Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel (20 page)

“Don’t touch me,” Kat snarled.

“Hey, honey,” she said softly. Although Kat’s eyes were open, they had the dazed look of a sleepwalker. Lettie Ruth rotated her hand to loosen the iron grip.

With a jerk, Kat sat up and twisted her Lettie’s arm backwards. The maneuver forced Lettie to her knees beside the bed.

“I warned you,” Kat growled.

The light slanting in from the hall fell on the upraised arm. Lettie Ruth recognized her Christmas money sock and heard the distinctive jingle of coins as Kat swung at her head. The first blow landed on her shoulder, temporarily numbing her free arm. The second hit her temple. Shooting stars … then a black fog filled the bedroom.

* * *

Dreama sat at the kitchen table and rested her head on folded arms, her energy level all used up. If Taxi’s skinny butt didn’t waltz through the door in the next few minutes, she was going to drop in her tracks. She generally managed to stay on her feet after a show until three o’clock or so, but it was after four now and this girl wanted to go to bed.

The thumping noises from upstairs were loud enough for Dreama to open her eyes, but not loud enough to raise her head or get up and investigate. Most likely just Lettie moving around and helping Kat. Her eyes drooped, no way she could stay awake another minute.

* * *

Within minutes of leaving the Greyhound depot, Mitch reached the decision that Maximilian Devore’s 1946 green De Soto barely met the lowest standards to still qualify it as functional transportation.

The seventeen-year-old car had enough smoke billowing from the tail pipe to be mistaken for a coal burning train. Every time Taxi hit a pot hole, which seemed frequent, Mitch had to reattach the rusty coat hanger holding the rear passenger door shut. When the De Soto plowed through a Grand Canyon-sized crater, Mitch’s head bounced off the interior roof like a ginger red basketball off a felt-covered backboard.

“Judas Priest! You learn to drive at a demolition derby?” Mitch immediately regretted his outburst. Taxi had placed his own life in jeopardy by helping out, the least he could do was behave in a cordial manner. “Hey, don’t get me wrong, I really appreciate everything you’re doing. Thanks,” he said, trying to make up for the brusque words.

“That’s okay, Mr. Mitch. I knows this ain’t the best vehicle.”

“Your car beats the heck out of walking.”

Taxi chuckled, as he guided the car through another round of bone shattering bumps. “Sorry ‘bout the bad street, boss. But folks won’t take kindly to us going around town together.”

The main route would’ve been a whole lot smoother, but Taxi had suggested they keep to the back roads. Mitch agreed. They were like two vampires hiding out from the sun. He knew it would only take one busy body to get them in enough trouble to last a lifetime, plus ten years.

It wasn’t exactly against the law for white and black to be in the same vehicle, but then again, it wasn’t the 1963 accepted norm either. Under the circumstances, the last thing he wanted was to be rousted by the White Citizen’s Committee or the Klan. The thought of those hooded bone heads prancing around gave him a twinge of unease.

In turn, that twinge set off bells and whistles. His cop switch flipped on and he scanned the street, alternating his gaze from right to left. For the third time in less than a minute, the same twinge prompted him to lean over the seat and stick his hand out the front passenger window— permanently frozen in the half-raised position—to adjust the exterior side mirror.

The pair of headlights that jumped into view sent his stomach rocketing into his throat.

“We’ve got company,” he said, taking care to use a detached cool tone to avoid rattling the driver’s already frayed nerves. “Of course a pair of headlights doesn’t necessarily indicate trouble.” He leaned across the front seat again. “You know, it’s getting close to 4:30 in the morning, and lots of folks are headed for the early shift at the Demopolis dam.”

“Or the railroad yards and steel mills in Birmingham,” Taxi added, his voice hopeful.

“Sure,” Mitch said, as the speedometer eased up to 50 miles per hour.

“They still back there?” Taxi asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“Now, don’t get all worked up. These back roads get their fair share of traffic, it could be nothing more than someone traveling between home and work.”

“Don’t mean no disrespect, Mr. Mitch, but them lights don’t appear to be falling back none and I done speeded up twice.”

Mitch twisted around in the seat and took a hard look, trying to estimate the distance between the vehicles. On this narrow and poorly maintained road nobody should be traveling more than 25 mph, yet the headlights remained a steady two lengths behind. Which meant the other car was moving at the same speed, around 50 miles per hour.

“Taxi,” he kept his voice pitched low because a crazy idea the people tailing them might overhear danced in his head. The eavesdropping theory wove in and out of his logical thought processes, a conga line that wouldn’t give up. In fact, Mitch believed about half of his rational senses had already joined the dance party. He needed to get a grip on himself before an innocuous situation escalated into a full-blown alert. “Let’s take a left at the next corner.” He pointed down the road. “Once we’re on Smithson, you floor this crate. I mean, push this mother to the limit.”

“This ole mother ain’t got much fire in her belly, Mr. Mitch.”

“Do the best you can, Taxi. What I’m interested in is discovering if those fellas riding our ass are after us or on their way home for breakfast.”

“I think maybe they plan on having you and me for breakfast,” Taxi said.

“I’m not in the mood to be anyone’s eggs and bacon today. How about you?”

“Me neither, boss. Y’all hang on, now.”

The heavy old De Soto sped down the road and slip swung around the corner like a fuel injected race car. The tires grabbed the asphalt and the car barely fish tailed before shooting east down Smithson. The four lane street ran parallel to the Tombigbee River, a route with gentle curves and very enjoyable on a Sunday afternoon drive, but dangerous for high speed racing.

