“That’s okay, Mr. Mitch. I knows this ain’t the best vehicle.”
“Your car beats the heck out of walking.”
Taxi chuckled, as he guided the car through another round of bone shattering bumps. “Sorry ‘bout the bad street, boss. But folks won’t take kindly to us going around town together.”
The main route would’ve been a whole lot smoother, but Taxi had suggested they keep to the back roads. Mitch agreed. They were like two vampires hiding out from the sun. He knew it would only take one busy body to get them in enough trouble to last a lifetime, plus ten years.
It wasn’t exactly against the law for white and black to be in the same vehicle, but then again, it wasn’t the 1963 accepted norm either. Under the circumstances, the last thing he wanted was to be rousted by the White Citizen’s Committee or the Klan. The thought of those hooded bone heads prancing around gave him a twinge of unease.
In turn, that twinge set off bells and whistles. His cop switch flipped on and he scanned the street, alternating his gaze from right to left. For the third time in less than a minute, the same twinge prompted him to lean over the seat and stick his hand out the front passenger window— permanently frozen in the half-raised position—to adjust the exterior side mirror.
The pair of headlights that jumped into view sent his stomach rocketing into his throat.
“We’ve got company,” he said, taking care to use a detached cool tone to avoid rattling the driver’s already frayed nerves. “Of course a pair of headlights doesn’t necessarily indicate trouble.” He leaned across the front seat again. “You know, it’s getting close to 4:30 in the morning, and lots of folks are headed for the early shift at the Demopolis dam.”
“Or the railroad yards and steel mills in Birmingham,” Taxi added, his voice hopeful.
“Sure,” Mitch said, as the speedometer eased up to 50 miles per hour.
“They still back there?” Taxi asked, glancing over his shoulder.
“Now, don’t get all worked up. These back roads get their fair share of traffic, it could be nothing more than someone traveling between home and work.”
“Don’t mean no disrespect, Mr. Mitch, but them lights don’t appear to be falling back none and I done speeded up twice.”
Mitch twisted around in the seat and took a hard look, trying to estimate the distance between the vehicles. On this narrow and poorly maintained road nobody should be traveling more than 25 mph, yet the headlights remained a steady two lengths behind. Which meant the other car was moving at the same speed, around 50 miles per hour.
“Taxi,” he kept his voice pitched low because a crazy idea the people tailing them might overhear danced in his head. The eavesdropping theory wove in and out of his logical thought processes, a conga line that wouldn’t give up. In fact, Mitch believed about half of his rational senses had already joined the dance party. He needed to get a grip on himself before an innocuous situation escalated into a full-blown alert. “Let’s take a left at the next corner.” He pointed down the road. “Once we’re on Smithson, you floor this crate. I mean, push this mother to the limit.”
“This ole mother ain’t got much fire in her belly, Mr. Mitch.”
“Do the best you can, Taxi. What I’m interested in is discovering if those fellas riding our ass are after us or on their way home for breakfast.”
“I think maybe they plan on having you and me for breakfast,” Taxi said.
“I’m not in the mood to be anyone’s eggs and bacon today. How about you?”
“Me neither, boss. Y’all hang on, now.”
The heavy old De Soto sped down the road and slip swung around the corner like a fuel injected race car. The tires grabbed the asphalt and the car barely fish tailed before shooting east down Smithson. The four lane street ran parallel to the Tombigbee River, a route with gentle curves and very enjoyable on a Sunday afternoon drive, but dangerous for high speed racing.
Mitch barely had time for a breath before the headlights bounced back into view. That pretty much settled the issue as far as he was concerned; he and Taxi were most definitely the foxes in this hunt.
As Mitch plotted a way out of their current predicament, Taxi maneuvered the boat of a car around the curves, increasing their speed in tiny increments. How long could the engine last? The car was seventeen-years-old and probably clocked at a minimum, 100,000 miles on the odometer. Oil changes? Tires? He wouldn’t give odds on regular maintenance. Those factors, plus the three loud backfires in a row, caused him to severely lower her life expectancy.
