Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel (36 page)

Mitch stood in the middle of the Gordon’s yard in almost the same spot where Billy Lee and his gang of Ku Klux Klan had savagely beaten the preacher. A steady rain beat down on his body, washing the mud and soot away. His chest and arms, burned during his fire fighting, blossomed with clear blisters.

A tiny old woman in a plastic rain bonnet marched across soggy grass. She stopped in front of him, dug a handful of grayish green lard-like substance out of a crock and slapped it on his chest without speaking. Since she barely reached his elbow, she tugged on his arm until he bent over. She then proceeded to vigorously rub the goo into his tender skin.

He couldn’t decide which hurt more—her treatment, or his injuries.

“Hold still, sonny,” she ordered. “Gotta get you greased up, don’t want no more blisters.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.” He tried to dodge a second handful but she was too quick. “I think you have greased me up enough already.”

“Who’s doin’ all the doctoring here? You or me?” she asked, her lips smacking around the bare gums.

“You are, Ma’am.”

“Then stand still.”

Mitch heard a snicker behind him and glanced over his shoulder, he didn’t dare move for fear the old lady would brain him with her crock. Lamar leaned against a tree, a big grin spread across his face.

“What’s so funny, kid?” he asked.

“Mr. Mitch, you look like one of them pink greased pigs I seen at the county fair.”

The woman chuckled. “Don’t he just.”

Lamar moved around to the front for a better look. “That’s gonna hurt some.”

“Not according to Mrs. Doctor here,” he said and the woman lightly slapped his chest.

The boy gestured toward the woman. “Mr. Mitch, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Woodard. She knows almost as much as Dr. Timothy about tending the sick.”

Mrs. Woodard snorted. “Timothy ain’t but a little ole puppy when it comes to sickness.”

“She worked with the doctor before Lettie Ruth come along,” Lamar explained.

“Now that Rayson girl is smart,” she said. “Got herself a college diploma sayin’ she can doctor. I never had me one of those,” she said sadly.

Mitch touched her shoulder. “You don’t need a diploma, Mrs. Woodard. You’re a natural born healer.”

She smiled up into his face. “Why thank you, Mr. Mitch. Those are kind words.”

He slid his hands across his chest. “It feels better already, thanks to you.”

Lamar waved to someone across the street. “Hey, Taxi,” he shouted. “Come on over.”

As Taxi Devore trotted across the flooded street, his shoes sent sprays of water squirting sideways. His black nylon shirt and khaki trousers stuck to his body, rain dripped from his pork-pie hat brim onto his shoulders. “Happy Birthday, Lamar,” he said. “I came by to see if you was ready for those shootin’ lessons, but it don’t look like a good time.”

“Things been exciting around here,” Lamar said, as he wiped the rain off his face.

“Ain’t it kinda wet to be standin’ in the yard?” Taxi asked.

Mitch pointed to the house. “It’s just as wet inside.”

“They tried to burn our house down, Taxi,” Lamar said. “And on my birthday too.”

Taxi took his hat off and smacked it against his trouser leg. “You don’t say?”

“Yeah, but me and Mr. Mitch put it out,” Lamar said, then covered his ears as a series of giant thunderclaps echoed off the houses.

Hat again in place, Taxi looked around the yard. “Where’s your daddy, Lamar? He get hurt?”

“Daddy’s over to the clinic. Been there since last night.”

“What happened last night?”

“Kluxers come callin’.”

Mrs. Woodard plucked at his sleeve. “Bunch a damn fools. Wearing bed sheets and pointy Halloween hats,” she said. “Stood right here in this yard and beat up on the Pastor.”

“He’s okay,” Lamar said quickly. “Dr. Timothy just wants him to stay in bed a day or two. And he knew if Daddy come home he’d be off visiting folks and never get off his leg.”

Mitch saw the anger swirling in Taxi’s eyes and in the way he clenched and unclenched his fists. He wondered how much longer the man would sit on the sidelines. The day Maximilian Devore finally let it loose there would be one hell of an explosion, and the folks in west Maceyville would be wise to take cover.

“You know about this?” Taxi asked, glancing sideways at Mitch.

“Yeah.”

Lamar hopped from one foot to the other. “You shoulda been here, Taxi. Cars all over the place, and
hundreds
, maybe even a
thousand,
colored people marching down the sidewalk. When those Klan boys seen us, they turned tail and run off.”

“You put an end to it, Mitch?” Taxi asked.

“No. The preacher ran the play his way. His orders were: ‘No violence’.”

Taxi dug a hole in the mud with the toe of his shoe. “
No
violence is gonna get somebody killed,” he said.

“But it worked, Taxi,” Lamar said. “Daddy stood his ground and they run off.”

“Not before your daddy got hisself hurt.” Taxi squatted in front of the boy. “You can’t mess with the whites around here. They kill one of us most every day just for fun.”

Lamar shook his head. “I ain’t afraid. Like Dr. King says, if we want things to change—”

“Did you see Dr. Martin Luther King in this yard last night?” Taxi asked, his voice harsh. “Did he take the beatin’ for your daddy, Lamar?”

