Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel (10 page)

What was going on in Kat’s mind? No amount of talking, cajoling or yelling could deviate his hard headed partner from her course. Convinced unless she went be-bopping to 1963, her Pop would crumble into a thousand pieces, made reasoning with her impossible.

For nearly forty years Alvin Rayson had lived with the knowledge something bad happened to his sister that April. The old man knew how things were back then. Hell, the entire state of Alabama knew what went on in those days. Lettie Ruth Rayson had been knee deep in the civil rights movement. She’d probably pissed off every KKK white knight within a twenty-mile radius of Maceyville. Of course she’d been murdered.

But for Kat to believe that she alone could change her aunt’s fate made him want to puke purple. A person didn’t mess around with history. What a crock. If everybody started sticking their fingers in the ‘once upon a time’ cake, the world was done for.

“Which makes no sense,” he shouted to the bare walls.

=SEVEN=

April 1—Monday

One hour before
sunrise, Kat Templeton stepped off the curb and began the journey out of her own time.

In preparation for this adventure, she’d spent all her off duty hours at the library, studying old newspapers and magazines, immersing herself in the early 1960s. She memorized details, little bits and pieces of trivia. It would be imperative to avoid drawing attention to herself. Chances were high she would encounter people she knew. The only advantage she held was that they wouldn’t know her.

She took one final look over her shoulder, knowing full and well if her resistance lowered one itsy bitsy inch she’d turn tail and run. The notion of time-travel seemed extraordinarily feeble minded as Kat neared the point of no return. What could she be thinking? The only reason she stood at this very odd doorway was because of voices and visions. Merry Christmas! Like Joan of Arc, Kathleen of Maceyville was setting out on a crusade to change things for the better.

Mitch’s rational arguments against this venture continued to fight against her emotional need to intervene. She slowed her pace, then came to a complete halt a foot from the white dividing line as she recalled yesterday’s conversation with him. At the moment it seemed such a long time ago
…

…
She’d been loading her backpack while a highly agitated James Mitchell drove her antique French rocker in short furious spurts. For the umpteenth time her partner hammered the facts home. Lettie Ruth Rayson’s fate had been determined nearly forty years ago. Anything Kat did to alter that could have serious repercussions.

“Repercussions?” she shot back. “Since when is saving a life considered a repercussion?”

“You know what I mean,” Mitch said, his calm tone grated on her nerves. “Action equals reaction.”

“Are we going to get into another time-travel tussle here?”

“Fictional time-travel is different from reality, Kat. Once in motion you won’t have the option of going back and rewriting the script. Could be you’ll dabble in dangerous waters, little girl.”

His little girl comment raised Kat’s hackles and she had to consciously resist the urge to grab the rocker and dump him head first onto the floor. Instead, she busied her hands by stuffing a third, then a fourth set of unnecessary clothing in the pack. Which she immediately removed because any extra clothes she required could easily be purchased at her destination.

Kat removed her driver license, credit cards, library card, photographs from her wallet and placed them in the desk drawer. Her police identification and .38 were in a safety deposit box at the bank. Remembering the scene in the movie, ‘Somewhere In Time’ when Christopher Reeve’s character discovered a penny with a future date and was yanked back to the present, Kat made certain all her folding money dated pre-1963.

“I won’t dabble in anyone’s business, Mitch. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, I only want to try to find out what happened to Lettie Ruth.”

“And once you get it all figured out? Are you going to confront the good ole boys down at the Klan hall? Get the local law to arrest them?”

Kat sighed loudly, annoyed with his unending supply of sarcasm. “Okay Mr. James ‘I-Know-Everything’ Mitchell, what do you suggest? Lettie Ruth’s disappearance has haunted Pop for 37 years. I remember waking up in the night and finding him sittin’ out in the front room with her picture in his hands. His body would be shaking, his cheeks dripping with tears. This thing has been nibbling away for years, Mitch, and if I don’t do something, it’s gonna eat clean through him.”

By the time she finished her speech, the rocking chair stood motionless. Mitch sat like a stone statue, his blue eyes saying much more eloquently than words how he felt. “Knowing is sometimes worse than not knowing, Kat. You feel up to rubbing noses with the rock hard truth about Lettie Ruth? Are you sure your Pop wants to know?”

“I think we already know the truth.”

“Then why in the Sam Hill are you risking getting caught up in that same net?”

Kat had spent several days wrestling with that particular question. Family obligation? Old-fashioned curiosity? It made no difference either way, she knew if she passed on this opportunity she’d be the one sitting up all night looking at a faded photograph.

“I have to go,” she told him.

He sighed, an indication the argument was over. “When will you come back?”

“There are two entry doors. April 10 and 12.”

Mitch gave her a bear hug. “Come home on Wednesday the 10th. It’s sooner.”

“I’ll see you in ten days, scouts honor.”

