Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel (39 page)

He saw two silhouettes through the stained-glass front door as he reached the bottom step, and assumed it to be Mitch and Taxi.

As he moved to let them inside, the door exploded inward.

The concussion force propelled him backwards. He landed near the foot of the stairs. Colored glass fragments and splintered wood sprinkled down on him, smoke shrouded the foyer and hallway.

Through the fog like haze he saw four men enter the clinic. They wore street clothes, but their faces were hooded. Biggers scrabbled across the foyer, his goal to reach the rifle stowed under the false panel behind the lobby desk. A fit of coughing slowed his progress and he bumped into a pair of legs.

He looked up and said, “A step closer and the blast would have blown my face off.” A heavy work boot smashed into his cheek.

* * *

The tallest man tossed a length of rope to one of the others, pantomiming tying Biggers’ hands. He didn’t want to speak, the doc knew his voice. He glanced around the waiting area, disappointed there weren’t any bloody niggers lying in the floor. He’d hoped to take out two or three with the dynamite.

Satisfied the doctor was neutralized so that no one would be shot to hell and gone this time, he headed toward the kitchen. Even through all the smoke and sulphur he could smell a meatloaf cooking.

A smile filled the inside of his muslin hood when he found Lettie Ruth Rayson cowering beneath the kitchen table. Rather than crawling after her, he gripped the table’s edge and heaved it upwards. The heavy oak furniture toppled over on its side like a wounded elephant and a birthday cake landed upside down on the floor.

“Hey, girl. Whatcha doing down there?” he asked, not caring whether or not she recognized his voice. In the long run it wouldn’t matter, because dead folks made lousy witnesses. He prodded her balled up figure with his foot. “Get on up.”

As she got to her feet, it pleased him to see her tremble. At least one nigger in this town had enough brains to be afraid of the West Central Alabama Ku Klux Klan. He reached out to brush a smudge of flour off her cheek, when she flinched he felt a slow heat building below his belt.

“You and the doc the only folks home?” he asked.

Lettie Ruth nodded.

“Sure about that, nurse nigger?”

“Check on upstairs if you don’t believe me.”

He didn’t care for her insolent response and especially didn’t like the fact she’d stopped shaking all over. He took a long hard look in her eyes. He didn’t see fear. The only thing staring back at him was anger.

“Let’s you and me
both
check the upstairs,” he said, allowing his tone to deliver the unspoken part of his message. He grabbed her upper arm and piloted her out of the kitchen.

* * *

Pastor Gordon’s first thought when the explosion rocked the clinic was of his son. He had to find his boy and get him to safety. Forgetting the seriousness of his injuries, he popped out of the water like a cork. Caught off guard when his leg buckled, he landed face down in a swirling eddy of Epsom salts. He wiggled around until he could sit upright, but in the process cracked his head on the chrome handle of the spigot. The water immediately turned a murky pink. He grabbed the washcloth and held it to his forehead fighting the dizziness and nausea threatening to overpower him. He needed to get out of the tub right now.

He knew those responsible for the explosion would search the building, and the idea of being caught naked as a jaybird in the bathtub held little appeal for Jackson Gordon.

Gordon used the tiled rim for support as he exited the tub; the gashes on his legs were open and bleeding freely. As he stepped onto the light-blue bath mat, an ugly red stain spread around his feet. He grabbed the nearest hand towel, pressed it over the deepest wound on his left leg, securing it in place with the gauze bandage he’d removed earlier.

He dug through the dirty laundry hamper until he found a pair of trousers and a shirt. Luckily the pant leg slipped over the bulky towel and gauze bandage. Within seconds the exposed wounds on his other leg had bled through the cotton fabric, but he didn’t have time to hunt for another bandage.

He stepped toward the door and the trousers fell around his hips. Since Timothy was a good six inches taller and thirty pounds heavier, Gordon couldn’t keep the pants up around his waist so he yanked the cord off the Venetian blinds and threaded it through the belt loops.

* * *

As though his daddy’s shotgun was Aladdin’s magic lamp, Lamar Gordon rubbed his hand across the smooth wooden stock.

“I wish,” he stopped and nibbled on his lip.

If he only got three wishes, he wanted to be sure they were good ones. There were so many things. He wanted to swim in the city pool. Use the downtown library. Eat at a fancy lunch counter. Ride the bus to school instead of walking. He vigorously rubbed the stock. “I wish—”

The explosion rattled the window panes and caused small pieces of plaster to fall from the ceiling. His hand closed around the shotgun and he yanked it free of the sofa cushions.

Lamar squeezed his eyes shut and whispered, “I only got one wish and I wish I knew how to shoot this thing.” He’d been hunting with his daddy, but he’d never been allowed to fire the weapon. Taxi had promised him a full day of learning how to shoot for his birthday, but he needed to know how to shoot
now
. He tried to remember how to load the shotgun. Fumbling with the shells, he finally succeeded in awkwardly shoving them in the breech.

He sat very still and listened. He knew better than to walk around. This old house had more creaks and groans than his grandma’s rocking chair. Even though he heard no voices, he knew folks were downstairs. And they were white, because Negroes had more sense than to blow up Dr. Tim’s clinic. The eerie quiet gave him a tingly feeling all the way down to his toes. He looked around. Even if he hunkered down behind the sofa they’d find him in a Dixie second. The closet, crammed full of doctor stuff, didn’t leave any room for a thirteen-year-old boy.

