Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel (31 page)

The most striking thing was how strongly she reminded Lettie Ruth of Alvin. Same eye color. Same dimples. They even displayed similar behavior characteristics. As though to confirm her theory, Lettie looked at Kat’s plate, then at Alvin’s. They’d both nearly drowned their meat in tarter sauce. And putting tarter sauce on ham was a disgusting habit Brother had carried over from childhood, and he’d picked it up from their daddy. How many other folks shared this trait? And another thing, Alvin always ate his biscuits dead last. Both his and Kat’s were still sitting on the side of their plates.

Lettie Ruth pinched her arm resting in her lap, annoyed that she’d allowed herself to get caught up in Brother’s fantasy. These might be odd coincidences, but they didn’t mean a darn thing. No reason why Kat couldn’t like tarter sauce as much as Alvin. And could be she wasn’t saving the biscuit, maybe she just didn’t much care for them.

According to Taxi Devore, Mitch was a Yankee policeman from out of town, with a colored woman friend. His shirt and pants looked fine. As for the words on the bottom of his shoes, she believed folks could write pretty much what ever they wanted. They sure didn’t need Lettie Ruth Rayson’s stamp of approval first. But it did seem a bit odd.

=TWENTY-THREE=

Lamar Gordon, suffering
from a bad case of the heebie-jeebies, just had to do something when he heard the engine. He poked a finger through the kudzu and pressed his eye to the leafy peep hole. This same white stake-bed truck had rumbled past his house four times now, kicking up road dust and filling the air with black exhaust. The Confederate flag on the back snapped and flapped so hard he thought it might jump right off the broom stick.

“They still ridin’ on our street, son?” Pastor Jackson Gordon’s deep voice rumbled softly, like far away thunder.

Lamar glanced over his shoulder. His daddy stood in the doorway, his Sunday shirt glowing ghost-white in the fading light. “Yes, sir. This makes four times I seen them.”

“How many men in the truck?”

“Three in the cab, six in back.”

Pastor Gordon nodded. “You keep watch a bit longer. I got to make some phone calls.”

Lamar shivered slightly at the words. If his daddy was phoning folks, he must be expecting trouble. And he truly hated this kind of trouble. In his twelve years on this earth, he’d seen lots of Negroes get bloodied for no good reason. He’d seen it too many times to count and it looked like before the sun came up, somebody in the east Hollow would be bleeding in his yard.

He folded his hands and closed his eyes, sending a little prayer to Heaven. “Please God, don’t let my daddy get hurt again.”

* * *

Alvin Rayson hung up the receiver and turned to the four people relaxing in the waiting room. “We got trouble brewing at Pastor Gordon’s,” he said.

Timothy Biggers was first on his feet. “How long ‘til it boils over?”

“Pastor said they passed by his place four times already. He figures we got ten or fifteen minutes till they stop.”

“Let me lock and load.”

Rayson held up his hand. “Pastor says no guns this time, doctor. He wants to talk it down.”

Biggers snorted. “Talk it down? Alvin, those boys wouldn’t be messin’ round there if they didn’t want to do some damage.”

“I know. But Pastor Gordon said he’s got an idea of what to do. We’re supposed to come over to his house and park on the street. And, Dr. Tim, he said to tell you special, ‘don’t bring that rifle of yours, and no side arms, or the shotgun you keep in the closet’.”

“You’ve delivered the message, Alvin. You can go to Heaven with a clear conscious,” Biggers said, getting up off the sofa. “Excuse me, but I need to get my things together.” He disappeared into his apartment.

Moments later Rayson heard the whack as the bolt chambered a round from a fresh ammo clip into the M-1 Garand.

Lettie Ruth peeked out the window, her face troubled. “Is Pastor expecting problems to spill over our way?”

“He didn’t say, but I’d guess most will happen on his street this time,” Rayson said.

“Mind if I come along?” Mitch asked. “I handle myself pretty well around trouble. Maybe I can help cool things off.”

“I know one thing for sure,” Kat declared. “I
ain’t
stayin’ here.”

“Now, Miss Kat,” Rayson said. “You don’t need to be steppin’ into this.”

“Why not? When it comes to trouble, I’m as good as that one,” Kat said, pointing a finger at Mitch.

Rayson stepped closer and placed both hands on her shoulders. “This ain’t the time for you to be pulling no attitude on me, girl.”

Kat dissolved into laughter. “Judas Priest, it’s the same old line, except now I’m hearing it before I was born.” Her own comment sent her into another fit of laughter and she collapsed on the sofa.

“Is she all right?” Rayson stared at her, wondering if he should call the doctor.

“She’ll be okay,” Mitch said, as he jerked Kat to her feet. “She just needs to rest. All this excitement is making her talk crazy.”

“You hear him, Mitch?” She giggled. “Did you hear?”

“I heard him,” he said. “
Everybody
heard everything, Kathleen.”

She looked at Alvin, then at Lettie Ruth, suspicion filled their faces. “Everybody?”

Mitch nodded.

“Uh-oh.”

“Uh-huh,” Mitch said.

