Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel Read online

  She reached overhead and switched the dome light off. “Let’s go,” she said to Mitch, as she eased the driver side door open and slipped out of the car.

  Nearing the middle of the street she sensed she was alone in her pursuit of the mystery man. Where was Mitch? Annoyed by her partner’s slow response, she stopped barely across the center line of the road and waited, foot tapping, hands on hips. After several seconds she sighed out of frustration and glanced over her shoulder, prepared to read him the riot act.

  A wispy mist now stood between Kat and the red Honda. And Mitch. She jerked to attention. What in the holy Moses was he doing in the car? Why didn’t he get out? They were partners; he should be covering her six not sleeping in the freaking car. But there he sat. She could vaguely make out his silhouette.

  As she watched, the light fog turned into heavy wet curtains hanging in the air.

  It took several seconds for Kat to process the visual input. Her car was softening, almost melting into the early morning gloom. Suddenly, an unseen hand drew the miasma drapery across the deserted street. And the car was gone.

  “Mitch calls this the witching hour. I think he’s right,” she whispered.

  Having lost sight of the mystery man in the fog and unsure of the situation, Kat reversed course. Once she crossed back over the center line, the mist dissipated and she could see her car again. She hurried around to the passenger side and reached for the chrome door handle, then hesitated before closing her fingers.

  A dozen of Mitch’s annoying what-if questions rattled around in her head. She constantly nagged and complained about his habit of what-iffing a situation to death. And now she was guilty of the same sin. Well, what-if, the chrome handle wasn’t really there? What-if, her hand passed through the door the same way the man had passed through the fender?

  “Hades panties, Kathleen,” she muttered. “You’re being ridiculous.” She wiped sweaty palms on her uniform trousers, took a deep breath and grabbed hold of the metal, then chuckled with relief. Of course it felt hard and damp. Perfectly normal. What had she expected to find? Sometimes she could work herself up into such a frenzy.

  She opened the door and squatted. “Mitch,” Kat spoke in a sharp demanding voice to get his attention.

  “What?” He sluggishly turned in her direction, his cornflower-blue eyes groggy.

  She tugged on his arm and pulled him partially through the door.

  As he climbed out his foot slipped off the edge of the curb, legs buckled under his weight and he fell face down on the grass.

  “Are you okay?” Kat asked.

  “I’m in great shape,” he grunted. He used both hands to push his torso off the ground, and then regained his feet. He leaned against the car, allowing the steel to support his flesh and bone frame as he muttered obscenities under his breath.

  “Let’s take a little stroll, partner,” Kat said.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the middle of the street.”

  Mitch placed an arm around Kat’s shoulder. “That sounds like more fun than Mardi Gras.”

  “Believe me. This will beat it all to heck.” They crossed the broken white line and Kat stopped.

  “May I ask why we’ve stopped in the middle of the street?”

  Kat turned him around. “That’s why,” she said, and pointed to her red car. It was the same as before, there, yet not there. A backdrop of trees and houses could be seen through the fading Honda.

  “What the devil’s going on?” Mitch growled.

  “The same thing that happened before.”

  “Before?”

  “Yeah. When I followed the man.”

  “Man?” His eyes jumped from the empty space recently occupied by Kat’s car to her face. “What man?”

  “The one who was standing next to the car. You didn’t see him?”

  Mitch shook his head. “The last thing I remember is telling you the time. It was 1:25.”

  A cold shiver dashed up and down her spine. “What time is it now?”

  He pressed the small button to illuminate the read-out on his watch dial. “1:30.”

  Kat stared at him. “Only five minutes later? That’s impossible, Mitch, it’s been at least ten minutes since I first saw him.”

  “Shee-itt!” He pointed down the street. “Look at what’s coming our way.”

  * * *

  “Mitch, we’ve got to talk about it,” Kat said, breaking the long silence. They sat in the back corner booth of the Daisy Wheel café, surrounded by fluorescent lights and red vinyl. “Mitch,” she repeated.