When he twisted around to get a better look out the rear window the edges of his badge folder dug into his hip. On his way to the bus depot he’d stopped by the Yellowhammer Inn and retrieved both gun and badge. At the time he didn’t know why, but maybe one of Kat’s New Orleans voodoo spirits had latched onto him, guiding him as well.
“Taxi.” Mitch tapped him on the shoulder. “Think you can shake them for thirty seconds?”
“We got a side street comin’ up fast, boss. It winds crooked between some warehouses.”
“That sounds good. Try to get a street or two ahead of them, then you and me are going to switch places.”
“Switch? But I’m driving here, Mr. Mitch.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never played this game. I’ll climb in front, grab the wheel and then you shimmy over into the back seat.”
Taxi nodded. “I knows the game. I just don’t see no point to it, boss.”
“Trust me on this, there’s a damn good point.”
=FIFTEEN=
The seat maneuver went smoothly, and by the time the tail car caught up Mitch was ready to show his Ace in the hole. He tapped the brakes, hoping the tail lights functioned; otherwise the sedan would plow into them. Luckily everything seemed to be in working order and both vehicles began to slow. Mitch picked his spot, the intersection of Grant and Laurel, and pulled over. He exited and walked until he stood in the middle of Grant. He wanted to draw their attention away from Taxi, who’d refused to leave the pseudo-protection of the locked De Soto.
The sounds of slamming doors and footsteps echoed off the brick buildings along the street. Three men in baseball caps clambered out of the pursuit car with all the grace of a herd of rhinos. Their identity didn’t surprise Mitch.
In pack formation—Floyd, Little Carl, and Louis moved in, snipping and shoving at each other like wild dogs spoiling for a fight. They split off and circled around the green car, banging on the roof and trunk, screaming at Taxi inside.
So much for diversionary tactics.
If this exact moment had been captured in a comic strip Mitch would have been drawn with a big light bulb over his head. Their posturing and bravado were façades, like a fancy paint job on an inferior product. With the clarity of a ten-point diamond, he saw the truth behind the ridiculous segregation rules. Taxi, and all he represented, scared the shit out of these folks.
During Mitch’s epiphany the guys had grown bored banging on the car, so Little Carl hawked up a loogie and spit it through the open window. Once their enjoyment in this childish display wore off, they egged each other on until Floyd finally unzipped his fly and urinated on the front windshield. Lewd comments equating Taxi with human waste fouled the early morning breeze.
Mitch longed to inform them that the man they were tormenting had demonstrated more class and courage in the past few hours than they ever could hope to achieve in a lifetime. But he settled for name calling.
“Hey, assholes,” he taunted.
The pack turned in toto, ready to expand their dominion. They came together in the middle of the street then moved forward, three abreast.
Mitch withdrew the Maceyville Police Department badge from his back pocket and held it out in front of him.
They skidded to a halt like three dogs on a short leash. Their ‘I’m gonna beat the shit out of you’ grins dropped to the ground.
Mitch took a step closer and gave them his infamous evil cop eye.
&n
bsp; A sound several feet away caused him to look past them to the black Impala SS. If asked, he’d be hard pressed to say which he recognized first—the car or the man seated behind the wheel. Mitch took a faltering step backwards as Billy Lee Mitchell opened the door and slithered off the red vinyl seat. At that moment he heard Taxi’s frightened squawk, and didn’t blame him one iota. The man moving toward him was the monster in many of Mitch’s nightmares.
In a single heart beat he became a terrified five-year-old again, trembling as his father approached. Any second he expected to hear the ridicule in Billy Lee’s words and voice, the ugly shouted curses. He flinched with each slap of his father’s boots on the pavement, reliving the blows delivered with closed fists. Or open handed. Or with anything the angry man could swing.
The driver stopped less than five feet away, fists clinched and a ‘go to hell’ look in his mean eyes.
Billy Lee Mitchell reminded Mitch of a dark avenging demon. Six-feet of bad boy attitude, with a coal-black razor crew cut and deep brown-black eyes that burned with unrighteous fire. His unbuttoned denim work shirt revealed a muscular chest. Tight jeans and steel toed boots completed the ensemble.
