Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel (3 page)

Kat’s skin prickled. The similarities between Miss Simms story and her own experiences were eerie. On March 5, she and Mitch had caught a shots fired call on Riverside, male complainant. Shortly before they arrived, a second report had been transmitted about an explosion at the same address.

“Do you by any chance remember the victim’s name, Miss Simms?” she asked.

“I remember. I remember them all, honey. His name was Dilmer Richards,” Dreama said. “I knew him from the church choir. Officer Templeton, they never caught up with the men. Now that I think on it, a few days before there’d been another house fire in the east Hollow, way over on Tenth Street. That time a woman died.”

“Gladys Pauley,” Kat whispered. “Her name was Gladys Pauley.”

Dreama Simms laid down her dust cloth and stared at the officer. “That’s right, child. But how come you to know that?”

Kat cleared her throat and gestured to the computer. “I’ve been transferring lots of old files lately. Her name must have stuck in my memory.”

“There was a great deal of burning back then,” Dreama said sadly. “I reckon you’ll be coming across it in your work. A few days later it happened all over again. This time on my own street, Mountain View. I lived in a duplex along there until the city moved us out so they could tear them old buildings down. ‘Course that was long before you got borned. Nowadays that area is full of fancy custom-built houses. No more shanty town. No more colored folks.” She gave a mighty shove and the heavy cart rolled through the doorway. “See you tomorrow night.”

Kat nodded absently, her thoughts elsewhere. Tenth Street, Riverside, and Mountain View. Three crimes, same locations, yet separated by almost forty years. A silly coincidence? It couldn’t be anything else, she told herself. But the hairs on the back of her neck curled and her arms broke out in goose bumps.

* * *

An hour later Kat gave up all pretense of working and brushed aside the stack of manila folders. The stories Miss Simms had shared kept interfering with her assigned job. What were the odds of the dates, names, and addresses duplicating themselves? Sure there were dozens of Jones’ and Smiths in town … but how many Pauleys were around?

Determined to sort out the mystery, Kat cleared the NEW FILE screen and entered her security code.

Five years ago the department had begun the arduous process of converting hundreds of outdated files into a data base. The cases went as far back as the late fifties, which allowed Kat the luxury of pulling up information with a few keystrokes rather than crawling around the spider-infested basement in search of a dusty box of files.

She doubted Miss Simms’ memory would be wrong about the dates. A series of house burnings in your own neighborhood wouldn’t be easily forgotten. So she requested: March-April, 1963 ARSON/FATALITY.

In a few minutes she’d unravel this impossible thread linking the year 2000 to 1963.

The computer went to work. The hard drive whirred and clicked as it scanned nearly forty- years of stored data.

Within seconds the screen came alive:

MARCH-APRIL, 1963 ARSON/FATALITY

03-02-63    Pauley, GladysN    23476     1:25AM

03-05-63    Richards, DilmerN  23477     12:11AM

03-07-63    Carpenter, AliceN  23478     01:03AM

03-10-63    DeCarlo, MattieN   23479     1:30AM

03-17-63    Beason, Harold     234800    6:50PM

03-29-63    Peterson, Abel     23481     02:15AM

04-01-63    Jefferson, TyroneN 23482     5:05AM

04-02-63    Spencer, LeroyN    23483     5:20AM

04-05-63    Doe, JaneN         23484     12:45AM

04-10-63    Block, GriffinN    23485     02:00AM

04-12-63    Norton, Richard    23486     07:00PM

Kat pulled her little spiral patrol notebook out of her pocket and compared the information. Three names:
Gladys Pauley, Dilmer Richards, and Alice Carpenter
.

Three dates:
March 02, 05 and 07
.

All duplicates of the calls she and Mitch answered.

Kat’s finger lightly traced Alice Carpenter’s name on the screen. Thirty-seven years ago, on March 7 at 1:03 A.M., this woman had reported a group of men threatening to burn her out.

On March 7, 2000,
another
Alice Carpenter had reported the same incident, on the same date and at the exact hour. How could this be? There must be a logical explanation. An error in the record.

Kat hit the EXIT key to return to the previous menu, where she selected: LOCATION.

MARCH-APRIL 1963 ARSON/FATALITY

2789 10th St.   3-02-63   Pauley, GladysN    1:25AM

4721 Riverside  3-05-63   Richards, DilmerN  2:11AM

801 Mt. View    03-07-63  Carpenter, AliceN  01:03AM

5429 Park       03-10-63  DeCarlo, MattieN   01:30AM

109 Blodgett    03-17-63  Beason, Harold     06:50PM

900 Grant       03-29-63  Peterson, Abel     02:15AM

7643 Elm        04-01-63  Jefferson, TyroneN 5:05AM

654 Azalea      04-02-63  Spencer, LeroyN    05:20AM

3449 Brook      04-05-63  Doe, JaneN         12:45AM

2987 Oak        04-10-63  Block, GriffinN    02:00AM

387 Riverside   04-12-63  Norton, Richard    07:00PM

Tenth Street. Riverside. Mountain View.

