Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel (16 page)

“Did you see how those dimples were working me?” Louis said, unaware of the brief exchange between Floyd and the ginger-haired man.

“Shut it up, Louis,” Floyd growled. He took a deep swallow of beer and redirected his attention to the interloper. “You got something on your mind?”

Mitch shook his head but didn’t make eye contact. “No harm, no foul,” he muttered, activating his best Elvis Presley drawl. He figured it was a whole lot safer to sound like The King of Rock and Roll than a Pennsylvania farm boy.

Floyd’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder. “Best tend your own business.”

“The whole damn world’s got a shit load of business what needs tending,” Mitch replied, allowing alcoholic cadences to coat his words.

He could gather more information faking a drunken stupor than by out and out confrontation. If Floyd believed Mitch had partaken of the devil’s brew one too many times, he might back off, or at least relax his guard.

Floyd studied him for a few seconds then smiled, revealing crooked tobacco stained teeth. “Sure buddy, you go on tending to the world.”

Mitch nodded, and for effect, swayed a bit on the stool. “I got me lots of business.”

“Had some business ourselves earlier today. Right boys?” Floyd asked his friends.

“A whole plate full,” Little Carl said.

Louis snorted and a nose full of beer sprayed the counter. “And it tasted like a creamy chocolate pie.”

“Not dark chocolate, mind you,” explained Little Carl, “creamy milk chocolate.”

“I like chocolate pie,” Mitch’s words came out as though his mouth was filled with mush.

“Git this boy some pie,” Floyd shouted. The other two joined in the chorus.

“Yeah,” Mitch added. “A big fat piece.”

Little Carl leaned across Floyd and whispered to Mitch. “Our piece wasn’t big and fat. But it sure was juicy.”

“Juicy?” Mitch contorted his face into a mask of confusion.

“She was wet and ready,” Little Carl confided.

“Another round for us and our new pal,” Floyd shouted to the barkeep. He stood on the rungs of the stool and reached across the bar so he could steal a fistful of maraschino cherries. As he moved backwards, his shirt pocket snagged on the spigot and a copper and silver jewelry piece clattered onto the counter.

Mitch scooped up the little boot. He rubbed his thumb across the star-shaped spur, blinking back hot tears. Any lingering doubts regarding the ‘chocolate pie’s’ identity went down the toilet. He’d given this pin to Kat on their first anniversary as partners, telling her to use it to kick the law and order door wide open. She’d worn his silly little gift every day since then, even when in uniform she pinned it to the inside the blouse. When asked why, she laughed and said ‘Because a girl never knows when she’ll need to kick a little ass’.

Mitch rested his head on the bar and closed his eyes. He gripped the pin so tightly the metal cut into his palm. His temper boiled just below the surface and he fought the urge to rip these guys into a thousand bloody hunks of flesh. The ugly knowledge that all their dirty talk had been about Kat crawled around in his belly.

When the beers arrived, Little Carl raised his in a toast. “Here’s to that piece I ate this fine spring day.”

“You betcha,” said Louis. He took a long pull from the bottle then belched loudly.

Floyd crowed. “And I’m ready for seconds.”

Mitch’s freckles popped out on his face like a bad case of measles. His eyes flashed blue lightening. In one fluid motion, he knocked Floyd off the stool and sent him sailing over the tables in the middle of the room.

In a split second, Little Carl and Louis were all over him like a rain squall.

Mitch shrugged off their blows like so many drops of water. It would take a whole lot more than these ineffectual little assholes to do any damage.

Bubba’s clientele, at least the ones who weren’t knocked out of their seats by Floyd’s head-first landing, grabbed their beers and side stepped the fracas.

Too stupid to give up, the three kept coming after Mitch. As a single, or in a pack, he didn’t care. Time after time his knuckles connected. Blood speckles decorated his shirt and the nearby walls.

Peripherally he saw the bartender raise the baseball bat and the beginning of its downward arc before the room faded to black.

=TWELVE=

April 02—Tuesday—1:00 AM

Shapes. Mitch concentrated
on focusing, but similar to extreme close-up photographs, all he could initially identify were the independent features: A pair of dark eyes. A twitching nose. A pair of whiskers.

He blinked at the enormous rat sitting on his chest. The creature displayed equal interest in the human. Since his visitor appeared more curious than contemplating his next snack, Mitch rolled onto his side allowing the furry creature to slide off his chest.

No wonder I woke up with a King Kong size rat squatting on my chest, Mitch thought as the rodent scurried away. Bubba’s store room resembled a trash dump. The corner where the rat vanished was a heap of rubbish and used food containers. Overflowing waste bins perfumed the air.

