Beyond the Pale

God! I was beginning to think of the 21st Century as, "Back then!" It was confusing keeping my timelines straight.

Anyhow, I wanted to take the measure of Wynn, as a young man. But, I had to find him first and they wouldn't have the internet for another 50 years. So, I was stuck with old fashioned technology.

It was surprisingly effective.

I walked down Main Street to the phone booth on the corner of Lincoln and Lafayette. There was a payphone inside. I hadn't seen one of those since I was a kid. I wasn't there to make a call. I wanted the phone book. It was amazingly thin. Of course, there were only a few thousand folks in the entire County in 1946, and most of them didn't have phones.

I opened it and ran my fingers down the page to a Wynn, Felix R. He lived over on the west side of town by the tracks. That was probably because it was within easy walking distance to the High School.

I knew from the 21st Century case files that Wynn had gone off the deep-end, while both he and Mavis were teaching there. Mavis is stunningly beautiful. She radiates an eroticism that would make any man crazy. But most guys obey the rules. Wynn didn't.

Wynn had been doing the kind of groping and fondling that we would call sexual harassment. But, the guys back in 1946 would call "flirting." Either way Mavis didn't like it and she complained to the District. They ignored her. Until Wynn snapped one day and outright tried to fuck Mavis on her teacher's desk.

Mavis's cries for help attracted a crowd, and a couple of male teachers pulled Wynn off her. The whole thing was so unheard of and embarrassing to the District that they covered it up by firing both. Was that fair? They thought so, back then.

The result was that, a fellow who was clearly mentally disturbed was roaming around waiting for his next shot at the object of his obsession. That would culminate in Mavis's murder if I didn't do something.

I cruised by Wynn's shack. It was made from weathered boards and it looked like it might be two rooms, shitter out back. It was still very hot. He was sitting on his porch in a wife-beater and a pair of pants held up by suspenders. I parked and walked up to him. He rose suspiciously.

He was bigger than Jimmy. But most people were, even back then. He looked to be maybe five-eight, and a hundred and eighty pounds. He obviously considered himself to be a lady's man, thick black hair slicked back from his forehead by a lot of what they called hair-tonic back then. It was mostly oil.

Wynn had the same pencil thin mustache as the Doc. Clark Gable was still an icon among movie leading men. He had little beady eyes next to a slightly too large nose and thin angry lips.

I put on my most innocent tourist face and said, "I'm lost Mister. Do you know where Fall Creek is?"

Wynn looked me up and down. He was an arrogant son-of-a-bitch. But, I was a helpless tourist, so I averted my eyes like I was intimidated.

Wynn said, "Get off my property, or I'll shoot you."

I said, "No need to be that way buddy. I'm just looking for directions."

Wynn rose and stalked into his piece-of-shit house. I knew he was going to come out with a shotgun.

God help me, I was tempted. I could just shoot him right-then-and-there and be done with it. I knew plenty of places to bury a body. But I wanted to play this out as close to what happened as possible. I just had to know.

So, I turned and scampered back to my car. Wynn fired a shot in the air, laughing. I started the Ford and drove hastily back onto the road and back to town. I had seen my adversary and understood him. Now it was just a matter of waiting for the cards to be dealt.

*****

It was dusk, and I was watching from my car, which was parked, top-up, opposite Mavis's apartment. I was hunched down in the seat. I've been a cop a very long time and I can do stake-out surveillance with the best.

Nobody saw me.

I hadn't seen Mavis since the picnic. But I had seen the dress. She came down the steps in the same outfit that she was wearing when I met her in the future.

She clearly had on her best clothes. It featured a short wool skirt, that showed off her fantastic legs, old-fashioned nylons, with a seam up the back, 3-inch heels and a nice white blouse. The entire ensemble was topped by a jaunty, short wool jacket that matched her skirt.

The weather told me that she was dressed in her only good outfit. It must have been in the 80s still, and the sun had set a while ago. Only a girl dressing to impress would wear something like that in this heat.

She stood under the streetlight in front of the Doc's clinic, waiting for the bus to Cadott. It ran up State 27 all the way to Cornell.

The bus pulled up. She got on board and it ground away. Turned right on 27 and headed slowly toward Cadott and Mavis's eventual fate.

I shifted the Ford into gear and followed behind.

