Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel (25 page)

Hearing Pop preach today had helped clear her thinking. As the panic subsided, she realized how foolish she’d been to attack Lettie Ruth and run away. Neither her aunt nor the other woman would ever to do anything to harm her. As for the white man she saw getting out of the car, her reaction had been over the top. Good heavens, it was a medical clinic and he’d probably come to see the doctor. She needed to go back and make her apologies.

* * *

Alvin Rayson kept a close watch on the woman in the yellow dress, his heart filled with sorrow. She appeared so lost he longed to hold her in his arms and protect her fragile soul. Underneath all the bruises, her looks reminded him of the pretty Dolores Townson. And in some ways, also of himself.

He caught Dolores’ eye and suddenly his head filled with images of the future. He saw their wedding. A little white house with roses bushes under the front window. In the middle of his daydream, Miss Kat appeared, and he immediately recognized her as their child. His daughter. He saw the three of them, walking side by side down a long road.

He gave his head a shake, what a flight of fantasy. But then, after studying ghosts for several weeks, anything seemed possible. He took one more look at his guest.  She did possess Dolores’ beautiful coffee coloring and the deep Rayson dimples and honey-colored eyes. He supposed anything was possible.

=EIGHTEEN=

“
This ain’t a good
situation,” Floyd told Little Carl. The two men sat on the hood of his pick-up watching the fire ant procession in and out of a cone-shaped mound near the river bank. One hundred feet away, the Tombigbee River rode high, threatening to overflow its banks. “Billy Lee says our gal is holed up in Dr. Niggers clinic.”

Little Carl took a swig from the whiskey bottle in the brown bag. “Then we got to go over to there and drag that coon out by her Brillo pad hair.”

“You and what army?” Floyd sneered. “Remember what happened a few years back? Biggers shot those boys to hell and gone.”

“Lucky bastard. Betcha he couldn’t do it again.”

“You the only one in your family without a set of brains?” Floyd asked, thumping Little Carl on the back of his head. “Biggers fought in the war, for Christ’s sake. Got himself a star for bravery. I seen it pinned on his uniform when he marched in the Veteran’s Day parade.”

“Shitfire, I can go down to Ollie’s pawn shop and pick up one of those for two bucks. Betcha his ain’t real.”

Floyd smacked him on the head again. “It’s real, you horse’s ass. You ever hear of a place called Iwo Jima?”

“Yeah, and I seen the movie too, John Wayne starred in it. Now there’s a man that can really kick the shit out of people.”

“Biggers was a real goddamn Marine, Little Carl, not a Hollywood actor. And you can bet a month’s pay, a
real
Marine knows how to shoot. He could hit you right between the eyes at 100 yards.”

“Only if he can see me.”

Floyd turned his head slightly, and a blurry Little Carl came into focus. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I hear the docs been sleeping with the rest of the niggers down at Webster Methodist lately. So if he’s there, then he ain’t at his clinic.”

“And if he is?”

“Then we blow his head off with some TNT before he can grab his rifle.”

Floyd rubbed his chin. “If he’s gone, his bitch will still be guarding the door.” After a couple of run-ins with Lettie Ruth Rayson he knew she wasn’t a shrinking violet. Last time she’d given him a lot of sass and it came real close to being embarrassing. “Maybe I ought to teach her a lesson too,” he said smiling broadly.

“You mean his nigger nurse?”

“Yeah, Lettie Ruth. I’m thinking she might make a fine doormat for my boots.” Floyd slid off the hood. “Let’s get back and talk to the local klan’s King Kleagle. We got us some strategizing to do.”

* * *

Mitch didn’t know which he disliked more, riding in the back seat or the way Dreama Simms drove Taxi’s car.

“Uh, Miss Simms?” he said, when the light three blocks ahead turned yellow. “You might want to ease off on the gas a little, you have a light coming up.” He knew from first hand experience that the De Soto, like a jet plane, required a long runway to stop.

“You just leave the driving to me,
boss
. I got plenty experience behind this wheel.”

He clamped his mouth shut and reached for the seat belt. Of course there wasn’t one, so he used both arms to brace himself against the front seat. No way in hell could she make a smooth stop. They were too close.

Twenty yards away, the light hung in the blue sky, an angry red Cyclops staring down on them. The sound of screeching tires confirmed Mitch’s original theory, Dreama couldn’t drive worth a damn. And no goddamn seat belts in the hunk of junk car.

“See there,” she said, fanning the air to erase the burning rubber smoke. “No need for concern. Here we be, sittin’ at the light, all in one piece.”

“What about Taxi’s tires? Think there’s any tread left? Or did you burn it all off in your Indianapolis 500 braking maneuver?”

“For a white boy, in my back seat, you sure got lots of opinions,” Dreama threw back. “How you plan on getting around town once I kick your butt out this automobile?”

“Alive,” Mitch growled. “I’ll get around town alive.”

When the light turned green she stomped on the gas and the car shot through the intersection. An inch past the crosswalk, she curbed and cut the engine.

“Time you and me get it all out in the daylight,” she said, turning around to face him. “Appears we don’t have much likin’ for each other and that’s not likely to be changin’.”