She faked swooned and grabbed Mitch’s arm. “I need to lie down,” she said, staggering drunkenly toward the hall, dragging him along with her.

“Don’t leave without me,” Mitch called over his shoulder.

Rayson watched until they’d disappeared up the staircase. “Some mighty strange goings on around here,” he said quietly. “You starting to see what I been talkin’ about, Sister? How things don’t fit?”

“Some.” Lettie Ruth waited a beat. “But the girl is not at her best tonight. Could be those things she’s sayin’ only sound crazy on account of—”

He didn’t let her finish. “On account of nothing. You heard it, same as I did.”

“But it didn’t make sense, Alvin. How could she hear you tell her something before she was born?”

“Have you looked at Kat? I mean taken a
real
good look at her?”

“Yes.”

“What did you see?”

“A pretty woman.”

“Quit hedging, Lettie Ruth. Don’t pretend you don’t see that girl wearing
my
eyes and wearing
my
dimples?”

She nibbled on her bottom lip. “Well, I reckon hers are a little bit like yours. I guess.”

“If I was to have a girl child someday, you think she might look like Kat?”

“Alvin Rayson, are you talking about that time machine book again?”

“I’m talking about what my daughter might look like.”

The feeling he and Kat were related had been growing in him all day. So many of her mannerisms—the way she moved her hand or used certain phrases—were his way of doing things. Dolores’ way of doing things. Kat’s eye color and dimples, that kind of sameness only ran in families. In some mysterious fashion, he believed this woman to be the child he’d have one day. The how or why she’d turned up at this particular time remained a mystery. But she’d come for a reason.

“Well, she’s got enough attitude to be your child,” Lettie Ruth said.

Alvin Rayson smiled, his dimples digging deep holes in his cheeks.

* * *

“Folks is here, daddy.” Lamar stepped from behind the kudzu and waved to Virgil as he raced across the yard. All along Webster Avenue, the cars were parking bumper to bumper.

Pastor Gordon stood behind his son, hands resting on his shoulders. “Praise God,” he whispered.

“Amen. Hey there, Virgil,” Lamar said, as his cousin climbed the porch steps.

“Hey, Lamar. Evening, Uncle Jackson.”

“Here’s what I want y’all to do,” Pastor Gordon said. “I expect those white boys to be comin’ our way again. And soon as they do, you and Virgil run inside and squeeze down behind the ice box.”

“Daddy,” Lamar protested. “I’m not hidin’ in the house like a girl.”

“No, you’ll be in the house ‘cause I
told
you to be in the house.”

“But I can help. I’m near as big as you.”

Pastor Gordon stared into Lamar’s eyes. “You’ve already been a big help. Without your sharp eyes I’d never known about that truck. I’m gonna need you in the days to come, son. I don’t want to lose my secret weapon in our first battle.”

Lamar kicked at the rough plank flooring of the porch. He didn’t want to be hunkered down behind no ice box when the truck came back. No matter what Daddy said, it was still hiding. His thirteenth birthday would be here on Friday, the day after tomorrow, and to the Jewish people a boy turning thirteen meant he’d become a man. He wished he was Jewish. He bet none of their boys would be cowering behind no ice box tonight.

* * *

Mitch and Timothy Biggers rode in the back seat. Alvin, Lettie Ruth and Kat in the front.

No amount of talking could convince Kat to stay at the clinic. This was her first chance since the rape to take a step toward regaining control of her life. Besides, she was trained for confrontational situations. In fact, she and Mitch were the only professionals in the bunch. Everyone else had a boat load of courage and good hearts, but they didn’t know jack about dealing with the bottom feeders.

Biggers tapped her shoulder. “You real sure you know how to use that weapon?” he asked, referring to the .44-caliber Colt Anaconda he’d loaned her.

This was the third time he’d asked the same question in as many blocks. And for the third time she responded, “I’m an expert shot, Timothy. Tell him, Mitch.”

“She’s an expert shot, Timothy.”

“See my trigger finger?” She wiggled her right index finger in the air. “No bandages.”

“I’ve never seen so many cars,” Lettie Ruth commented as they turned up Webster Avenue.

“I told you, Pastor Gordon has a plan,” Rayson said, as they fell in line behind three cars inching along. “He told me if the street got used up, to pull into the empty driveways.”

“I suggest you do something mighty fast, Alvin,” Biggers said. “The headlights comin’ this direction are too high to be mounted on a sedan.”

They were forced to wait until the Ford in front pulled into a drive, but before Rayson got the car in gear Kat, Mitch, and the doctor jumped out. He watched as they darted across the street heading for the Gordon’s house. All three sure looked like they knew what they were doing. Timothy Biggers carried his rifle muzzle up, reminding Alvin of a World War II recruiting poster. Mitch and Kat’s hands dropped to their sides as they cut between two parked cars, but he caught a brief metallic flicker when they trotted underneath the streetlight.

* * *

“Kat, you sure as hell better know how to use that Colt,” Biggers whispered once they reached the safety of the shadows next to the house.

“Take care of your own ass and don’t be worryin’ so much about mine, Timothy,” Kat snapped.