They dropped Mavis at the front of the Crescent. The place is still there in the next Century. It looks like an old barn, converted to a bar. The sign out front was about the only difference. It was lit by a single green shaded light bulb, not modern neon.

Mavis walked up the steps to the porch and entered. I parked and waited fifteen minutes. There was a big party going on. People were circulating, and a lot of them were drunk. I remembered that it was a welcome home for one of the locals. He'd just gotten back from World War II.

Mavis stood out in the midst of the joviality. She was slumped at a table looking depressed. Jimmy was sitting next to her, arm placed possessively along the back of her chair, smoking a Lucky, and bantering back and forth with all his friends.

They both had drinks in front of them. I knew what had been dropped into Mavis's drink. I'd read the autopsy results. The presence of chloral hydrate was part of the case file.

Glancing around, I saw a couple of things. Wynn was sitting at the bar smoking and looking as jumpy as the proverbial cat.

The other was Mavis's face. She had two black eyes!!

I had heard that people actually see red when they go off the deep-end. I had never experienced that phenomenon - until then!! My cop brain was screaming at me to calm down, since my mission was to prevent Mavis's murder. But the part of me who loved my wife was reaching for the Asp.

The Asp is eight inches of very special metal alloy. It can be carried in your pocket. It expands with a flick of the wrist into a two-foot-long fighting baton. The metal is formulated in a way that the tip of the baton is flexible. So, you can whip it at close to supersonic speeds. Consequently, the outcome of an Asp strike is like being shot.

My emotions were too riled. I had to get out of the place before I did something stupid. I stood, and bolted out the door. Once I reached the parking lot, I bent over and put my hands on my knees. I was taking deep breaths, trying to get my self-control back.

After a while, my molten anger died down and I turned to go back inside. That was when I heard a mocking voice say, "What's the matter, too chicken to fight me? Mavis disrespected me, and I beat her up and sold her whore ass to Felix Wynn. Now it's your turn."

I looked up into the conceited, smirking face of Jimmy Rawlins. He was standing there, all misplaced cockiness. He also had about eight of his friends in a semi-circle behind him. The friends contributed to his erroneous feelings of self-assurance.

I thought, "Pennies from heaven!" This fool had hit my wife and drugged her, and now I was going to present him with the bill!! The thought of this douchebag using his fists on Mavis's delicate flesh made me wild with rage. I said, trying to keep the eagerness out of my voice, "All right boy, bring it on."

The moron actually jumped into a stance like the Marquess of Queensbury, fists up, left foot spaced in front of the right.

I didn't have the time to prance around like Gentleman Jim. So, I said, disgusted, "Seriously??!!" and kicked him in the crotch.

It was thoughtful of Jimmy to spread his legs like that. It made the kick so much more effective. I put all my pent-up fury into it, and It lifted Jimmy a half foot off the ground.

He gave a loud strangled grunt and doubled over. That was convenient since it meant that I didn't have to raise my knee quite so far to slam his face down on it. I could hear facial bones snapping. Jimmy-boy wouldn't be as pretty, or as virile as he used to be.

He hit the ground. I bent over and grabbed his right hand, and jerked it away from his body. Then I ground my heel into it. He screamed in agony. The loud crunching of bones was music to my ears. That might seem a little over-the-top ruthless. But, that was the hand that had hit my wife. He wouldn't be using it on any other women.

This all took perhaps five seconds. I turned toward his friends, whipped out the Asp, deployed it with a flick of my wrist and said, "Which one of you knuckleheads is next??!!"

The biggest of them yelled, "That ain't fair!!" and plunged at me. I'm an expert with the Asp. You have to be, if you are in the police business. And, I was in a hurry to get back to Mavis. So, I kneecapped him with a single strike. I don't know how advanced orthopedic surgery was in the 1940s. But I was sure they could sew SOME of the ligaments back together.

I turned waving the Asp and yelled, "Anybody else??!!"

The rats scattered. Jimmy was lying on the ground in a fetal position moaning loudly. He had shit himself. The other guy was crying like a little baby girl.

I had been distracted for no-more-than twenty minutes. But when I got back I discovered to my absolute horror that Mavis wasn't sitting there anymore. Even worse Wynn wasn't there either.