  He avoided her gaze by drawing designs on the white Formica-topped table with his water glass. Even though he felt silly, the Park Street incident had struck a nerve deep inside him. This business was too damn close to his nightmares. In those dreams he’d call out to Lisa and she’d turn to him. He would hold his arms open. But every time, she walked right through him. The same way the firemen had walked through him earlier tonight.

  As though he had no substance.

  As though he’d never existed.

  He met Kat’s eyes and spoke for the first time since leaving Park Street. “We saw things that aren’t possible,” he said quietly, hating the quivering timbre of his voice.

  “I know,” Kat whispered. “But we—”

  “Stop it right there. We’re not rehashing this nonsense.”

  “Yes, we are,” Kat insisted. “You and I stood in the middle of that road and watched my car completely disappear. Then everything around us altered. I mean, the trees grew smaller, houses changed color. Cars that weren’t visible a split second before, 1959 Ford Fairlaines and beat up old Chevys, suddenly popped up in driveways or along the curb.” She reached over and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “We both saw the red-orange flames licking out through the windows. Felt the heat. Mitch, look at your own arms, the hairs are singed. The Maceyville Fire Department showed up. We saw their trucks, the flashing lights, heard the sirens. Damnit, we saw it all.”

  “But nobody could see us!” he exploded.

  “There’s an explanation for all of this, and we’ll figure it out. But, in order to do that we have to talk it through.”

  “There isn’t any explanation.” He reached across the table and touched her cheek. “It’s like UFOs or ESP. You can’t explain any of that stuff, Kat. And if you’re smart, you’ll ignore everything that just happened.”

  “You are dead wrong, Mitch. It can’t be ignored. I was meant to see those things tonight. You hear what I’m saying? I tell you it wasn’t an accident or random event.”

  “Listen to yourself, Kathleen Templeton. Are you telling me New Orleans voodoo spirits called you to Park Street tonight?”

  “Maybe … I don’t know. But you have to admit we saw something.”

  “No, Kathleen, I don’t have to admit anything.” Mitch slid out of the vinyl seat and stood next to the booth. He tossed a handful of bills on the table. “I’m heading home and you should too.”

  =FOUR=

  March 10—Sunday 6:00 A.M.

  James Andrew Mitchell sat on a metal folding chair, the only piece of furniture in his living room. Elbows on knees, he stared at the boxes and crates lining the walls. He’d been in this apartment for almost six months, one of these days he would have to unpack and buy some furniture. For the time being, he was content with a mattress on the bedroom floor, a refrigerator and card table in the kitchen, and a tiny black and white television on the counter by the sink.

  The apartment was Kat’s doing. She’d been the one to decide he should sell the little brick house and get on with his life.

  “What life?” he’d asked. “I work twelve hour shifts and head the call list for Sunday and holidays. Given that kind of schedule, what does it matter where or how I live?”

  “It matters, Mitch.”

  Forcing himself off the chair, he ambled into the kitchen. He took a bottle of orange juice out of the refrigerator that was also Kat’s idea. She clai
med no human could exist without one, and just to prove her point, once a week she dropped by with several items requiring refrigeration. He’d grudgingly accepted the ice box, but balked when it came to acquiring a stove. He never cooked; in fact he didn’t even own any plates or bowls that weren’t made out of paper. No, that wasn’t exactly the truth. In one of the sealed boxes stacked along the wall in the living room he could find a set of dishes. Still wrapped in silver or white paper printed with wedding bells or doves.

  Unpacking could wait.

  Unpacking could wait until hell froze over.

  Familiar images of Kat and her Pop, the Reverend Alvin Rayson, took up space in the corner of the kitchen. He saw them seated at Lisa’s bedside, holding her hand, and whispering words of comfort to the dying woman. They never wavered in their vigilance nor devotion as the months elapsed.

  By contrast, he’d wandered around in a fog-shrouded daze, unwilling to accept the inevitable conclusion. The only woman he’d ever loved was dying. Maybe not today or even tomorrow, but soon. A twenty-seven-year-old woman did not die of a brain aneurysm.

