Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel (15 page)

“Kat.”

“Pleased to meet you, Kat.” She pointed to the bloody floor. “How’s about letting me take a look at those feet of yours?”

Kat studied her for several seconds, then nodded.

As the patient struggled to stand, Lettie Ruth stepped aside. She would hate to jinx things by moving in too fast. The woman had some difficulty, but from the stubborn set of her jaw and determined expression, Lettie Ruth figured she could make it on her own.

While Kat continued her slow and painful journey back to the bed, Lettie Ruth prepared the solution to clean her feet. She made a quick trip down the hall to the bathroom for warm water. When she returned, she found her patient seated on the edge of the bed.

Lettie Ruth smiled. She’d been right. This one still had some spunk left. She poured the pitcher of water into her Grandma’s porcelain washbowl and added the hydrogen peroxide solution. She carried it over to the bed and sat cross-legged in the floor. She gently raised Kat’s foot, then lowered it into the wash basin.

As she used tweezers to remove the glass shards, Lettie Ruth kept up a stream of light chatter, trying to draw out her mysterious patient. Unfortunately, Kat seemed reluctant to reveal any information other than the fact she’d been attacked by three white men.

There was something so familiar about the girl, and Lettie Ruth kept staring, trying to place where she might have seen her. She finally decided since they were near the same age, they may have gone to Fisk together. Kat was a pretty thing, kind of a creamed-coffee color, with shoulder length curls and striking honey-colored eyes like Alvin’s. Lettie thought she must be at least five-feet eight-inches tall, because the bed was high and she didn’t have any trouble sticking her feet in the basin on the floor.

As Lettie pulled a large hunk of glass out of her heel, Kat jerked her foot back so hard her knee nearly hit her own nose.

“Sorry,” Kat mumbled, eyes skipping around the room. “It’s been a piss poor day.”

Laughter erupted before Lettie Ruth could catch it and tie it down. Belatedly she slapped a hand across her mouth and looked apologetically at Kat. “Girl, I am so sorry.”

Kat attempted a smile, dimples digging holes in her cheeks. “It’s okay.”

“Those big ole dimples you got are sure fire man pleasers,” Lettie Ruth commented. “My little brother has dimples just like yours. Doesn’t seem fair for a boy to get all the good looks in the family.”

“My Pop has dimples too,” Kat said. “When I was little he used to tell me they were contagious.”

Lettie Ruth let out another whoop. “Jumping Jesus! I forgot all about my chicken. By the way,” she shouted, as she raced out of the room, “I’m Lettie Ruth Rayson.”

* * *

Kat’s mouth dropped open. Lettie Ruth Rayson? Much like Humphrey Bogart’s character Rick in the film,
Casablanca
, she wondered how, out of all the houses in Maceyville, she’d ended up in this one.

Some of Mitch’s what-if arguments must have taken root, because Kat knew she had to distance herself from her aunt. And her father. She remembered Pop’s story of the Spring he’d spent with his sister hunting ghosts. And here she was, smack dab in the middle of
that April
, which meant Alvin Rayson could walk through the door any second.

What-if,
she happened to say or do the wrong thing? Did something to change the previous pattern. The ripple effect from her interference could wipe out Kat’s future. As soon as she could move, she had to get out of this house and away from her family immediately. Later on she’d figure out how to protect her aunt from the approaching danger.

=ELEVEN=

Kat Templeton took
a small bite of fried chicken, gagged, and spit it out. This made her third attempt to eat something. Chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans. No matter what went in her mouth, it tasted nasty.

It tasted like the men in the field.

At first only her hands trembled, soon the tremors spread throughout her body. She shook so hard the brass headboard rattled against the wall. The white sun-dried sheets rippled like an ocean. Memories of the attack flooded all her senses. Once again she saw the blue spring sky above as she lay on the ground. She felt the sun warmed dirt against her bare back. Smelled their sweaty bodies. Heard the grunts as they pounded and punished her body, invading every opening.

Now they leered at her from the shadowed corners. Fat Louis stood beside the dresser, her blood smeared across his mouth. Little Carl peeked out from the closet, his tobacco stained teeth glinted yellow in the semi-darkness. Floyd, in the corner by the door, unfastened his jeans.

Kat couldn’t hold back the terror. Screams bubbling from a molten pool within her soul erupted with volcanic force. Her fear and rage filled the pretty blue and white bedroom, contaminating everything.

“Shhh, baby, shhh. Lettie Ruth is with you. Things gonna be fine.”

Kat curled up in a ball. A tiny ball could hide. If she could only make herself small enough, they wouldn’t be able to find her under all the covers.

“Kat, you come on back now. Quit screaming, child. Open up your eyes.”

Cool hands gently brushed her forehead. Good hands. Black hands. “Is that you, Momma?” she asked the hands.

“No, baby, it’s not your momma. It’s Lettie Ruth. Come on now, open those pretty honey-brown eyes and look at me.”

Kat shook her head. She didn’t dare to allow even a sliver of light to enter her dark hiding place. If she opened her eyes, the men would be able to see her. The only safe place was in the dark.

* * *

Mitch brooded about the incident at The Blue all the way to the
white
side of Maceyville. But the fact he’d been sitting in an all-black bar wasn’t the burr rubbing under his saddle. However, the discomfort his presence had generated among the Blue’s regular customers kept digging under his skin. Until he’d walked in there, his understanding of Maceyville, Alabama—circa 1963—had been naive at best.