Once again she’d hit three-for-three on the addresses. Kat reached across the desk and dialed Mitch’s home number. What would her Yankee partner have to say about all this?

Six years ago when she’d first signed on with the police department, Kat had endured several difficult months. She was breaking new ground, not only as the first female officer, but also as the first
Black
female officer in the department.

She’d anticipated the rookie jokes and the gauntlet she must run before being accepted. However, she was unprepared for so much resentment and distrust because of her gender.

And her color.

Kat had come close to quitting the department all together. Then James Mitchell, a well-respected thirty-five-year-old, eight-year veteran, changed everything. Although born in Alabama, Mitch had left the South early on, spending his formative years in Pennsylvania. Growing up in the North had weakened the prejudicial attitudes that so effectively bound many others.

The six-foot three-inch, 250 pound mountain, with ginger-red hair and a multitude of freckles, asked Kathleen Templeton to be his new partner.

His request only opened a small crack in the door, and Mitch told her, “It’s up to you to prove yourself, Kat. Do that and then you can kick the door wide open.”

His assessment had been accurate. Over time, the crude remarks and negative attitudes subsided and she was judged on performance alone. Not by gender. Not by color. The door hung by its hinges. Before long, Mitchell and Templeton were known as ‘The Red and Black Unit’. And as an exceptional team.

They worked well together because each brought different skills to the job. Gifted with flawless logic and a knack for negotiation, Mitch’s calm demeanor worked wonders with hysterical and frightened individuals.

Kat operated from a different perspective, mostly instinct and attitude. Her strong and reliable street sense enabled her to quickly analyze a developing situation for potential violence.

On their first anniversary as partners, Mitch had given her a small cowboy boot-shaped pin, made of copper and silver, with a brass spur. He said it would serve as a reminder that sometimes she might have to kick the door in. She wore it every day, pinned either inside her uniform or on public display. It was her good luck talisman. Like the copper and silver, she and Mitch were the ideal blend.

She hoped their chemistry would be strong enough for him to buy into her latest scheme.

* * *

Mitch glanced up from the computer printout. “What’s this letter
‘N’
all about? It’s only next to certain names.”

“It stands for Negro.” Kat said. “Personally, I’ve always found that tidy little Southern euphemism to be insulting.”

“Then do something about it.”

“Maybe I will.”

Southern traditions were slow to change because the folks kicked and screamed, fighting it every step of the way. But eventually the changes had come. To be honest, Kat knew some degree of racial tension still simmered beneath the moist soil, but it seldom erupted with the force seen in the turbulent sixties.

Yet, in spite of all the progress, from time to time the old South reared its ugly head, and when that happened, she wanted to grab a sword and slice it off.

Humming
We Shall Overcome
she glanced at Mitch then moved the blinking cursor to the
N
and hit DELETE eight times.

“After chopping off all those ugly heads, I sure do feel a whole lot better,” she said as the last
N
disappeared. “How about you?”

He grinned and gave her the thumbs up sign. “Now, regarding this other business. Kat, there is no way these arson cases are connected to the crank calls we caught.”

“I know it sounds a little crazy,” her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “but they
are
connected. How else do you explain names, dates and addresses that match?”

Mitch quickly responded. “A twelve-year-old smart ass computer hacker got into the system and played the department, and us, for fools.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. It’s too pat. My instinct tells me this is for real. Plus, you’ve got all the things Dreama Simms said.”

He pushed away from the desk and walked over to the coffee corner. He poured a cup and added a liberal dose of creamer and Sweet n’ Low.

Kat joined him at the coffee pot, wondering why he bothered with the artificial low calorie sweetner when he generally ate an entire box of Krisy Kreme doughnuts by himself.

“In the five and half years we’ve partnered, have I ever steered you down the wrong path? Trust me.”

He held his hand up. “Stop. This isn’t about trust and you know it. You’re a great partner and friend; I just wondered where this instinct of yours is coming from.”

“It’s my New Orleans blood rising to the surface.”

“Mumbo jumbo,” Mitch muttered.

She could tell from his face that she was losing ground. She should have known better than to discuss anything so undisciplined as instinct with ‘Only the facts, ma’am’ Mitchell. Her partner didn’t have one drop of instinct in that barn sized body of his.

“Okay,” Kat said. She had to try another route or give up the entire ball game. “Maybe instinct is a poor choice of words. You’re probably right; some kid hacked into our files and pulled our chain. But,” she paused, holding one finger in the air. “This type of 911 is dangerous. If these idiots keep on tying up the phone lines and street patrols, someone could get seriously hurt.”

When two small lines appeared between Mitch’s eyes, Kat silently rejoiced. That was his ‘I’m listening’ frown. Which meant she’d made a first down.