Billy Lee snorted and cocked his hip. The streetlights glinted off the brass knuckles on his right hand.
Mitch could see his father ached to get into it, wanted to draw first blood. But Billy Lee might be surprised at the outcome. This time his opponent wouldn’t be a scared five-year-old. His opponent would be a full-grown man. A large man. Mitch still carried his pro-football 250 pounds and at six-foot three-inches, he had the immovability of a stone wall. By comparison, Billy Lee, who weighed in at around 170 pounds was three-inches shorter and more closely resembled the schoolyard bully than the ogre Mitch remembered.
“You want some of this, white boy?” Billy Lee asked, gesturing over his shoulder at Taxi.
“Nope.” Mitch flashed his badge a second time. “You and your home boys go on, leave this man to me.”
“Well, well. Listen to the Yankee boy givin’ out orders,” Billy Lee sneered.
Mitch groaned inwardly. He’d forgotten to use his Elvis voice, and his Pennsylvania accent had given Billy Lee a nit picking point.
“This Yankee’s got a badge and a gun, pal. I suggest you get your ‘Bama ass in gear,” he ordered.
The other three looked at Billy Lee, awaiting their cue. Mitch mentally crossed his fingers. This confrontation did not bode well for a time-traveler. All the dire predictions he’d laid on Kat about making contact with her aunt were now reversed. Maybe he should listen to his own lectures some time.
A cold smile crawled across Billy Lee’s face as he flexed his fingers, making certain Mitch could see the brass knuckles.
Then again, if I stuck my whole damn arm in the history pie, would it make any real difference? Would the world stop spinning if, just once, I beat the living crap out of Dad?
As soon as he decided to take the old man on, a whole army of What-ifs marched through his head, banging on drums and blowing bugles. What-if, he pulled his gun and shot Billy Lee right between his mean eyes? Would James Mitchell cease to exist in that instant? What-if, Billy Lee killed him first? Would Mitch still be born in 1965? He rubbed the back of his neck. The strain of trying to figure out all the ramifications of this reunion settled into a big muscle knot.
“Why you riding in that nigger’s car?” Billy Lee challenged.
“I’m driving the car, not riding in it,” Mitch shot back.
“Makes no difference where you sit, Yankee. Y’all is still together.”
“See this?” He took two steps forward and shoved his badge within inches of his father’s nose. “This is a police badge, punk. And that means I can ride in any damn car I feel like. And I can ride in that car any damn time I choose. And with any damn person I want. You got that straight?” Mitch asked, poking him in the chest.
“I got it,” Billy Lee said, his tone incredibly surly. “We was only checking out the situation. No one knew y’all was on police business.”
Mitch turned to the other three men. “Now that you got it, climb back in that piece of shit Chevy, that won’t go over 65 mph, and get out of my face.” Mitch wished for a camera to take a picture of his father’s face when he heard the crack about 65 mph. He allowed himself a small smile as the men scrambled back in the Impala. In less time than it took to flush a toilet, they were gone.
Taxi called out the window, “How come you don’t sound like Elvis Presley no more?”
Mitch walked over and leaned back against the side of the car. “I’m working undercover, don’t tell anybody I’m not really from Memphis.”
“My mouth is shut tight. Mr. Mitch, you a real policeman?”
“Yes I am. Just not in this particular Maceyville.”
“Mmm, then it’s good them fellas didn’t look close at that badge, boss. I seen that dark one before and he’s got a hard on when it comes to Negroes.”
“I did notice something along those lines, Taxi.” Mitch wrinkled his nose at the stench of the drying urine on the windshield. “We’ll need several buckets of water to wash down your car.”
“It don’t matter, Mr. Mitch.” Taxi removed the coat hanger and shoved open the squeaky back door. “Not much paint left on her anyway.”
“She really stinks.”
“My momma always says a little ammonia is good for washing windows, Mr. Mitch.”
“Hey, Taxi will you do me one more favor?”
“What’s that, Mr. Mitch?” Taxi asked as he crawled out of the car.