  He remembered screaming those foolish words in the doctor’s face, his heart bending and twisting under the weight of the sorrow and terror of his future. Wondering what it would be like to spend the rest of his life alone. Without Lisa.

  Unable express his feelings, his grief had turned into a sullen silence which ultimately became anger. Anger poured from him like sweat on a hot afternoon, spilling on everyone around him. Before long most of his friends dropped from his life like the apples off a cold November tree, leaving him bare and isolated.

  No one knew how to comfort the bridegroom. What could you say when the bride collapsed in the doorway of the church? When the wedding couple left the ceremony in an ambulance rather than a limousine.

  Mitch clenched and unclenched his balled fists. A year after losing Lisa, he still remained furious with the unfeeling emergency room staff. He’d carried Lisa into the hospital himself, refusing to allow anyone to touch her, and gently placed her on the gurney. People wearing blue scrub suits had shoved him aside, and cut her beautiful wedding gown into tattered bits of lace.

  Later, once they’d finished with their medical hocus pocus, they’d thrust the plastic bag containing her dress and personal items into his hands with a curt, “Sorry, sir.”

  What did those words really mean? Was the nurse sorry she destroyed Lisa’s wedding gown? Was the doctor sorry he couldn’t save the bride’s life?

  Were they sorry he’d waited in the hospital hallway in a rented tuxedo, Lisa’s wedding band, the one she would never wear, still in his pocket?

  Through it all Kat had remained by his side. Her strength had been his anchor. And now, when she wanted him to listen, he’d cut her off. Turned his back like a frightened child.

  * * *

  By the time Kat reached her home the sun was busily climbing the low hills surrounding Maceyville. But sleep was the last thing on her mind, so she started a pot of coffee and while it brewed took a shower.

  Kat closed her eyes and allowed the hot water to beat against her body, hoping to drive the knots of tension from her neck and shoulders. Suddenly she felt as though someone had entered the room. An icy hand squeezed her heart.

  Her eyes popped open. Clouds of steam filled the small yellow bathroom, obscuring the familiar. She instinctively reached for her revolver, but her hand only slid down a soapy thigh. Opaque steam tentacles curled around her feet, her ankles, then reached up, pulling her to the shower floor. All of Kat’s strength followed the gurgling path of water flowing toward the drain.

  Colored lights flashed all around her and suddenly she found herself walking along an empty street. The sidewalks were wet. Puddles of rain water reflected the red-yellow-green-red-yellow-green pattern as the traffic lights marched through their sequence.

  Her first impulse was to run, but an invisible force kept her to a steady even pace. She didn’t like being jerked around like a stringed puppet, so she tried to come to a complete halt. It didn’t work. Kat had no control over her actions. Whatever the force that wouldn’t allow her to run a few seconds ago, now wouldn’t let her stop moving forward. The force pushed her past the small dress shops, shoe stores, banks, a Woolworth Five-and-Dime.

  As though a hand had yanked her puppet strings, she came to an abrupt halt in front of a dimly lit display window. The sign above the store read: Parisian. She recognized the name of the well-known business owned by the Hess family in downtown Birmingham since 1920. What on earth was she doing in Birmingham?

  The prim and proper pasty white mannequins, in shirtwaist dresses and high heels seemed to mock her confusion. Clustered in twos and threes, she imagined their hushed comments as they gossiped mean little secrets. Kat looked into the painted eyes and saw displeasure at her presence.

  Uneasy, she peered down the street. A warning whispered in her ear and brushed across the back of her neck. Like a wild animal she lifted her head to the wind as though she could smell the approaching danger.

  A peripheral shift caused her to gasp. She whipped her head to the left, and a reflection in the Parisian’s display window followed suit. The movement startled her because she would have sworn on a stack of Bibles there had been no reflection there before this exact moment.

  She raised her arms and the window image copied her actions, playing a bizarre game of Simon Says.

  Even though Kat knew it was her own reflection she saw, the clothes were out of sync. Like the house on Tenth Street, two realities had overlapped. She looked at her arm, and then touched her sleeve, relieved to feel the familiar coolness of her favorite red silk blouse. Khaki trousers encased her legs, athletic shoes on her feet.

