Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel (37 page)

It took all of Mitch’s 250 pounds to stop the forward momentum. He spun to face his angry host. “You get one free punch,” he said. “Don’t try it again.”

“Then you best bop on out of here,
future boy.
” Taxi drew his fist back.

Mitch didn’t have a choice. He grabbed Taxi’s elbow, and burrowed his thumb into the tender inner flesh until the man gasped with pain. “Settle down,” he said, then released his hold.

“My arm and shoulder, done gone dead,” Taxi moaned.

“I just pressed on a nerve ending; you’ll be okay in a few minutes.”

“White folks is all the same, a colored don’t do your bidding, you cause him pain.”

Mitch kicked a chair into the middle of the room. “Sit!” he barked.

“Sure,
boss.
” Taxi gave him a fierce scowl, before taking a seat. “Whatever you say,
boss
.”

“Shut the fuck up, Taxi. This isn’t a game, I need your help.”

“Don’t know what help you be needin’ from this boy,” he said, rubbing his elbow.

“What’s it going to take to get you to listen?”

Taxi stared at him for a moment then said, “Tell me somethin’ that ain’t yet come to be.”

“Shit.” Mitch’s brain went blank, what could he say to solidify his position? He couldn’t announce that four little girls will be killed in the bombing of the Birmingham 16th Street Baptist Church on September 15. He couldn’t say that on November 22, President John Fitzgerald Kennedy will be shot in Dallas by Lee Harvey Oswald. There must be something else. Some fact less dangerous.

“Commander Neil A. Armstrong will walk on the moon July 20, 1969,” he blurted out.

Taxi shrugged, unimpressed. “That’s a long time to wait to find out if you be tellin’ the truth, Mr. Mitch. Ain’t you got something in the here and now?”

“In the here and now?” Mitch closed his eyes and prayed to one of Kat’s voodoo spirits for inspiration. It must have worked because an image of Billy Lee’s sleek black Chevy drove into his head. His eyes popped open. “Oh, yeah, I got a here and now for you.”

* * *

Kathleen Rayson Templeton felt like she was twelve-years old again and had been called on the carpet to answer for her misdeeds. This time the issue wasn’t whether or not she’d skipped bible class to go downtown with her girlfriends, or whether or not she’d kissed David Finder behind the chapel. This meeting had been called by Alvin Rayson to discuss the truth … the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Her father and aunt had cornered her in the TV room shortly after Mitch and Taxi had dropped Lamar off. Now, seated in the recliner Kat dreaded the next few minutes.

Alvin Rayson threw the opening punch. “Who are you and where did you come from?”

And she countered by sidestepping. “I’m Kathleen Templeton. My folks are from New Orleans.”

“I see,” he said.

Kat found his ensuing silence ominous. Her father may have been thirty-seven years younger, but he’d already cultivated the tone and magnificent frown which indicated his displeasure. If this was to be a battle of wills, Kat feared she was seriously out-gunned.

“Me and Alvin is from New Orleans,” Lettie Ruth said.

Great, Kat thought, another country heard from. Not only must she contend with her father’s grilling, but her aunt had joined the Rayson inquisition team. And both of them were as suspicious as a pair of mice around a cheese-filled mousetrap. If she could only lead them down a false path, she might survive this impromptu family meeting.

“It’s a real pretty city,” Kat commented, taking the first step on the New Orleans pathway. “I especially like the area around Jackson Square.”

“The Café du Monde,” Lettie Ruth sighed.

“Beignets,” Kat said reverently. The women looked at each other and broke into laughter.

“If you ladies are through extolling the virtues of New Orleans—”

“Men don’t understand food the way we do,” Lettie Ruth said to Kat.

“That’s ‘cause men are from Mars and women are from Venus,” Kat said.

Lettie Ruth laughed. “That’s the best way of explaining it that I ever heard.”

“You should write a book about all the differences between men and women,” Kat suggested.

“And I’ll call it ‘Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus,’” Lettie Ruth announced.

“Lettie Ruth!” Rayson sputtered his exasperation showing in his tone. “I’m tryin’ to be serious here. Quit interrupting with men and women differences and book talk.”

“Oh for goodness sakes, Alvin. Kat’s sittin’ right here in front of us, she didn’t run off down the road. You got plenty of time for serious talk.”

Kat stood. “Actually, I do need to take care of a few things. Could we postpone this discussion for an hour or two?”

Rayson snorted and gave his sister an icy glare.

“Of course, you can, honey,” Lettie Ruth said. “But don’t tire yourself. When you get done, I want you to lie down and rest.”

* * *

Kat paused for a moment outside the TV room and allowed relief to flood her system. This must be the way Daniel felt when God had sent the angel into the lion’s den. Her aunt Lettie Ruth had shut Alvin’s mouth just as surely as the angel had shut the lion’s mouth.

The enormous crash of thunder rattled the entire house and Timothy Biggers stuck his head out of his office door. From the way his hair stood on end and the rumpled white doctor coat, Kat assumed he’d been sleeping on the office sofa before the thunder alarm went off. He’d spent last night guarding the Webster Avenue church and looked like he needed an extra twelve hours in a real bed.