“No, but if he’d been here, I know he would have.”

“Lamar, this is dangerous business. People are gettin’ killed.” Taxi gestured toward the Gordon’s house. “Their places were all the way burned to the ground. All these marches and sit-ins and I ain’t seen nothin’ changing.”

“It will,” Mitch said. “It’s going to take a few years, but I promise you, the old ways will die out.”

Taxi got to his feet. “How you know?”

“Later on we’ll talk about how I know. For the moment, I’m asking for you to accept it as the truth.”

“Does you knowing things got something to do with those fancy white shoes of yours?”

Mitch looked at his filthy athletic shoes. Somebody had finally noticed.

=TWENTY-EIGHT=

“
The year 2000.
” Taxi pushed back from his kitchen table and walked to the refrigerator. “The year 2000.” He opened the door and stuck his head inside, moving things around on the shelves. “You got to be shittin’ me,” his words echoed in the near empty ice box.

Mitch poured anther cup of coffee and remained silent, allowing Taxi time to digest all he’d heard. He hadn’t reached the decision to confide in Taxi easily. But with Kat’s reliability in question—due to her unpredictable panic attacks—his back was against the wall. He needed an ally. There were too many people in jeopardy now; there was no way he could cover everyone alone.

After dropping Lamar Gordon off at the clinic, with a promise of double shooting lessons, Mitch had suggested they go to Taxi’s place for a powwow. If they’d tried to have this conversation at Biggers’ someone would have interrupted them every five minutes. And Mitch didn’t want to be interrupted. It would be a difficult tale to explain, and the listener didn’t need any extra distractions.

Taxi finally withdrew his head from the refrigerator and looked at him. “You must think I’m one dumb nigger boy, Mr. Mitch.” His words were as cold as the air coming out the open door.

Mr. Mitch? Good God, I’m right back where I started.

“No I don’t.” He knew time-travel wouldn’t be an easy sell when he’d started, but he certainly hadn’t anticipated such a negative reaction. “You’re far from dumb, Taxi.”

“Then why you spinning this tale?” Taxi slammed the door. “Only some willie what just fell off the pickle boat is gonna buy into this.”

“I understand your problem. Jesus, if you came up to me claiming to be from the future, I’d probably deck you and ask questions later.” Mitch waited. This deal could go one of two ways, he’d either be picking himself up off the kitchen floor or…

Taxi walked over to the table and plopped down. “Let’s see if I got this right. You crossed a street and all a sudden it’s a whole new year?”

Mitch nodded. “Bingo. I jumped from the year 2000 right into 1963.”

“Why you want to do something like that?”

“Kat.”

“Her too?”

“
Her
idea. Taxi, would a grown man be crazy enough to do something like this on his own?” Receiving no response to his attempt at humor, he pushed on. “I get the feeling you still don’t believe me,” Mitch said.

“Would you believe me if I was the one spinning this yarn?”

“I might. I do know I’d give it some thought before deciding you were a liar.”

“Tell me about this here 2000 of yours.”

“I can’t do that, Taxi. Sticking my finger in the past and stirring things all around could cause major problems in my time.”

“Sure makin’ it hard for me to believe your story, Mr. Mitch.”

He couldn’t think of another way to
prove
anything he’d said. And without proof, it looked like he was dead in the water. “I’ll admit it is one hell of a wild story. But I give you my word as a gentleman it is God’s own truth.”

Taxi began to pick apart a piece of bread crust left over from their lunch. After a few minutes he looked up. “How come everybody crossing that street don’t go back and forth in years?”

Mitch allowed a little flicker of hope to spark. At least the man had begun to ask questions, which could mean Taxi didn’t completely discount the possibility of time-travel. “I don’t know how it works, but I know we’re here for a reason.”

“Why cain’t you and Miss Kat go on back?”

“I could answer your question, but I’d rather not right now.”

“If you’s expectin’ to be believed, Mr. Mitch. Then you just best be getting on with the answering.”

Mitch worked on keeping his Irish temper under control. He couldn’t allow Taxi’s needling questions and attitude to push his buttons. It would be better to answer one innocuous question now, and save the fancy foot work for later.

“The doorway between the years only opens when somebody dies.”

“Lots folks dying every day.”

“This door only works with specific people. People on a very specific list.”

Taxi snorted. “You got a way to wiggle out of everything don’t you? But I ain’t gonna sit here and let you make me out to be a bigger fool.” He stood and jammed the still damp pork pie hat on his head. “I’ll ride you back to the clinic, after that, I don’t want to be seein’ or hearin’ from you again.”

“Wait.” Mitch leaned across the table and grabbed for Taxi’s arm, but his fingers slid off the slick nylon shirt. Stretched across the remains of their lunch, he didn’t see Taxi’s incoming fist until it connected with the side of his head. The blow knocked him off the chair and onto the floor.

Taxi grabbed the front of Mitch’s shirt, yanking him upright. “I had enough of your white boy shit. Get the hell out my house.” He spun Mitch around like a top and sent him stumbling toward the door.