Thanks to his grandfather Paddy O’Connor’s guidance and strong influence, Mitch had learned at twelve, to never make a judgment based on a person’s race. To Mitch people were people. Some good and some bad. Color didn’t carry much weight on either side. But his white skin definitely counted for something in this particular here and now. And he would be wise to remember it. This world depressed the living hell out of him.

And his present surroundings, Bubba’s Julep Junction, did little to lighten his mood. He wouldn’t be in this joint except The Blue, was coloreds only and off limits to a ginger haired freckle-faced Irishman.

He thought Bubba’s smelled like the belly of a hog. In a childish display of temper he shoved the enormous pile of peanut shells at his elbow onto the shelf behind the bar. He didn’t figure anyone would care or notice.

This whole mess was Kat’s fault. Neither of them should be in this here and now. At least he didn’t have to search the whole damn town for her. He knew where to go. No matter how much she denied it, the first thing she would have done is contact her aunt Lettie Ruth. All Kat’s rigmarole about not interfering wasn’t worth a plug nickel. He knew his stubborn, hard headed and impossible to control partner.

Disgusted, Mitch tipped his beer bottle and finished off the last lukewarm drop, then grimaced. Although he preferred draft, he’d ordered bottled because he seriously doubted Bubba washed the glasses. And instead of eating a big juicy Blue burger—with cheese and extra onions—he’d dined on bottled beer and peanuts. Of course Bubba’s offered food, but eating anything in this joint that didn’t come in a natural wrapper was completely out of the question.

Pissed off at the world, he swiveled around on the tattered stool and studied his fellow white patrons. The folks down at the Blue were a whole level above this crowd. This bunch looked like charter members of the redneck Welfare club. And all of them getting drunker than a skunk on a Monday night.

He noticed Bubba’s well-defined sections, reminiscent of a high school cafeteria where the jocks and nerds never shared a table. The booths along the wall were staked out by old farts who probably sat in the same damn seat every day, drinking themselves into oblivion. At the middle tables sat the married guys, who spent the whole night trying to peek down the bar maid’s blouse or pinch her butt every time she delivered a round. The shellacked bar, from now and until the end of time, would remain the domain of the born to raise hell crowd.

The trio down at the far end were a nest of vipers just looking for trouble. When they’d busted through the door earlier, carrying on and congratulating themselves on some great escapade, his skin began to tingle. The fat one seemed especially pleased with himself and kept snapping his teeth at the air like a deranged hound dog. Every time he went through his pantomime, the other two guffawed. Mitch failed to see the humor, but then again, he sat too far away to catch all the nuances of their conversation.

After several minutes of watching, curiosity got the better of him and on his return trip from the men’s room, he relocated within earshot, taking the stool next to the dark-haired man.

The boys were slapping each other on the back as they boasted of their sexual prowess.

“Jumping Jehosaphat,” he muttered after a few minutes of eavesdropping. They thought their dicks were the greatest thing next to sliced bread.

As though picking up Mitch’s disparaging thoughts, the dark-haired one reached down and massaged his crotch. “And then she says, y’all ain’t got nothin’ in those britches to cause me harm.”

“But you sure showed that nigger a thing or two, Floyd.” The one with a strawberry mark on his cheek, giggled nastily.

“Hell, Little Carl, once she got a taste I reckon she up and changed her mind.” Floyd cackled, thrusting his pelvis forward several times for emphasis.

“Lots of uppity talk came out of that big hole in her face. Downright disgustin’,” Little Carl said.

“Told me she’s a po-lice-man,” the fat one spat out, along with several good size peanut chunks.

A bad feeling washed over Mitch. He gave them his full attention. What were the odds of another black woman running around Maceyville claiming to be a cop? Even though he and Kat discussed how she would have to be on guard all the time and how to behave, he wouldn’t put it past his cocky partner to get into an argument, then flash her badge.

Sometimes Kat didn’t have anymore sense than God gave a turnip. But she was far from ignorant about how things worked in the sixties. She knew better than to act out. On occasion she displayed a lot of attitude, which Mitch didn’t fault. A tough attitude went hand and hand with law and order. The cop’s weapon of choice. However, to get her back up and flash an attitude in this segregated racist society
would be
dumb.

“A nigger woman cop,” Louis repeated, shaking his head.

“That’s a bald face piece of shit,” Floyd snorted.

“Ain’t never gonna be no nigger cops in Maceyville,” Little Carl declared.

“Well, boys, if that little gal wants to play cop, she can frisk me any ole day,” Floyd said.

“Appears to me she done frisked your Johnson,” Louis giggled.

“That porch monkey bitch can…” Floyd stopped mid-brag when he noticed Mitch’s interest. “Hey boy, this conversation’s private,” he said.

Mitch didn’t respond, instead continued to stare into the mirror. He would kick his own butt if he could reach it. He’d been thinking how stupid it would be for Kat to get involved with this bunch and by jingo he’d stepped in it. For God’s sake, a stranger in a bar never trespassed on this type of bull session. In all fairness, Floyd et al weren’t broadcasting their conquests to the world. They’d kept their voices pitched low and if Mitch hadn’t gotten nosy and moved from the opposite end of the bar, he’d been none the wiser.