  But the woman reflected in the glass wore a light-colored suit with a knee length straight skirt. Three large black buttons and a black fur collar accented the matching short jacket. A small pill box hat perched jauntily on the reflection’s straightened page-boy styled hair.

  “Lord, have mercy,” she said quietly. “She looks like a black Jackie Kennedy.”

  The ringing telephone broke the eerie spell. She turned from the window trying to locate the source. The sound originated from a booth halfway down the block. Urgency crawled around inside her belly. Deep down, in a place beyond logic or reason, Kat knew she was expected to answer the call. She took off at a trot, stumbling as she raced to reach the booth before the incessant jangle stopped. She yanked the receiver from the cradle.

  “Hello?”

  “Kathleen,” a weak, static ridden voice filtered through the phone line.

  She trembled, her teeth chattering like a wind up toy. She took a deep breath and forced confidence into her voice that she didn’t feel. “Who is this?”

  “Dangerous for you. Stay away. Don’t cross.”

  The colored lights flashed once again, and as quickly as she’d arrived on the deserted street, she was back on the shower floor. No mannequins. No blinking streetlights. No phone booth. Just ice cold water drumming against her bare skin.

  * * *

  Mitch stood on his tiny balcony and stared across the Tombigbee River. If he squinted just so, he could almost make out Kat’s yellow frame house on the rise. He imagined her curled up and snoring away, untroubled by the craziness of a few hours ago. Earlier he’d attempted to sleep, but after an hour of wrestling the bedcovers like a swamp gator, he gave up on the idea.

  “Dang that woman,” he muttered. Maybe she did have several pints of New Orleans voodoo blood in her veins after all. She certainly knew how to burrow under his skin like a tick. And the harder he tried to pull her out, the deeper she dug.

  What did all this nonsense mean?

  Why had he quit smoking? More importantly, why had he given up drinking? Right this minute a tumbler filled with Jack Daniels and a good smoke would be just the ticket to settle his mind.

  Determined to sort it all out, he headed for the carport. He generally did his best thinking while tinke
ring on his 1962, 409-cubic-inch 380 hp, four-in-the-floor Chevy Impala SS.

  The jet black vehicle, with red interior and full wheel cover spinners, once belonged to his father. Billy Lee Mitchell claimed to have purchased the car on his wedding day and in his excitement, almost forgot the ceremony.

  Mitch never put much stock in the story, but it never failed to get a rise out of his mother, which was most likely the reason his dad continued to spin the tale for so many years. He shook his head, thinking about his parents, still mystified as to why Pamela, a sweet Pennsylvania girl—attending the University of Alabama—had married the miserable SOB. Billy Lee Mitchell had been a racist, a drunk, and mean as a wet badger.

  On Mitch’s fifth birthday his father hauled the family down to the annual Ku Klux Klan rally. The hate spewing speeches, burning crosses, and hooded men in robes terrified the kindergartner. When a very drunk and belligerent Billy Lee decided to anoint his son with the white hood, Mitch had run away and hidden in the woods. There had been hell to pay when the old man finally located him hunkered down in a rotted out log.

  One year to the day, worn out from constant battles to keep Mitch from turning into a redneck racist, Pamela Mitchell packed one suitcase and took her six-year-old son north. Other than the court ordered two week summer visits with Billy Lee, Mitch spent the next twelve years on his grandparent’s farm in Lebanon, Pennsylvania.

  Thanks to his mother, his life turned out good. He’d never expected to end up right back where he started, but maybe sometimes a person follows a predetermined course. If not for the full ride football scholarship to the University of Alabama and his mother’s fondness for her alma mater, Mitch would never have returned to the Heart of Dixie. Fate? Or stupidity?

  Even though he’d lived in Tuscaloosa during his four years of college, which was only thirty miles from Maceyville, he’d never contacted Billy Lee. Mitch wondered if his father ever knew his son had played for the Crimson Tide, or later on, six years of pro-ball with the New Orleans Saints. The old coot probably stayed too drunk to have recognized Mitch if he did happen to see a Monday night football game.