Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel (18 page)

Crazy woman. Last week she near ripped his arm off when his hand slid a little too low during a slow dance. You can bet he’d kept a safe distance ever since. It would be hard for a one-armed man to find work. Of course, once they got in his car later on Dreama nearly jumped his bones in the front seat. It made no sense.

Maybe he ought to buy her something pretty like that shiny boot pin Mr. Mitch gave Kat. Could be she might treat him a little better. Or give him a kiss on the dance floor.

* * *

Dreama Simms struggled to keep her stage show upbeat, but to her ears, the music sounded flat and lifeless. The Blue crowd didn’t seem to notice her lackluster performance, they clapped and hollered after each number. But she heard the difference.

Trying to chase away her low blue funk, she jumped into
Bill Bailey
. Unable to fully concentrate she felt it would be best to stick with a number she could pick out in her sleep.

The cause of all this distraction was the wounded little bird she and Taxi had found at sundown. All beat up and bloody. Barely alive when they’d stumbled across her in the field. Dreama had cradled her like a newborn babe all the way to Timothy Biggers’ clinic, worried sick a body hurt so bad wouldn’t make it into town alive.

Dreama had been hit plenty in her 30 years, starting in with her daddy—who’d been real big on slapping the whole family around. A few other men she’d known since those days hadn’t been shy about using their fists, but she’d never been hurt that bad. Even when she’d dangled from that tree branch. And those awful bite marks. Only animals wearing people clothes could do something so cruel. Mean, low down men dogs done that. And they liked it.

She gave her head a shake to get rid of the ugly pictures inside and let her hands kind of dance across the keys. Thank God it was near closing time. Sometimes two o’clock in the morning came way too slow. As soon as she finished, she’d get Taxi to carry her to the clinic and check on the little bird. More than anything she wanted to talk to the woman and get the low down on the who’s and why’s of her beating. Dreama Simms did not intend to let this crime go by like so many others.

For several months she’d been collecting statements and sworn affidavits from colored victims and witnesses of white attacks. She sent these reports to the Alabama State Police, the FBI, and two Congressmen.

Her carefully detailed accounts of the brutality inflicted on Southern Negroes made it harder for the local law boys to claim nothing happened. In addition, a friend who worked for a newspaper up North printed them too. Newspaper accounts of the goings on made good reading all over the country. Any day now another batch would be ready for the mail and she wanted to include the information about the woman from the field.

* * *

According to the hand-printed sign in the lobby, The Yellowhammer Inn had opened for business in the 1860s. The Inn had been so named to honor the Alabama soldiers who’d fought and died in the War Between the States. These men had trimmed their gray Confederate uniforms in yellow, which resembled the wing patches of the yellowhammer woodpecker. A second sign explained the woodpecker was the state bird and source of Alabama’s nickname: The Yellowhammer State.

All that might be true, but in Mitch’s estimation, the Yellowhammer Inn was not a state hotel. He conceded the room did have slightly better furnishings than his own apartment, at least here the mattress sat on a box spring and frame instead of the floor.

Other than the goose egg on the back of his head, the free for all in the bar left him no worse for the wear. He didn’t even have a black eye or split lip to prove to Kat how heroically he’d fought for her honor. Without tangible evidence she wouldn’t believe his magnificent victory. At least he’d been victorious until Bubba cold cocked him from behind. Maybe he should leave that part out.

The Yellowhammer Inn was two miles from the Greyhound depot, and Mitch was acutely aware of the clock ticking toward the 5:20 A.M. window for his and Kat’s departure. Without a car, he couldn’t waste much time.

He quickly stripped of the bloodied shirt and jeans and showered off the debris collected during his eventful visit to Bubba’s Julep Junction. Luckily, he’d stuck an extra shirt in his gym bag. He’d chosen the plaid short sleeve sport shirt because he didn’t think it wouldn’t mark him as a tourist—or time-traveler. He hadn’t thought to bring another pair of jeans, so he settled for shaking the dust off. His key ring flew across the room and he jammed it back in his pocket, hoping he wouldn’t loose it thirty-seven years in the past.

The only part of his ensemble that worried him was the Millennium Special Nike athletic shoes. The city council had ordered a pair for each officer in the department as a thank you for a job well done. Of course, that had occurred before the Red and Black team’s fiasco with newspaper editor Justin Kolsky at the music recital.

He looked down at his feet and grimaced. Too late now. Fancy leather athletic shoes certainly weren’t available thirty-seven years ago. Hopefully, people would be too sleepy to scrutinize his footwear.

He retrieved his Maceyville police I.D. and the Smith & Wesson .38-caliber revolver he’d wedged between the slats and cloth sheeting on the underside of the box springs. He strapped the ankle holster in place and positioned his weapon. After the run in with Floyd and his pals, he felt a little extra leverage might be called for in future encounters. He knew they’d seek him out, demand retribution to rebuild shattered egos. The when and where yet to be determined.

He glanced at his watch. If Mitch wasn’t waiting on the doorstep of the depot when Taxi arrived, the man would disappear forever. He grabbed his gym bag and headed out the door. If things worked out, he and Kat would cross over in three hours, no more tinkering around in the past for either of them.

