Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel (12 page)

“Get yourself off my merchandise, girl! You get that skinny behind off those things right this second!” The ear shattering command heralded the arrival of Miss Jane herself, an ebony Humpty Dumpty with wildly flapping arms and a shocking pink beehive.

Kat did as ordered and quickly jumped to her feet.

Miss Jane picked up the damaged sweater and waved it accusingly in Kat’s face. “This is downright nasty, girl,” she shrieked. “What got into you? Running in here and tearing up my goods. You ain’t got a lick of sense.”

Stunned by the decibel level of the attack, Kat said the first thing that popped into her head. “I’m sure it will wash out.”

“Warsh? Warsh out? Nobody’s gonna buy no warshed out sweater.”

“I’ll buy it.” Kat fished in her pocket and pulled out a handful of green, hoping to assuage the furious egg-shaped woman.

If her morning got any further out of control, she could only imagine what the afternoon held in store. Even as a curious and rowdy child she’d never stirred up this much trouble in such a short period of time.

“Ain’t that the gospel truth, girl. You is gonna buy it,
and
you is gonna clean up this mess,” Miss Jane declared. She stood with both hands on her ample hips, her head bobbing like a pink chicken with each word.

Kat squatted, and ever so carefully, gathered the scattered pastel cardigans. She made certain they remained a safe distance from the brown stain on her shirt. She picked up the stack and held it out to the shop owner. An offering to the thundering goddess of Orlon.

Miss Jane accepted her offering, then proceeded to scrutinize each individual sweater, searching for further signs of abuse. Slightly mollified at finding them unharmed, she turned her penetrating gaze on Kat.

“Why’s you dressed for cotton picking?”

Judas Priest, Kat thought, is everyone in town obsessed with my appearance? She promised herself on the next time-travel adventure she’d plan her wardrobe with greater attention.

“I was on my way to your store to buy a dress when I ran across a glitch.”

“Gulch?” asked Miss Jane. “Ain’t no gulches ‘round here.”

Kat smiled in spite of her fear of the woman. “Not a gulch,” she explained. “A glitch. You know, a trouble spot.”

Miss Jane inclined her head toward the street. “You mean them damn fools up by the barber shop?”

Kat nodded. “Now there’s a trio for you. All of ‘em put together barely got the brains of one little ole June bug.”

“For sure they is stupid as stumps. But they is also mean, child,” Miss Jane warned. “You best not mix in with them.”

“I don’t plan on it,” Kat said.

“Good.” Miss Jane nodded approvingly. “Now, let’s see to getting you some proper town clothes. Might ease your way a bit.”

“I’m more than ready to have my way eased.”

“You been traveling far?” Miss Jane asked, as she sorted through a rack of dresses. Ever so often she pulled one out and held it up for further inspection, then either slung it over her broad shoulder or shoved it back on the rack.

“A goodly distance,” Kat hedged.

“Where ‘bouts?” the store owner asked, eyeing a blue flower print dress.

Like the Reverend Alvin Rayson, Miss Jane refused to accept half answers. Kat needed a believable response to stop the inquisition. “I’m up from New Orleans.”

Miss Jane held the blue dress a little closer to Kat, but still maintained a safe distance from the tobacco stained tee-shirt. “You got folks in Maceyville?”

Now that was a loaded question. What was she supposed to say? Yes ma’am, my Aunt Lettie Ruth lives here, but she doesn’t know me from Adam; and I don’t know her from Eve because I haven’t been born yet.

“I’m just passing through,” Kat said. “Looking for work.” She instantly regretted the spontaneous ad lib. Which most likely would only cause more trouble.

“Work you say?” Miss Jane passed over an armful clothing and pointed to the dressing room.

“Uh-huh,” Kat mumbled and quickly moved toward the back of the store.

“I know somebody what wants a girl that can type real good,” Miss Jane called out. “You ever work one of those electric typewriters, honey?”

=NINE=

A little less
than an hour later, Kat stepped out of Jane’s Dress Boutique wearing a new denim skirt and a red and white-checked blouse. She also carried a bright pink shopping bag filled with two dresses, including the blue flowered one, and the dirty white sweater. Her jeans and the tee-shirt, with Floyd’s hand print emblazoned on the front, were rolled and stuffed inside her backpack.

At Miss Jane’s insistence, she’d accepted the slip of paper with the name of the man needing a typist. The pushy woman also told her, not suggested, to talk with Pastor Gordon down at the Webster Avenue Freedom Methodist Church about a decent place for a single woman to stay.

“Y’all got to be careful nowadays,” the shop owner cautioned.

Kat tended to agree, sleeping under a bush again didn’t seem a very good idea, especially after meeting Floyd and his pals.

She paused in the shade under the hot pink awning. The bench in front of the barber shop was empty, free of the riffraff who only came to the east Hollow to kick up trouble. She felt relieved the three stooges had tired of their idiotic games and returned to their own part of town.

She took off down the street enjoying the late morning, thankful her new ensemble drew little attention from passerbys.

According to Miss Jane, the red brick church, several blocks beyond the business district, sat at the junction separating the black east from the white west Maceyville. In Kat’s own time, the Freedom Methodist church no longer existed. It had been torn down and replaced years ago by a fried chicken take-out and a gas station.

