Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel (2 page)

“Yeah, but
what-if
this one particular call—Alice Carpenter’s call—was on the up and up?”

“If that’s true, then explain to me what we found. Or better yet, explain what we
didn’t
find,” he challenged.

She shrugged.

“Exactly,” he continued. “Based on that call, dispatch sent us to Mountain View and did we find a house burning to the ground? No way, Jose. We found a music recital being hosted at the home of a prominent Maceyville newspaper editor. And lucky us, we got to say howdy-do to a couple of county judges as well.”

“I know all that, Mitch. But if you listen really close, you can hear the woman’s fearful. She’s got problems and she’s spooked. Could be dispatch gave out a different address and I copied it wrong.”

“Nice try, partner, but I already checked. Mountain View was the right address.”

Kat ran agitated fingers through her shoulder length corkscrew curls, and then opened her mouth to argue her case, but realizing she lacked the ammo, closed it. Instead of launching another debate, she took the cassette out of the machine and left the room.

As she waited for the Property clerk, she fumed over the past six days. The whole mess started on March 2, with the call to that spooky ever-changing house on Tenth Street. The caller had clearly identified herself as Gladys Pauley, and reported an intruder.

When they arrived, all Mitch saw was an empty house with a FOR SALE sign in the front yard. Kat got the double whammy: two houses for the price of one.

Questioning of the cranky neighbors confirmed the owners had moved out eight months earlier. No one had noticed anyone messing in or around the house in the past few hours, nor heard anything unusual. But Kat had seen plenty of unusual.

Three days later, on March 5, an unidentified male’s garbled message about a white pickup following him home and how it was now parked outside his door. According to the caller, the men in the truck were talking loud and taking pot shots at his windows.

En route to 4721 Riverside, dispatch informed them an anonymous caller had just reported an explosion and fire at the same location. This time she and Mitch arrived to find a vacant lot filled with overgrown weeds, flanked on the north by a McDonalds, a gas station on the south, and the Tombigbee River to the west.

No gunmen.

No victim.

No burning or exploding house.

Tonight had been the
coup de gras
. March 7: 1303 Hours. 801 Mountain View. Unlucky number three. When they’d rolled up, sirens full on and lights flashing, the circular drive had been filled with expensive automobiles. Sweet strains of flutes and violins filtered through the ceiling-to-floor windows opened onto the veranda. A startled red jacketed valet had darted out of the shadows to open Kat’s door and politely volunteered to park the squad car. Mitch almost shot the poor man.

At Kat’s request, the trembling valet had gone inside
and returned moments later with the owner. Mr. Justin Kolsky, editor of the
Maceyville Sun Times
, had been less than gracious to the two police officers in his driveway.

* * *

Maceyville Sun-Times

Editorial, Justin R. Kolsky

It has become apparent to this citizen of Maceyville, Alabama that the annual budget for our Police Department is sorely inadequate. The budget  failed to include stipends for up to date city maps.

On Thursday evening, March 7, a music recital held at my home was invaded by two armed police officers. When questioned regarding this outrage, they admitted the possibility of having responded incorrectly.

In other words, they were at the wrong address!

Fellow citizens, if those individuals sworn to protect and serve are incapable of appropriate response to 911 calls, why should we place our lives, and those of our family’s, in their hands?

Police Chief Arlin Smith personally apologized for this inexcusable faux pas. He candidly admitted the armed invasion of my home was not the first time these officers had erred in recent days.

Nor was this the second time.

Thursday’s fiasco at my recital was the THIRD MISTAKE.

When I asked Chief Smith the outcome of the prior three incorrect responses by these officers, he was unable to provide me with an adequate explanation.

Does this mean there has been no follow up to a crime report?

Are those poor victims who made the 911 calls still awaiting a police rescue?

To the Maceyville Police Department I say: Go out and get yourselves a current city map. Learn your way around our beautiful little city.

Do your job.

Protect and serve.

* * *

Like the old tale about the store manager who was reprimanded by the big boss, and became so angry the manager then yelled at his clerk. The poor clerk in turn went home and yelled at his spouse, and being dead last on the totem pole, the spouse kicked the living crap out of their spotted dog.

Since the police station didn’t have a spotted dog … Chief Arlin Smith yelled at his two officers.

James Mitchell and Kathleen Templeton stood at attention in his office, subjected to an angry diatribe in response to the morning’s editorial. For a good half hour the chief expounded on their less than accurate procedure and how they’d embarrassed a distinguished citizen. He went on to upbraid them for showing up at Kolsky’s home with siren wailing and weapons drawn. Then for good measure, he dragged in the damage their gung-ho style inflicted upon the reputation of the entire department.