* * *

Dreama pulled away from Taxi’s arms and smoothed the wrinkles from her green silk dress. His hands were busier than a whole herd of octopuses, she thought, can’t let my guard down one second without having to peel some part of him off my body.

“Taxi, you stop that,” she scolded, slapping his hands away. “And cool off, boy, I got important business to tend to right now.”

He groaned and leaned his head back against the headrest. “You ain’t a kind woman, Dreama Simms. Get a man all heated up then say I got something important to do. Ain’t Christian.”

“Start this car and drive me over to the clinic,” she ordered. “I want to see Lettie Ruth and talk to that woman we picked up.”

“You in the business of giving out orders all a sudden?”

“No, I’m in the business of knocking you up aside your head if you don’t get this car moving. I told you, I got to talk to her. I can’t be playing with you all night.”

He rolled his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. “I been hearing enough talk about her the past few hours. I ain’t a happy man, Dreama. No sir, ain’t happy at all.”

“What you mean hearing talk? Who you been around?”

“Don’t get your tail feathers all riled up.”

Dreama turned sideways in the seat and took a good look at his face. Taxi was a sweet man but he couldn’t lie worth anything. And right this second her man was lying up a storm. She just knew he’d been flapping his gums—or heard somebody else flapping theirs—about the woman. And she intended to find out what had been said.

“Maximilian Devore…” she paused for dramatic effect, allowing the unspoken threat to hang in the air. “What did you hear? Is some low down going around telling uglies about her? Or did you spread the gossip yourself?”

Taxi’s fingers beat out an agitated rhythm on the steering wheel. “Some fellas over at Bubba’s were shootin’ off, that’s all. Not me. No, ma’am, not me.”

“Who then?” The words burst out with enough force to cause him to flinch. Dreama scooted closer and rubbed his neck. “Baby, I’m not mad at you,” she crooned. “Just need to know who’s been saying what.”

“White boys,” he mumbled. “Bunch of no good white trash bragging on their deeds.”

Dreama’s stomach churned. She didn’t care for the scared feeling running high speed inside her. White boys, Taxi had said. White boys with an
‘s’
on the tail end, meant more than one.

Letting folks know about the rape would surely open the cellar door on all sorts of payback time for Dreama Simms. And now, she had to worry about the trouble coming from three different directions on account of that
‘s’
.

“You for sure they were talking about our wounded little bird?”

“One hundred per cent for sure.”

“Out in the open?”

“They didn’t give much mind to who all might be listening. And believe me, they should of cared.” Taxi chuckled.

Her fur stood on end and her tail feathers twitched when she heard his low chuckle. “You find their actions amusing, Mr. Devore?”

“No,” he said, raising his hands to fend off expected blows. “They ain’t the least bit funny.”

Dreama fluffed her hair and stared out the front windshield. Her patience, already frazzled from the sunset discovery gave out. “Take me to Lettie Ruth,” she said through gritted teeth.

If it had been winter instead of Spring, he could have chipped ice off the car roof.

=FOURTEEN=

DR. BIGGERS’ CLINIC

“She won’t talk,” Lettie Ruth told Dreama Simms and Taxi Devore, as she came down the stairs.

“I thought she be talking to you by now,” Dreama said, following her friend into the waiting area.

Lettie Ruth made herself comfortable in an overstuffed arm chair. Dreama stretched out on the sofa and Taxi leaned against the door jamb, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

“It’s to be expected,” Lettie Ruth explained. “She’ll come around in a few days. Until then, I want to keep her calm and quiet. Give her a secure feeling.”

“And that means no men company,” Dreama said, pointing an accusing finger at Taxi lingering in the entry hall.

“Woman,” Taxi sputtered. “I got no need to see her. I only came along cause you made me.”

Lettie Ruth smiled at him. “You’re a good man, Taxi. I’m certain Dreama didn’t mean you specific.” She glared at the other woman. “Did you?”

Although she and Dreama had been best friends since they were children playing in the streets of New Orleans, Lettie had never much cared for her mean streak. The girl’s tongue was sharp enough to cut through a beef steak, and she used it on a regular basis. But picking on Taxi for absolutely no reason seemed vexatious.

Dreama looked shamed. “No, I know you wouldn’t harm her, Taxi honey. Come on over here,” she said, patting an empty space on the sofa.

He slowly crossed the room and took a seat beside her. “I would never do that. I seen what those boys done to her.” Taxi shook his head. “Shames me to be a man.”

“You is a good man, Maximilian Devore,” Lettie Ruth repeated. “And we all know there’s a whole wide world of difference between you and them.”

Dreama nodded in agreement and climbed onto his lap. “And I’m sorry to be gettin’ on you like that. But I do believe she’d be better off without seeing people who need to shave first thing every morning.”

“You feel that way too, Lettie Ruth?” Taxi asked. “Feel Kat don’t need to see no man?”

His eyes seemed to be asking another question, but for the life of her, Lettie Ruth couldn’t figure out what he wanted to know. What difference could it make to him whether or not her patient wanted to see any men?

Suddenly Taxi jumped up, dumping Dreama on the floor as he crawled over the back of the sofa. He peeked between the Venetian blind slats. “Turn off the lights!” he yelled. “Get ‘em off now.”