“Not for another thirty-seven years anyway,” Mitch muttered.

“What are you mumbling about?”

“Nothing. Go on, we don’t care for each other and…?”

“And, that brings to mind several questions I want answered.”

“Fire away.”

“What’s the story with you and Kat? We talkin’ love here?”

Mitch laughed. “Miss Simms, why is it so hard for you to accept we’re only friends? Don’t you have any men friends?”

“Of course I do.
Negro
men. Not a freckled white face in the whole bunch.”

“So your problem is because Kat’s a black woman and I’m white man.”

“A
black
woman? I’m not so sure I like the sounds of that word. It’s insulting.”

“Wait a few years, and you’ll be shouting ‘Black is beautiful’.”

Dreama narrowed her eyes and looked at him as though he’d grown a second head. “Black is beautiful? What’s it supposed to mean?”

“You’ll figure it out. I thought you wanted to talk about me and Kat.”

“Me and Kat. Might cozy sounding.”

“You mean because we’re not a matched set, not both
colored
or not both
white
, the only kind of relationship we can share is of a sexual nature?”

Dreama’s dark eyes locked on his, boring deep into his soul. Exactly what Taxi had described earlier, she was looking into his heart. Searching for the good and bad in James Andrew Mitchell. He maintained the eye lock, waiting for her verdict.

A subtle change in her expression told him for better or worse, Dreama Simms had reached her decision. He held his breath, hoping and praying she could overcome her own racial bias and see him as a person. A color free person.

* * *

Kat Templeton shut the door and leaned her head against the stained glass oval. She listened as Lamar and Virgil moved down the sidewalk chattering like a couple of magpies. The boys had insisted on escorting her back to the clinic, and no amount of talking on her part could dissuade them. After all was said and done, she’d been grateful for their company. Her self confidence had eroded to such a point she needed a microscope to find enough courage to go to the ladies room alone. Which pretty much ruled out any walks from the church to the clinic without escorts.

She turned from the door and moved toward the kitchen, a tall glass of iced tea sounded good after the long walk. As she reached the foot of the staircase, she heard a squeak at the top of the landing. Her eyes slowly rose upward, climbing each individual step until she reached the top. She didn’t recognize the man descending the steep staircase and the rifle he carried did little to erase her fear. Unable to scream or run, she gripped the newel post, praying for enough strength to rip it out of the floor.

White … white … white.
The word reverberated in her head, a dying echo in an empty room. All the knowledge and skill she’d possessed as a law officer deserted her in a head long rush. The months at the Police Academy, all the courses in self-defense and weapons, six years of proving she deserved to wear the silver badge. All of it disappeared the moment the white man took his first step toward her.

Kat wrapped both hands around the post and tugged, but it had been set deep in the flooring and wouldn’t even wiggle. She took a quick inventory of the waiting area—old tattered magazines, sofas and chairs—nothing she could use as a weapon. She released the post and raced toward the kitchen. She only needed a few seconds to find a carving knife.

Frantic, she flung open the cupboards. Nothing. She moved on to the drawers, pawing through the contents. Forks, spoons, pot holders, paper sacks.
Where are the knives
?

One drawer, shoved crookedly into its slot, stubbornly refused to open. She stopped battling long enough to listen. The stairs squeaked three times in succession as the man descended.
Hurry
. She tightened her grip on the chrome handle, convinced this single drawer held a treasure of knives, and yanked. The container took flight, sailing across the kitchen. Gadgets rained down on the linoleum and table as it collided head on with the wall-mounted clock.

The last utensil clattered noisily to the floor and in the ensuing silence she heard a heavy tread approaching the open kitchen door.
Time
. She needed more time. Standing in the middle of the disarray, her lips moved in a silent prayer. Her eyes filled with frustrated tears. A person could not cook without knives. Vegetables must be chopped, meat sliced and diced. She knew they were here, secreted away, out of the reach of distraught patients. “Like me,” Kat said. “I’m a distraught patient. I need to protect myself.”

“Protect yourself from what?” The man casually leaned against the door jamb, his empty hands hung at his side. “You know, I’m the one that put the splint on your fingers. Remember?”

His soft drawl marked him as a Southerner. A white Southerner.

Kat stared at her bandaged hand then at his face. She didn’t remember anyone except Lettie Ruth. It was a lie. He didn’t belong here. He was like the others. Unarmed, and handicapped by a broken body, the only option she had was to put distance between them. She shuffled backwards across the kitchen until she bumped into the wall.

Her eyes traveled from his head to his toes. White male, 35-40. Six-feet, black hair and brown eyes. Unshaven and wearing a pair of ill fitting trousers and a wrinkled dress shirt. The dark circles under his eyes indicated a lack of sleep. He reminded Kat of the derelicts she and Mitch had rousted from the city parks, yet his calm demeanor belied his appearance. She looked into his eyes, searching for the instability of a drug addict or the disorientation of the alcoholic.

He reached into his back pocket. Kat grabbed a kitchen chair and raised it above her head, prepared to launch it at him if he so much as twitched.