Mitch pressed a palm to the floor, the first step in rising from his prone position, and felt the rough texture of wool. He rolled his head to the side, faded stenciled letters: USAF, hugged the ragged edges of the blanket. He wondered who’d been thoughtful enough to throw it over the filthy floor before depositing an unconscious James Mitchell.

That same thoughtful whoever, also cleaned him out. His pockets were turned inside out, what cash he’d carried long since gone. He congratulated himself on having had the foresight to leave his police badge and gun at the Yellowhammer Inn. He didn’t mind losing a few bucks, but having Floyd’s wild bunch in possession of his department issued weapon and identification would be worse.

The door creaked open and a shadowed face appeared in the crack. “You doin’ all right, boss?”

Mitch tensed, expecting a re-enactment of the earlier brawl. To his relief, a tall muscular black man around his own age slipped in the room. Mitch tried to speak, but his throat was so dry words were impossible.

The man knelt beside the blanket, then raised Mitch’s head so he could drink from a glass.

The water tasted cool and sweet, bathing his parched vocal cords. “Thanks,” he croaked.

“You best be getting on out of here,” the man advised. “Them boys ain’t too happy with the licking you give out.”

Mitch chuckled. He cleared his throat and allowed Elvis to enter the building once more. “The licking I gave out?” the King drawled. “You better take another look, buddy, I’m the only one flat on his back in here.”

“That’s only cause Mr. Bubba hit you over the head.”

Mitch smiled at the use of mister and Bubba in combination.

“Before he done that, you was winning,” the man praised.

“No, before that I was stupid.”

The man stood and brushed at the knees of his dark trousers. “I thought you be real brave to call ‘em out on account of that woman.”

Mitch propped himself up on his elbows so he could see the man’s face. “You know who they were bragging about?”

The man dropped his eyes and shuffled backwards a few feet. His expression indicating he clearly wished he’d kept his mouth shut. Odds on Mr. Bubba wouldn’t hesitate to beat the living crap out of this good Samaritan for bringing Mitch a glass of water. He could only guess at the punishment for talking about rape.

This looked like a good time to hit the trail before he did any more damage. Mitch didn’t have any more business being in this place and time than his partner did. And speaking of his partner, he seriously doubted those boys got much of a chance to do any real harm. They may have stolen her boot pin, but nothing more. Kat was capable of defending herself. She possessed the moves and skills needed to send them to the nearest hospital. He must have been suffering from time-travel lag to have considered the possibility she could ever be a victim. She would never get into that kind of situation.

What should he do? Realistically, he figured he’d be of more use keeping Alvin Rayson company until Kat returned, rather than wandering around like a fool in 1963. There was no way in hell of finding Kat before the 5:20 A.M. door slammed shut. So it looked like he’d be traveling home alone.

I don’t have anything to worry about, he told himself, she’s fine. As his brain argued with his emotions, an early morning conversation with his Pennsylvania grandfather, James Patrick O’Connor, interjected itself into the middle of the whole discussion. His grandfather had been as honest as the day was long, and not given to casual talk. When he did speak, Mitch had learned to listen.

On that particular morning they’d been in the barn, ready to start the milking, when old Paddy kicked his three-legged stool over to Mitch and pointed, meaning take a seat
…

…
“I hear you had a bit of trouble, son.”

“Don’t know what you mean.” Although he knew Paddy was referring to yesterday’s schoolyard brawl, his twelve-year-old brain believed he could outfox his grandfather.

“I meant school.”

“School’s going fine, Grampa Paddy. I got a B on my—”

“You gave Peter Toland a split lip.”

“That’s a damn lie.”

“James, I want to know why you jumped him.”

“He called Samuel a nigger.”

“And he called you a nigger lover.”

Mitch jumped on the stool so he could stand eye to eye with the old man. “I ain’t no nigger lover, Grandpa Paddy. Daddy says coloreds ain’t no damn good.”

“Your daddy says a lot of things. Are you in agreement with him?”

“Course I am. He’s my daddy and he says coloreds are God’s trash.”

“What about Samuel? Is he God’s trash?”

“Well…”

“Or is Samuel your friend?”

“He’s a nigger,”

“Didn’t you get into a fight because Peter Toland called Samuel a nigger?”

“Yes.”

“But now you’re saying coloreds are no good? That they are God’s trash?”

“Well, Daddy said—”

“If you believe Billy Lee, why did you defend Samuel?”

“Toland needed a beating.”

“The only reason for the fight was because you dislike Toland?”

“He’s a jackass.”

“What he called Samuel had nothing to do with your actions?”

He stuck his chin out. “Nope.”

Grandfather Paddy pulled a second stool over and sat beside Mitch. “So you’re Samuel’s fair weather friend?”