The hallway lights flickered. “Is the power gonna hold?” she asked, a cold chill spread up her arms.

Biggers shrugged. “This is an old building. Sometimes the wiring gets cranky when a storm this size blows in. I better hunt down the candles just in case.”

“Don’t you have a back up generator?”

“We used to, until somebody dumped a pound of sugar in the tank a couple of days ago. So it’s doubtful it will do us much good.”

Kat shivered. Would his generator have been tampered with if she wasn’t here? She nodded to the doctor and hurried down the hall to her room. She wanted to check the damnable list again, just in case someone new had suddenly appeared.

* * *

Mitch pointed to the black Impala half way down Blodgett Street. It was parked rear end first in the driveway of the clapboard house. “I own that car in the year 2000. And I guarantee, if you push her to 65 mph she’ll die and roll belly up on the road.”

“So says you.”

Mitch opened the car door and climbed out. “Give me five minutes and I’ll prove it to you.”

“Where you goin’?”

“Going to make a temporary appropriation. Be ready to hop in when I pull along side.”

“You expectin’ me to leave my car here?” Taxi asked, eyeing the white neighborhood nervously.

“It will be all right. Nobody’s out in this storm and besides, what would they want with an old 1946 De Soto?”

Taxi frowned. “She may be ugly, but she’s paid for,” he said indignantly.

“No offense meant. Believe me, your ride will be fine parked here for a half hour.”

Taxi looked angry, and far from convinced, but he nodded. “Not much street traffic this afternoon, I reckon she’ll be waitin’ when I comes back.”

Mitch nodded and shut the door. He trotted down the sidewalk, grateful the weather had created a false twilight. The thunder and lightening were still battling in the skies as the rain continued to fall in heavy gray sheets.

He jogged past Pamela and Billy Lee Mitchell’s house once to get a feel for the situation. He had no desire to run into his father, especially since he planned on liberating the Chevy.

All the front drapes were closed; apparently his parents were riding out the storm indoors. He crept along the side and chanced a quick look inside the first undraped window.

He saw the back of a man’s head, the hand on the chair arm held a can of beer. The TV on, volume turned up high. He remembered his father’s favorite past time—other than running moonshine—had been watching television. The noise from the program, plus the storm, should mask the Impala’s growling engine.

Mitch pulled his car keys out of his pocket and unlocked the Chevy, he was about to slip inside when the front door opened. He ducked down just as Billy Lee stepped out on the small porch.

His father lazily scratched his stomach, glaring at the darkened sky. Suddenly a noise from inside caused him to spin around and yell, “Goddamn it, Pam. Shut that brat up, she’s louder than a pack of hounds.” He hawked up a wad of phlegm, spit over the rail and stomped back inside.

Crouched behind the Chevy, Mitch doubled up his fist and slammed it into the driver side door, denting the rolled steel. Torn between stealing his father’s toy and breaking into the house and beating the living hell out of him, Mitch punched the panel again.
I had a sister
. The memory of the innocent baby dangling from Billy Lee’s hand caused him to tremble with rage.

If I don’t do something, that little girl will die again
.

He stood, eager to battle the evil ogre hiding within the clapboard walls. He saw his mother peek out the kitchen window and stepped away from the car, prepared to bolt down the street if she raised the alarm.

Suddenly Pamela Mitchell smiled. “Take it,” she mouthed and waved her hand. “Go!”

Mitch grinned, if his mother had given him permission to steal the sob’s plaything, what jury would convict him? Besides, a Southern gentlemen was raised with better manners than to ever argue with his momma.

In less than thirty seconds he and Taxi were headed for the open road.

* * *

The black Impala sailed down the slick highway, plumes of rainwater trailing in its wake. The throbbing engine vibrated the floorboards and caused the plastic hula dancer hanging from the rearview mirror to shimmy provocatively.

“Taxi, you asked for a here and now.” Mitch pressed the accelerator and the speedometer needle climbed steadily. “And this is it. When we hit 65, I predict this vehicle will do the following in this precise order: One, she’ll backfire twice. Two, the engine will begin to sputter and the exhaust will turn black. And Three, she’ll die deader than Robert E. Lee within thirty seconds.”

As predicted by “future boy” James Mitchell, when the speedometer reached the magic number 65, Billy Lee’s car went through the pre-mentioned sequence and conked out.

Taxi grudgingly admitted that might be proof. “Not very good proof, mind you,” he said, “but proof none the less.”

They’d pushed the very dead Chevy a quarter mile further before spotting the open barn. The Impala currently occupied the lower level. The men reclined in the fresh smelling hayloft and waited out another rain squall.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something for several days,” Mitch said.

“Uh-huh.”

“How does a person go from being called Maximilian to being called Taxi?”

“Used to drive a taxi cab.”

“That’s it? No elaborate story?”

“Nope, just me in a yellow cab.” Taxi rolled onto his back and pulled his hat over his face. “Gonna get me some sleep here.”