I have been in some tough situations; none worse than the day I lost Mavis. But that empty chair nearly killed me. I muttered under my breath, "Not again!!" and bolted to my car.

The only logical place was Wynn's house. I knew where he lived thanks to yesterday's visit. I didn't know how far in front of me he had gotten, but it didn't matter. I was going to arrive soon after the beginning of whatever festivities he had planned.

Wisconsin 27 was paved but it was still a very narrow road. My faithful 1940 Roadster had one of the classic Ford 239, flathead engines, so beloved to the hotrodders of the 1950s. I didn't know what Wynn was driving but I was pretty sure I was faster.

I drove maybe 18 of the 20 miles between the Crescent and Wynn's place at seventy miles an hour. Those were 1940s roads in a 1940s car. Any faster and I would have been in the trees.

I was almost to the town limits when the car started to quiver and wobble. I instinctively slowed. That was a wise decision because at that point the right front tire blew.

I muttered under my breath, "Damn-damn-damn-damn!!" as I wrestled the car to the side of the road.

Some people would have sat there pounding the steering wheel in frustration. But I was in panic mode and the adrenaline was flowing.

I was still perhaps three quarters of a mile from the point where 27 intersects Main Street and then another mile back to Wynn's place. But yesterday's careful reconnaissance had paid off. I knew that 27 slanted into town. If I had been driving, I would have gone all the way to the intersection and then turned right, to come back out of town to the house.

But, on a direct line through the woods and across a freshly plowed field, I was only a quarter of a mile away.

I hopped out of the car, and bolted off into the trees, running as fast as I could. I jumped Bridge Creek and found a path in the surrounding underbrush, which led to the open fields around the high school.

It was close to 11:00 PM but the moon was full, and it was a cloudless July night. As I pounded along I was thinking-through the timing.

It had been about an hour since I had last seen Mavis. It would take a little while for the drug to get her into a state where Wynn could whisk her out of the bar. Wynn wouldn't be in a hurry getting home because he didn't know that anybody was after him and he HAD all night.

I figured that he might be less than fifteen minutes ahead of me. I was sprinting full-out as I crossed the farmer's field, homing in on Wynn's shack. I didn't have time to be subtle.

There was only one door and that was the front. Wynn might have been waiting behind it with a shotgun. But he didn't know I was coming. I also knew that he would be otherwise occupied.

My blood boiled. But I still took the time to slow down, creep up on the porch and silently open the door. I could hear murmuring. They were in the bedroom.

I edged my way in that direction, Asp fully deployed.

I heard Wynn say, self-satisfied, "You're my woman now." Then there was a gasp and the sound of a sloppy kiss. That was followed by a loud bellow of pain and a slap.

I knew Mavis had bitten his lip and he had hit her. She told me that during the investigation. She was also using some very unladylike language to describe Wynn's manhood.

Her voice was cut off by a gargling noise. Wynn was leaning back as he strangled Mavis. I had just gotten to the foot of the bed.

Wynn's hairy ass was firmly lodged between my wife's widely spread legs. He was using his own legs to keep them spread.

His position was delightfully convenient because it gave me a lot of his personal real estate to target. There was the characteristic "crack," as the tip of the Asp went supersonic. And, the first strike hit directly at the base of his nut sack.

The impact sounded like a 9-mil hitting a watermelon. I knew that Wynn wouldn't be having sex for the rest of his life. The prostate is directly under that area and I was sure I'd blown that up along with his balls.

Wynn shrieked and soared up in the air. He looked, for all the world, like a Marlin trying to break free from a fisherman's line. Wynn landed back down on Mavis, who went, "Ooofff!!" and began to writhe herself, trying to get her breath back.

The fucker was totally limp, as I grabbed his thick greasy hair and dragged him off my wife. I was going to tell him about all the creative things I was going to do to him. But I saw that I would be wasting my breath. Felix Wynn was deader than that proverbial door-nail. The pain must have been too intense.

Well, I knew from the first time around that he had a bad ticker.

All I had to do now was get us out of there. I was certain that Wynn's death would be ruled "natural causes." There was no conventional sign of foul play, and forensic science in 1946 would never guess that the purple mark on his balls was an Asp strike.

So, Wynn was dead, and Jimmy-boy would be in the hospital for a very long time. All-in-all a good day's work.