Mitch barely had time for a breath before the headlights bounced back into view. That pretty much settled the issue as far as he was concerned; he and Taxi were most definitely the foxes in this hunt.

As Mitch plotted a way out of their current predicament, Taxi maneuvered the boat of a car around the curves, increasing their speed in tiny increments. How long could the engine last? The car was seventeen-years-old and probably clocked at a minimum, 100,000 miles on the odometer. Oil changes? Tires? He wouldn’t give odds on regular maintenance. Those factors, plus the three loud backfires in a row, caused him to severely lower her life expectancy.

When he twisted around to get a better look out the rear window the edges of his badge folder dug into his hip. On his way to the bus depot he’d stopped by the Yellowhammer Inn and retrieved both gun and badge. At the time he didn’t know why, but maybe one of Kat’s New Orleans voodoo spirits had latched onto him, guiding him as well.

“Taxi.” Mitch tapped him on the shoulder. “Think you can shake them for thirty seconds?”

“We got a side street comin’ up fast, boss. It winds crooked between some warehouses.”

“That sounds good. Try to get a street or two ahead of them, then you and me are going to switch places.”

“Switch? But I’m driving here, Mr. Mitch.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never played this game. I’ll climb in front, grab the wheel and then you shimmy over into the back seat.”

Taxi nodded. “I knows the game. I just don’t see no point to it, boss.”

“Trust me on this, there’s a damn good point.”

=FIFTEEN=

The seat maneuver went smoothly, and by the time the tail car caught up Mitch was ready to show his Ace in the hole. He tapped the brakes, hoping the tail lights functioned; otherwise the sedan would plow into them. Luckily everything seemed to be in working order and both vehicles began to slow. Mitch picked his spot, the intersection of Grant and Laurel, and pulled over. He exited and walked until he stood in the middle of Grant. He wanted to draw their attention away from Taxi, who’d refused to leave the pseudo-protection of the locked De Soto.

The sounds of slamming doors and footsteps echoed off the brick buildings along the street. Three men in baseball caps clambered out of the pursuit car with all the grace of a herd of rhinos. Their identity didn’t surprise Mitch.

In pack formation—Floyd, Little Carl, and Louis moved in, snipping and shoving at each other like wild dogs spoiling for a fight. They split off and circled around the green car, banging on the roof and trunk, screaming at Taxi inside.

So much for diversionary tactics.

If this exact moment had been captured in a comic strip Mitch would have been drawn with a big light bulb over his head. Their posturing and bravado were façades, like a fancy paint job on an inferior product. With the clarity of a ten-point diamond, he saw the truth behind the ridiculous segregation rules. Taxi, and all he represented, scared the shit out of these folks.

During Mitch’s epiphany the guys had grown bored banging on the car, so Little Carl hawked up a loogie and spit it through the open window. Once their enjoyment in this childish display wore off, they egged each other on until Floyd finally unzipped his fly and urinated on the front windshield. Lewd comments equating Taxi with human waste fouled the early morning breeze.

Mitch longed to inform them that the man they were tormenting had demonstrated more class and courage in the past few hours than they ever could hope to achieve in a lifetime. But he settled for name calling.

“Hey, assholes,” he taunted.

The pack turned in toto, ready to expand their dominion. They came together in the middle of the street then moved forward, three abreast.

Mitch withdrew the Maceyville Police Department badge from his back pocket and held it out in front of him.

They skidded to a halt like three dogs on a short leash. Their ‘I’m gonna beat the shit out of you’ grins dropped to the ground.

Mitch took a step closer and gave them his infamous evil cop eye.

A sound several feet away caused him to look past them to the black Impala SS. If asked, he’d be hard pressed to say which he recognized first—the car or the man seated behind the wheel. Mitch took a faltering step backwards as Billy Lee Mitchell opened the door and slithered off the red vinyl seat. At that moment he heard Taxi’s frightened squawk, and didn’t blame him one iota. The man moving toward him was the monster in many of Mitch’s nightmares.

In a single heart beat he became a terrified five-year-old again, trembling as his father approached. Any second he expected to hear the ridicule in Billy Lee’s words and voice, the ugly shouted curses. He flinched with each slap of his father’s boots on the pavement, reliving the blows delivered with closed fists. Or open handed. Or with anything the angry man could swing.

The driver stopped less than five feet away, fists clinched and a ‘go to hell’ look in his mean eyes.

Billy Lee Mitchell reminded Mitch of a dark avenging demon. Six-feet of bad boy attitude, with a coal-black razor crew cut and deep brown-black eyes that burned with unrighteous fire. His unbuttoned denim work shirt revealed a muscular chest. Tight jeans and steel toed boots completed the ensemble.

Billy Lee snorted and cocked his hip. The streetlights glinted off the brass knuckles on his right hand.

Mitch could see his father ached to get into it, wanted to draw first blood. But Billy Lee might be surprised at the outcome. This time his opponent wouldn’t be a scared five-year-old. His opponent would be a full-grown man. A
large
man. Mitch still carried his pro-football 250 pounds and at six-foot three-inches, he had the immovability of a stone wall. By comparison, Billy Lee, who weighed in at around 170 pounds was three-inches shorter and more closely resembled the schoolyard bully than the ogre Mitch remembered.