Many things were the same, but now and then something popped up and caught her by surprise. For example, the sawed off wooden barrels of colorful begonias evenly spaced along the curbs and the old fashioned globe street lamps. Too bad they’re gone, she thought they prettied up the district.

As the temperature warmed, the humidity rose several notches and before long her blouse was sticky with perspiration. Nosy insects buzzed her, periodically swooping in to land on sweat slick arms and bare legs. Kat lifted her shoulder length curls and dabbed the beads of moisture on the back of her neck. She wished for a breeze to cool her down, but the sprawling live oaks, their branches festooned with Spanish moss, remained motionless.

Her hand brushed against the cowboy boot pin adorning her new blouse and for at least the twentieth time since crossing Park Street, she wished for Mitch’s company. She would like to have shared this glorious day with her partner. Even the humidity couldn’t diminish the early Spring beauty. The earth, pleased to have survived another cold winter, celebrated with a myriad of colors and scents. As she passed from the business district into the residential area, she admired carefully groomed yards showcasing hydrangeas, black-eyed Susan and yellow jessamine.

She could imagine the activity in the woods surrounding Maceyville as the cane and kudzu fought for territory. Thickets of blackberries and huckleberries would be working hard at making the fruit for summer jam.

What am I doing here? The thought shot into her head and ricocheted around like a wild bullet. Walking in the bright sunlight, this whole exercise seemed foolish. Who would ever believe Kathleen Templeton, time-traveler extraordinaire, had crossed one narrow pot hole filled street and wham! ended up thirty-seven-years in the past. Jiminy Christmas, she must be out of her mind.

Was she here to prevent Lettie Ruth’s death? Or did another purpose lie beneath all the smoke and mirrors? The voice on the phone warned her not to cross over, so naturally she’d done the exact opposite. And now Kat didn’t know what her next move should be. She couldn’t exactly march up to her aunt’s door and announce herself or her mission.

And she couldn’t go home for nine more days.

Caught up her thoughts, Kat failed to notice the white stake-bed pickup idling in the alleyway until it lurched forward, blocking her path. By the time the occupant’s identity registered, she’d been hog-tied and thrown into the back of the truck.

Little Carl’s strawberry birthmark glowed like the setting sun as he shoved the filthy rag in her mouth. He pushed her face down on the hot metal truck bed. “We got her, Floyd,” he yelled, and banged on the cab. “Take off!”

Clouds of dirt billowed over the sides as the pickup gained speed. Kat struggled for a breath, but the wad of flannel prevented her from inhaling fully and the disgusting taste caused her to gag. She turned her head to the side, hoping to dislodge the rag before she choked to death on her own vomit.

“Scoot on over and let me get a look, Little Carl,” a voice above her whispered harshly.

Rough hands grabbed Kat’s shoulders and flipped her over.

Louis stared hungrily, like she was a cake in a bakery window. He wiped the sweat off his fat face and ripped open her blouse, dodging the flying buttons. He shoved her bra above her breasts. “Got a pair of tits on her that oughta give three or four gallons of chocolate milk.”

“Don’t you boys be startin’ without me,” Floyd hollered from the driver’s seat.

“We’re just makin’ sure this here nigger’s equipment is in the right place,” Little Carl said.

“It damn well better be in the right place when I get to her,” Floyd threatened.

“Aww, Floyd, we ain’t doing nothing,” Louis whined.

A type of fear Kat hadn’t experienced since her childhood nightmares reared its ugly head. Thick oily waves of terror surged through her veins. As though she’d suddenly flipped a switch on a synthesizer, her heart beats picked up speed, hitting with such force her entire chest vibrated.

Control. I have to get under control. I can’t go on wallowing in fear.
To do so would be a sure fire death warrant. She’d foolishly publicly humiliated their leader and now these boys were out for blood. Her blood.

This bore all the markings of a gang rape unless she could shift the odds around. Faces of the rape victims she’d counseled clustered behind her closed eyes. All the comforting words she’d spouted, all the psychology—disappeared like puffs of smoke in the gale force storm brewing inside her.

A fleeting thought of Lettie Ruth streaked across her mind. Is this how life had ended for her aunt? Had three country boys thrown her in the back of a truck and carried her off?

Sweet Jesus God, Mitch was right. She’d walked right into a spider web spun thirty-seven years ago and got tangled up in the sticky strands.

Action equals reaction
.

Like a knight in shining armor, Mitch’s favorite slogan rode into her personal hell. Instead of lying here like a wilted Magnolia blossom, she must react to these men.

Kat knew how to defend herself, but in order to utilize those skills she must have freedom of movement. Trussed up like a Christmas goose, she didn’t have a prayer.

Ignoring the hands roaming her body, she arched her back slightly, creating space between her spine and truck bed so she could manipulate the rope cinched around her wrists. Her sweat slick hands allowed a tiny bit of movement within the confines of her bonds. Only a little, but a little was always better than nothing.

Action
. She worked her hands back and forth.

Reaction
. With each twist, the fiber strands stretched a fraction of an inch. Things were reacting, but not fast enough. Before long, this wild bumpy ride would end and she would be forced to deal with multiple attackers. God in heaven, help me, she prayed.