I couldn't foresee any legal difficulty from Jimmy. This was rural Wisconsin in the 1940s, not the politically correct society of the 21st Century They'd never prosecute a guy for getting in a fight; especially if the fight had been instigated by the injured party and eight of his friends.

I looked at Mavis. She was naked, writhing on the bed, still trying to get her breath back. Her body was as incredible as ever, even if it was smeared with Wynn's cum.

I walked to the bed and sat on it. She flinched away. I imagined that the last thing she wanted was to be touched by a man. So, I said gently, "You're safe now Mavis. Nobody will EVER harm you again. You're my wife and I promise you that I will protect you with my life."

She stopped writhing and started sobbing. It was pathetic. I said as humbly and respectfully as I could, "Would it be alright if I held you; just to comfort you. I am not like that other fellow."

She nodded pitifully and sat up. Wordlessly, she threw her arms around my neck and sobbed on my shoulder. I held her and just repeated over-and-over, in my most calming tone of voice, "It's all right my love. I'm here now and I will never leave you."

She finally stopped crying. I said, "If you're able to walk, my car is just on the other side of the woods. If not, I'll carry you." She started to stand and collapsed back.

I said, "Can I help dress you?"

She nodded again. She hadn't said a word at that point. I slipped her panties and dress up her long beautiful legs and over her ripe, round hips. She lay there unresponsive.

I got her to sit up and tenderly helped her into her shirt, buttoning it past those succulent breasts. I did that without touching them. I slipped her jaunty little coat on her. Then I put everything else, pillbox hat, nylons, girdle, bra and shoes into a handy burlap bag.

I picked up my wife and carried her out into the night. She had her right arm around my neck and her head resting on my shoulder. She was as light as a feather. I had forgotten how exquisite she was.

The walk through the fields and woods was exhilarating. I was holding her in my arms thinking, "I might be dead somewhere in the 21st Century. But, it doesn't matter. I'm alive in this one, and she's in my arms."

I was happy for the first time since that cataclysmic day in a future November; which was either a decade in the past; or seventy years in the future. God! It was confusing.

I had already noticed one odd thing. In realigning the cosmos, our relative ages were preserved. Mavis was twenty-five in 1946, I was closer to fifty-two, in real-time. But I was back to the thirty-two-year-old version of myself in this reality, and believe me, I could tell the difference.

As far as I knew, I was now as dead as Mavis had been when I met her. Or maybe this was just the happy dream of somebody lying in a deep coma. It didn't matter one bit. I was with her in a vibrant post-war America and that was all I cared about. It was like the two of us had gotten a complete reset.

I opened the passenger door of the Ford and put her in the seat. I closed the door and she immediately slumped to lie across the front. The fact that Mavis was still under the influence of the drug was a good thing. Perhaps she wouldn't remember much about what had happened.

I jacked the car up and changed the tire. My shirt was soaked from changing the tire and I was exhausted. I couldn't take her back to the Hannson's house. So, I drove to the only other logical place; Mavis's apartment. I knew that Jimmy wouldn't be coming back there anymore.

*****

I awoke on a bright and sunny August 1st. I had fallen asleep in Mavis's only comfortable chair. I was still dressed in my short sleeve plaid shirt and khakis.

I looked across the room and saw a solemn pair of eyes, studying me from the bed. She was sitting up, still wearing the clothes that she had worn the night before. She said suspiciously, "Who are you?"

I said jocularly, "Your knight in shining armor; at your service madam."

Mavis looked disgusted and said, "No, who are you, really?" This was going to take tact, and I needed a firebreak between last night and our future together.

Mavis was alive and breathing, not buried in an unmarked grave in the Nicolet. So, we had an entire lifetime in front of us. But the transition into that new lifetime had to be carefully managed.

Even without last night's drugging and rape, I knew that the discussion was going to be earth-shattering for both of us. I simply couldn't bear losing her again.

I hadn't had my morning coffee. So, I said lightly, "I never do anything involving my brain until I've had my first cup of java. Let's walk down to the Hot Spot and we can talk there."

She said, "I need to take a bath and wash all this off me." She gestured down her body. I knew what she was talking about.

I said, "I suppose I should too. Why don't we meet there in an hour?"

She smiled for the first time and said, "Breakfast is on you. You have a lot of explaining to do young man." Her indomitable spirit was back.