Beyond This Time: A Time-Travel Suspense Novel (4 page)

“Good point, Kat,” he said. “We can’t let a bunch of whiz kids run the department ragged.”

“I have an idea.”

His cornflower-blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What idea? You got a crystal ball stashed in your pocket book? Want to hold a séance, my New Orleans Voodoo Woman?”

“Hardee-har-har. My partner’s turned into a stand-up comic.”

He bowed to the empty room then treated her to his flawless Elvis impersonation. “Thank you, thank you very much.”

Kat rolled her eyes and snapped the paper in front of his face. “Look at the printout, see where I’ve highlighted? On March 10, 1963, Mattie DeCarlo died at 1:30.
Another
arson fatality.” She pointed to the clock on the wall. “It’s eleven-thirty now.”

Mitch ignored her and hummed
Are You Lonesome Tonight?

“In thirty minutes it will be March 10, Mr. Presley,” Kat continued. “I think we should be waiting in front of the house on Park Street at exactly 1:30 A.M. to see if another call comes in.”

“What if it does?” Elvis asked. “Those kids aren’t gonna make the 911 call from Park Street.”

“No, but they might show up to watch the fun. When they do, we’re already on the scene and can catch them red handed.”

“I don’t know, Kat. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I see a close resemblance to the situation at Kolsky’s recital. Which, if you will recall, garnered us the desk duty in the first place?”

“There’s not one little ole thing to bother about,” Kat assured him.

“I’m not bothered, partner. I’m wondering how to explain our ghostly rendezvous with Mattie DeCarlo to the chief.”

“I’ll do all the explaining to Chief Smith.”

“You bet your Café Du Monde beignet you will.”

“Okay, grab your jacket and let’s hit the street.” Kat smiled. Fourth down and goal to go.

Mitch poked a finger in her dimpled cheek and grinned. “I love a take charge gal.”

“I’ll drive, big guy. Look on the bright side, you might get a chance to see The King of Rock and Roll in concert.”

“Think he’ll be wearing that cool white jump suit with the eagle on the back?”

“I’m sure of it. And I’ll buy you a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts too to keep you occupied until Elvis turns up.”

“Thank you, thank you very much,” Elvis commented.

=THREE=

“
Elvis believed in
ghosts, you know,” Mitch informed her, as he tossed the empty red, white, and green Krispy Kreme box into the back seat of Kat’s red Honda.

“That is most enlightening. What time is it?”

He pushed the button on his watch to illuminate the dial. “The witching hour is upon us, Voodoo Woman. It’s 1:20 in the A.M., only ten minutes to go. Elvis believed he could contact his mother, Gladys Presley. You believe you can contact Mattie DeCarlo?”

Kat refused to respond to his baiting. She concentrated on the road as her red Honda bounced along the weather worn east Hollow asphalt. The rains continuously eroded the poorly maintained roadway leaving crater-sized pot holes behind. The citizens had repeatedly voted down road improvement bonds, not wanting any increase in their property tax. One of these days they’d figure out it cost them a whole lot more to replace a set of shocks every six months than two or three dollars a year in extra taxes.

She pulled over to the curb directly opposite 5429 Park Street. She rolled down the window to study the blue trimmed house. During the construction boom in the mid-seventies, the east side of Maceyville, called ‘coon hollow’ by a few rednecks, had evolved from tar paper shotgun houses into compact single story L-shaped dwellings with separate garages.

Without entering the house, Kat already knew what the floor plan would be. Her Aunt Della still lived in a similar house a few streets over.

“At the beep, the time will be 1:25, m’lady,” Mitch drawled as he slid down in the seat. “Be sure wake me if Casper DeCarlo shows up.
Definitely
let me know if Elvis pays us a visit.”

“Uh-huh,” Kat mumbled.

Physically she sat next to her partner, but mentally she was in the front room across the street. The hardwood floors were shiny as a new penny from repeated hands and knees waxing and buffing. Straight through the door and into the kitchen. A cast iron skillet permanently rested on the stove top, blue and white checked curtains at the windows, potted herbs on the sill. Kat could almost smell the cornbread as it baked in the oven. Beyond, a single bathroom and a bedroom filled with heavy dark mismatched pieces of furniture.

Mitch’s noisy snoring broke her trance. She glanced his way.

His slouched posture, chin touching his chest, all indicated a conversion to full sleep mode.

She returned her attention to the street. In her brief absence a light fog had crept into the neighborhood and now muted the street lights. An odd occurrence on such a clear warm night, she thought.

Suddenly materializing from out of the fog, a man crossed the street and onto the narrow strip of grass. He squatted near the Honda’s front bumper, pulled a bent cigarette from his shirt pocket, and shoved it in his mouth. He scraped a fingernail across the fat head of a kitchen match.

In the flickering light, Kat caught a glimpse of a narrow mean face, the details shadowed by the brim of his baseball cap.

He stared at the house across the street, seemingly oblivious of both the automobile and the two passengers inside. He shifted slightly and she saw the glass jug, with a ragged strip of cloth sticking out of the top. A homemade Molotov cocktail.

When the man got to his feet Kat blindly tapped Mitch’s arm to rouse her sleeping partner, her eyes trained on the dangerous stranger. “Can’t let him fire bomb that house,” she whispered. She withdrew the .38-caliber service revolver from her holster, but kept it low on the seat, out of line of sight. She could bring it into firing position in less than a second, if necessary.

She held her breath when the man started walking, convinced he would hit the right fender. But instead of banging into it, he moved through the car and into the street. Kat rubbed her eyes, it was late and she must have imagined his impossible feat. She’d bumped her shins and been rewarded with purple bruises too many times to actually believe a person could walk through a solid object.

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.