“I’ll be waiting on Park Street at two o’clock sharp, partner,” he’d told her. “Don’t be late.”

Time to go.

* * *

1963

Kat hitched the backpack higher on her shoulders and focused on her destination. As she stepped across the center line the fog turned thick as gumbo, with little chunks of 2000 and 1963 floating around together. As though cued by an unseen stage manager, the L-shaped houses were replaced by tar paper shacks and ramshackle shotgun houses. The trees lining the street began to shrink, or completely disappeared. Neat yards turned to weed and dirt plots littered by an assortment of broken furniture, tires and all around junk.

Things even smelled different. Instead of honeysuckle and sweet jasmine, rotting garbage and rancid sewage permeated the air.

Although it had taken only seconds, by the time she reached the other side she was exhausted and walking around on spaghetti legs. Unwilling to immediately dip into her limited cash, she opted for a secluded patch of grass in a nearby vacant lot rather than a hotel room. And because of that decision, nosy fingers were now poking in her chest.

Kat kept her eyes closed, waiting for the scene to play out. She prayed the prying digits belonged to a curious child rather than an adult.

“Don’t touch her, Virgil. She’s dead.”

“Tain’t neither. Lamar, see how her girl things are a movin’ up and down.”

At the sound of the young voices discussing her anatomy, the tightly wound coil of tension in Kat’s stomach loosened. She could handle a couple of kids.

Her eyes flew open as she grabbed the chocolate colored wrist poised above her breast. With a roar she sat upright, determined to teach the little stinkers to keeps their hands to themselves. The stunned expression on the boys’ faces made her laugh. She’d succeeded in scaring the bejesus out of them.

Kat released her grip and stood. She brushed the loose grass from her jeans and tee-shirt, periodically shooting the boys her best Maceyville cop glare. “Didn’t your mommas teach you any manners?” she demanded.

“Yes’um,” they answered in unison as they shuffled backwards.

The boys were like two antsy colts, ready to jump the coral fence at any second. Unless she wanted to draw a whole peck of attention down on her head, she needed to keep them low keyed and calm. Otherwise they’d high tail it out of here and spread the news all over the east Hollow of a strange woman sleeping in the bushes. Not a very auspicious beginning.

“What are your names?” Kat asked, softening her glare and tone slightly.

“I’m Virgil,” answered the chunky owner of the prying finger. “And that there’s Lamar standing off yonder under the tree.”

“Pleased to meet you, Virgil. My name is Kat.” She turned to the second boy. Unlike the short and pudgy Virgil, he was tall and skinny as a rail post. His skin was such an exact color match to the bark he practically disappeared into the tree trunk. “Come on over here, Lamar. I won’t bite.”

Virgil took a couple of sideways steps, reached out and grabbed Lamar by the shirt sleeve and yanked him closer to Kat. “Me’n him is cousins,” Virgil announced. “And we was borned on the very same day.”

“The same day, huh? How old does that make you guys?” Kat asked.

“Thirteen-years-old come Friday,” Virgil said. “April 5.”

Kat drew a shaky breath. The pieces were already beginning to connect. On April 5 her aunt Lettie Ruth Rayson had gone missing.

She forced a smile and asked, “I know you boys are only twelve, but that should be old enough to find your way around here without getting lost. Right?”

Lamar nodded.

“Sure ‘nuf. I been on most every street in the east Hollow,” Virgil bragged, his wide chest puffed out like a proud peacock.

Kat picked up her dusty pack and slung it over one shoulder. “Then you’re just the man to help a lady out. I’m looking for Brook Street.”

“Ma’am?” Virgil asked. “Why’s you dressed in britches and your daddy’s undershirt? You planning on doing field work today?”

Her eyes widened, surprised by his question. She’d been in 1963 for less than five hours and already made a whopping mistake. Women her age did not wear jeans and tee-shirts and go tromping through downtown.

“You’re a smart boy, Virgil. Field work is exactly what I planned,” she said. “But now that I see what a fine day it is, I’m thinking about shopping instead. I bet y’all know where I can buy a pretty dress.”

Virgil pointed down the street. “Three blocks thatta way.”

“Then turn right on Webster Avenue,” Lamar added, jumping into the conversation for the first time. “Miss Jane’s is right beside the Waffle Shop. And Brook Street is by the river, so stay on Webster then go left on Grant, and you’ll run across it.”

“You give good directions, I shouldn’t have any trouble,” Kat said as she headed in the direction indicated.

“Hey, Miss Kat,” Lamar called.

She turned back to the boy, his tree bark brown face too serious for one so young. “What is it, Lamar?”

“You best be careful in town. Some white folks down there ain’t too nice to coloreds.”

“I appreciate the advice.” The boy sounded like someone who’d run into trouble downtown. And that scared her. Lord almighty, what had she gotten herself into?

=EIGHT=