“Drop the mister.” He stuck his hand out. “My friends call me Mitch.”
Taxi took his hand. “I reckon I can do that, Mitch.”
* * *
Kat shoved her arms through the sleeves of the navy blue sweater she’d found hanging behind the TV room door. The man’s shirt, from the laundry basket in the bathroom, wrapped around her body twice, but the trousers were a pretty close fit if she rolled the cuffs up. Unable to locate any street shoes, she’d settled for a sad looking pair of maroon house slippers abandoned under a chair in the waiting room.
The women didn’t fool her. All their sweet talk was a lie. Kat was a prisoner. Why would they sit outside her door for such a long time unless they were on guard duty? They’d only pretended to be her friends so she would lower her guard. What plans did they have after she’d relaxed? She heard them talking about burning houses and churches. Did that mean they would hand her over to Floyd so he wouldn’t burn their house down?
She needed to escape. Kat fumbled with the stubborn door latch, wasting precious minutes working the rusty bolt free.
The early morning light painted the neighborhood with a surreal brush. Shapes blended together, undefined edges softened by shadows. Kat hurried down the sidewalk, thankful no cars traveled past her. She had to put as much distance between herself and the clinic before Floyd returned.
Headlights bounced down the street and she dove for cover in the nearest yard. Huddled behind the overgrown rhododendron, she watched the green car stop in front of the clinic. Two men inside, one black and one white.
Floyd!
The women had sent someone for Floyd. Now he’d hunt her down like a blood hound.
She sprinted for the alley behind the house.
* * *
“That girl sure knows how to hit,” Dreama said, examining her friend. A nasty looking bruise decorated Lettie’s shoulder and lump was growing on the side of her head.
Lettie Ruth pressed the ice pack against her temple. “She’s just scared, didn’t mean to do me any real harm.”
“I’d be hatin’ to see what you be lookin’ like if she’d meant to hurt you.”
“She’s near crazy on account of what those boys done to her,” Lettie Ruth said. She pulled her blouse over the bruise and worked on the buttons. “We need to go after her.”
“You want to bring that wild cat back here?” Dreama shook her head. “If she’d been beatin’ on me
, I’d let her be.”
Lettie frowned. “I’m not going to let her be. She needs help. Yours and mine.”
Dreama rested her hands on her hips. “She needs to be locked—” A knock on the door interrupted her thought. “We’ll be discussin’ this when I get back.”
“No discussion. We’re going after her.”
“Lettie Ruth Rayson, you ain’t got to take in every stray you run across.” Dreama glanced over her shoulder when someone pounded on the door.
“She ain’t a stray. That girl’s special. I got a feelin’ about her.”
“Well, she ain’t family neither, so quit actin’ like a mother hen.”
* * *
Mitch rested his head against the car window and closed his eyes, torn between depression and fear. The door to the year 2000 had banged shut twenty minutes ago. Now he and Kat were stuck here four more days, until April 5th—the day Lettie Ruth Rayson would disappear. No, that’s not right, he corrected, recent experiences and seeing the hatred whites held for blacks, had shed new light on the past.
Lettie Ruth wouldn’t disappear on Friday. She would be murdered.
When the car stopped, he opened his eyes. The address painted on the porch post caused a sharp pain to shoot through his head: 3449. The Jane Doe, assumed to be Kat’s aunt, had disappeared from 3449 Brook Street.
“What the name of this street?” he asked.
“Brook Street. And this here is Dr. Tim’s clinic.”
Everything has come a full circle. And I don’t like the shape of this particular circle.
They climbed from the car and hurried to the door. Taxi glanced nervously over his shoulder at the silent neighborhood, then knocked. “They better get this door open. I don’t care to be standing here letting the neighbors see our business.”
Mitch tried to keep most of his freckled body tucked into the shadows, but he was a big man and the porch wide open. A white man in the east Hollow at daybreak wasn’t the norm. His presence would draw unwanted attention and if someone happened to mention seeing his red hair it would only be a matter of hours before Floyd and his crew arrived.
Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel Page 13