Lamar slid off the sofa and knelt on the floor. “Daddy says to trust in you, Lord, and I do. So if you’re not too busy, could you look down here on this colored boy and help out a little? Amen.”

The ceiling creaked suddenly. Someone was walking around overhead. He smiled. He’d plum forgot all about Miss Kat sleeping upstairs. But God had remembered and sent her to help. Being a policeman and all, she knew about guns and shooting.

“Thank you, Lord.”

* * *

Kat dry swallowed the pill at the same instant the front door exploded, and nearly choked to death on the white tablet. Coughing and fighting the tears clouding her vision, she retrieved Timothy’s Colt from the top shelf in the closet. She checked the cylinder—fully loaded, but it held only six rounds. Each bullet must strike the intended target. She had no room for a wild shot.

Luckily her the third floor location gave her a slight edge over the male guests and patients currently residing in what Lettie Ruth had dubbed the ‘Second Floor Boy’s Dormitory’. She ran a mental inventory of those downstairs right now—second floor: Pastor Gordon and Lamar. Lettie Ruth and Timothy were probably still on the ground floor. Mitch and Alvin were gone.

Those who blew up the door would be searching from the bottom to top. Kat had no time to relocate to the lower floor so she could protect the Gordons. All she could do was to find a strategic post that could be defended. Preferably a position which would allow her to pick off the bad guys one by one as they ascended the staircase.

The U-shaped layout of the floor offered little in the way of cover. She envied the cowboys in the old Saturday matinees. They always had a big boulder to duck behind.

Sans a boulder, Kat decided her best bet was the bathroom. It faced the stairs and she could use the cast iron tub for protection. It would be tricky, she’d have to shoot through an open door, but it could be done. Must be done.

=THIRTY=

When Mitch turned
the corner and saw the empty stretch along the curb on Blodgett Street his guts squirmed like a nest of rattlesnakes.

Thank God he’d dropped the still angry Taxi at home with the promise to return with his car. Mitch didn’t feel up to the inevitable tongue lashing because the De Soto, a piece of green shit if he ever saw one, had vanished. He doubted anyone really wanted the car, much less have bothered to steal it. However, it
was
gone and that fact worried him.

What had happened? If no one wanted it and no one stole it, where did it go?

His questions dissipated like a puff of smoke when he saw the red-haired woman carrying a baby stagger down the steps of the small clapboard house. He hit the brakes so hard the Impala skidded several feet past Pamela and Carolyn Mitchell before the brakes caught. Leaving the car in the middle of the street, engine running and door open, he reached his mother just as her knees buckled. He scooped her and the baby up in his arms and carried them to the Chevy.

His mother trembled so hard her teeth chattered. Mitch took off his damp windbreaker and wrapped it around her shoulders, then removed his plaid sports shirt to cover his shivering little sister.

Carolyn’s tiny arms were a mass of purple black fingermarks. Her bottom lip swollen.

Pamela’s bruised face and blackened eye told the rest of the story.

Mitch swallowed his angry words. These two didn’t need another Mitchell raising hell. Without speaking, he closed the passenger door, went around to the driver’s side and got in. He looked at Pamela, when she didn’t protest, he shifted into drive and pressed the accelerator. His only goal, to put as much distance between his family and the son-of-a-bitch that had beaten them.

After several minutes Pamela spoke, “I saw you from the kitchen window earlier. You were standing beside this car.”

“Yes, ma’am. It was supposed to be a joke on your husband. I’m sorry if my silliness caused—”

“None of this is your fault,” she interrupted. “Billy Lee had finished with the hitting long before he discovered the car to be missing. There’s something you need to know. All this,” she touched her face, “is because …  it is all my fault. I aggravated him.”

“What set him off?”

She lowered her head and a curtain of red hair fell across her face. “The baby is teething and crying a lot more than usual. It really bothers him.”

“You can’t let him get away with it.”

“If I hadn’t argued with him, things wouldn’t have gotten this rough,” she said, then raised her head. “But I will never allow him to leave his mark on the baby. I was just protecting Carolyn, not trying to make Billy Lee mad.”

“A man shouldn’t hit his wife and child. No matter how angry he gets.”

“You’re the only one around here that feels that way.” She angrily brushed the hair from her eyes. “This is the South. Men beat their wives and children.”

Mitch curbed the Chevy and turned off the engine. He pushed the seat back so he could turn sideways and face his passengers. “It doesn’t matter where you are—South, North, East, nor West—assault is illegal. You can have him arrested and take him to court.”

Pamela looked at him, her blue eyes defeated. “That never happens down here. Wife beating is a sport, not a crime.”

“Then leave him. Go back to Pennsylvania.”

She stiffened and Carolyn began to whimper. She crooned to the baby, rocking back and forth on the seat. Once the child had settled she turned to Mitch. “How do you know about Pennsylvania?”

He stared out the front window, watching the wipers sweep the heavy rain off the glass. He’d spoken without thinking. A habit Kat had tried to break for five years.
Now what do I say?
Unless he came up with a plausible explanation, Pamela Mitchell would jump out of the car and run screaming down the street.