The two men seated on the couch glared at the doctor and Billy Lee bared his teeth. But neither moved an inch.

  “Is it safe to assume they are now having second thoughts?” Mitch asked.

  “Ain’t none your business, Yankee boy,” Billy Lee snarled.

  “Well hell, if it ain’t a small world,” Mitch said. “Hello, Mr. Mitchell.”

  “I shoulda known you’d be rubbin’ noses with Dr. Nigger.”

  “I’m confused, maybe you can clear things up, Billy Lee. You and your pal did a job on the door, right?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “I mean, you had the dynamite and the balls to blow this place to kingdom come. Right?”

  “Yeah,” Billy Lee said warily.

  “So, then why are you two sitting on the sofa with a gun in your faces and not the doctor?”

  “Fuck you, Yankee boy.”

  Mitch turned to Biggers. “I just love the Southern gentry. Such a classy way of speaking.”

  “We take pride in our boys down here,” Biggers said. “They can go anywhere in the world and be immediately recognized as a racist jackass.”

  “Fuck you, Dr. Nigger,” Billy Lee snarled.

  “A limited vocabulary,” Mitch said. “But for a jackass, I guess it’s impressive.”

  “Best if you shut up right now,” Billy Lee said. “And even better if you’d high tail it north, ‘cause I ain’t gonna be sitting here much longer.”

  Mitch laughed harshly. “Truer words were never spoken, old man. But I have a couple of people waiting outside who I need to take care of before my time’s up.”

  Billy Lee jerked his head around and looked out the window. “Goddamn it! That’s my car out there and my—”

  “And your wife and daughter.”

  Before Billy Lee could respond to Mitch’s taunting, Lamar barreled down the staircase. He nearly went head first into the wall before he performed a skidding about-face on the wet hardwood. His saucer eyes panned across the group in the waiting area. When he saw Billy Lee’s bloody arm, his face turned gray.

  “Mr. Mitch,” Lamar wheezed. “She done went and killed him.”

  Mitch and Biggers exchanged glances. “We better get up there,” Mitch said.

  “First we have to lock those sons-a-bitches in the closet,” Biggers said. “I keep the key in the door lock all the time.”

  “I’m bleedin’ to death here,” Billy Lee complained. “You can’t lock me up in this condition.”

  Biggers picked up a wet roll of gauze dress
ing from the floor. “Wrap this around your arm,” he said, throwing the sopping mess across the room.

  “This ain’t even dry. Or clean,” Billy Lee complained, as he squeezed the water from the gauze roll.

  “Then you better pray you don’t get gangrene,” Biggers said.

  Mitch ended their conversation with a couple of prods from the business end of his .38. “Get up and move, slowly, over to the exam room.”

  “That nigger loving son-of-a-bitch ought to fix my arm. He’s the doc—”

  “Billy Lee, if I was in your shoes, all shot up and bleeding, I’d keep my mouth shut,” Mitch advised.

  “But he—”

  “And I’d shut it right now.” Mitch opened the closet and forced them inside. It was a tight fit, barely enough room to breathe, but it would hold them for a few minutes. “Get your pal to help you with the bandage. I hear he’s good at tying people up.” He slammed the door and turned the key, then tossed it on the exam table.

  * * *

  The second floor could have been mistaken for a mausoleum. The silence heavy and foreboding. Rain ticked against the big bathroom window, green leaves and red rose petals clung to the glass. Biggers and Mitch turned right at the top of the stairs then stopped.

  “You wait here, Lamar,” Mitch said.

  “That’s what I’m gonna do. I don’t never want to go back in there,” the boy said. “I already seen too much blood.”

  “Go sit in my office, son,” Biggers said. “I’ll come fetch you in a bit.”

  Lamar nodded and quickly walked away.

  “Ready?” Mitch asked. Biggers nodded and they cautiously approached the corner room.

  Mitch took point and entered first.

  Lettie Ruth and Pastor Gordon stood to his left, in front of the television set, their faces were mirrors of the horror they’d witnessed.

  Kat sat against the wall to his right, near the door. Her revolver, held in a two-hand grip, pointed toward a shaken Little Carl seated on the sofa.

  “What’s going on, Kat?” Mitch asked, his voice low and level. When Biggers tried to go around him, he held up a hand. “Wait up,” he whispered.

  “Got one of ‘em,” she said, her voice devoid of all emotion.