“Hells fire, y’all. Your heads ought to be hanging lower than a hound dog’s right now,” the irate chief concluded. He lit a cigar, and leaned back in his chair. An obvious sign he was confident he’d effectively shifted the blame for the less than flattering editorial onto his two officers.

Due to Mr. Kolsky’s influence with the mayor and city council, and the fact it was an election year, Mitch received two weeks desk duty in Verification of Employee Records.

Kat was assigned to the Computer-File Entry Section.

All because they interrupted a music recital.

=TWO=

March 09—Saturday

“A good evenin’
to you, Officer Templeton,” Dreama Simms said , as she wheeled the cleaning cart into the Computer-File room.

Kat smiled warmly at the petite grey-haired woman. “Hey, Miss Simms. How you doing tonight?”

“Lordy, my lumbago is acting up, child. How ‘bout yourself?”

Kat shrugged and gestured to the files scattered across her desk. “Shift number three, with eleven more to go,” she said, referring to her two-week assignment. “I suppose I really shouldn’t complain, at least the chief didn’t fire me.”

The first night on the job, she’d defiantly demonstrated her displeasure by refusing to wear a proper uniform and informed all who would listen, “If I’m going to be a secretary, I’m sure as hell going to dress like a secretary!” This declaration, in addition to the red leather miniskirt, earned a second reprimand for her file. Tonight Officer Templeton wore the proper uniform.

“Well, I liked that red hot outfit,” Dreama said. “You looked good, girl.”

“Good don’t necessarily mean professional,” Kat said, mimicking Chief Arlin Smith’s nasal twang.

“Assigning you to this cellar is a pack of silliness if you ask me,” Dreama snorted.

“Politics is more like it,” Kat grumbled. “But I thank you for the kind words.”

Dreama nodded and returned to work.

Kat sorted through the manila folders and entered the information in the computer, punching the keys with force. She hated the job. This was not her idea of police work. It was bad enough to be taken off patrol, but the Computer-File night shift was humiliating.

However, her current assignment offered one bonus. In the late fifties and early sixties Miss Simms had been a star performer in black night clubs all over the United States. Her record albums adorned store windows and one achieved the Gold status. The reasons for the abrupt end to a very promising career remained a mystery to this day because Miss Simms discouraged anyone from prying into her past.

As Kat worked through the mountain of paper work, Miss Simms plugged in an old portable record player and gently placed an LP album on the turntable. With the first note, Kat closed her eyes, spellbound.

Dreama Simms’ recorded voice was smooth as expensive Kentucky bourbon. The silky notes melted into each other, filling the cavernous dungeon with rich melodic sounds.

“You know,” Dreama said, interrupting her heart wrenching rendition of
Angel Eyes
. “I recall another house set afire on Riverside.”

This statement caught Kat’s attention and she sat up in her chair. The second prank call she and Mitch caught had been for Riverside. What was going on in Maceyville?

“You mean there’s been another one? When?”

Dreama chuckled. “Child, you can unclench those fists of yours. I’m talking about way back in the springtime of 1963. ‘Round the time of all that civil rights trouble up in Birmingham.”

Kat knew what Dreama Simms meant by ‘the trouble in Birmingham’. Her own parents, Alvin and Dolores Rayson, had been active supporters of Martin Luther King’s campaign for equality.

Her Pop had taken part in demonstrations at the Woolworth five-and-dime stores to integrate the lunch counters. He’d even been arrested and jailed because of the Birmingham sit-in.

Her mother had been hosed by the Birmingham police as she left the 16th Street Baptist Church.

Kat often wondered, in the same circumstances, if she’d have had the courage her parents displayed. By comparison, the bouts of racism she encountered today were minuscule.

“That was almost forty years ago,” Kat said, bringing her thoughts back on track. “What on earth made you think about that house tonight?”

“In the springtime my memories get all stirred up. Been happening for years.” Dreama gently raised the record needle and turned off the player. She leaned her hip against the cleaning cart and stared into space. “I was barely thirty and already been working the clubs for nearly twelve years when I ended up in Maceyville. That particular March I was goin’ round with a handsome devil named Maximilian Devore.

“I recall it being early in the month when it all started. On that night, my man come down to The Blue to ride me home after work. As we come up to that fork on Riverside and Azalea, we saw the house explode. Girl, the whole sky lit up like Christmas morning. The whole neighborhood was a running all over the streets in their night clothes.”

“What happened to the folks in the house?” Kat asked. “Did they get out safely?”

The cleaning woman shook her head. “Everybody tried to help put out the fire, used garden hoses and buckets. But none of that helped. That place burned to ashes in no time. I often thought if me and Taxi only got there a little bit sooner, ‘stead of stopping along the way for a kiss or two, things might have turned out different for that poor man.”