The Girl at the Hanging Tree

by Mary Gray

  Slipping into his car, Jesse guns the accelerator and flips a U-ey without waiting for anybody to join him at the scene of the crime. Okay. Yes. WT’s probably right.

  By the time the dust’s settled on the road, I have to ask WT a final question. “What if Tansy stops us from fighting the Klan?”

  I’ve gripped his arm without meaning to, so I pull away.

  WT’s eyes soften with sadness. “She deserves the chance to show that she’s on board. Plus, I think it’s you who wants to convince her to stop hiding.”

  It’s true. But how can I convince her to listen to me this time?

  47

  In the parlor, we try to reach Tansy. Flies buzz over the roasted vulture, and WT doesn’t say a word about how the once-cozy room now smells like an abandoned KFC.

  When we try the easy chair in the library, I have WT hand me a knitting project—another outfit for Jerusha or Hawkins—but Tansy doesn’t even come out to rave about the symmetry of the stitching.

  Next, the kitchen. The open cupboards and thrown away cupcakes tell me Jesse wasn’t amused when he found them while searching the place.

  After the kitchen, WT and I even try the basement. We tiptoe around Tansy’s bog body experiment, and WT doesn’t even comment when he spots his Rolex on the cadaver. But still ... no Tansy.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t worry about getting her on board,” I say after we’ve gone back upstairs and I’ve planted myself in front of the mirror in the hallway. The blood and dirt I got on Tansy’s dress now makes it look more brown than yellow, and the lace on the neckline’s so ripped, I doubt it will be able to be saved. “Maybe she’ll understand that it’s time to take responsibility.”

  WT pulls the basement door closed behind him. “If that’s what you want ..."

  “Ah, but she could spring up at the worst possible moment. For all I know, she could come marching out, insisting it’s time to reenact Romeo and Juliet’s death scene.”

  WT waggles his eyebrows. “Just as long as we get to consummate the marriage.”

  I flinch. How could he feel comfortable enough to say such a thing? But of course. He remembers everything about what it was like to be married, while I haven’t gotten past our first date.

  “I ..." don’t know how to face him. Not to mention how my throat’s gone dry. “I need to change.”

  WT’s arms plunge a little too heavily at his sides. “Gemma—I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry.” Staring at a broken teacup Jesse or someone must have knocked to the ground, WT digs his hands in his hair again, shaking his head.

  I grab the stair rail and mount the stairs, not sure what to say. Yes, his remorse feels genuine, but it’s yet another reminder of what I’ve lost from my memories.

  “I’ll call my contacts,” WT says gruffly. “Let them know we’re on our way.”

  Pausing halfway up the stairs, I have to ask, “You mean Agent Spence ... and his other friends at the FBI?”

  WT nods.

  “They’re okay with us burning down the place?”

  “Well, it is my land ..."

  I give him a light-hearted laugh. “Well, of course it is, my liege.”

  Drawing closer with two quick steps, WT stammers, “Gemma ..."

  I look down, never more lost as to what to say.

  “I told them, after we finish with this, they can do with me what they like.”

  A warm flurry flutters through me. “But I thought you said you never hurt anybody.”

  “I haven’t but ..." He braces a hand on the hall table. “I also didn’t stop something that you’ll soon be remembering.” A muscle feathers along his jaw. “You also need to know that I swore to them that you have nothing to do with any of this.”

  I actually want to give him a hug—the slightest part of me. The other part—my more skeptic side—tells me to run upstairs, get away from him, and tuck myself out of sight.

  When I make it to the master bedroom, I find a pair of khaki pants and a sweater that actually make me feel like me. Both fit quite well, if a bit baggy. I pull my hair into a messy bun before splashing cold water on my face. More than anything, I’d love to decompress in the shower, but WT’s waiting downstairs—no need to provide him with the opportunity of accidentally peeping on me.

  I’m just grabbing a plush towel to pat my face dry when Tansy comes prowling out of my subconscious like she’s Queen Latifah, strutting with all her glitz and glam down the runway.

  Grabbing a bottle of perfume, she gives me a healthy spritz. “You got a lotta nerve, bringin’ him here, G.”

  I force her to set the bottle down. “You told me he died.”

  “So what if I did?” She regains control of the perfume and spritzes our wrists and neck about three hundred more times.

  “Tansy”—I force her to slam the bottle down—“how can I trust you? You lied!”

  My other half’s eyes narrow to slits—until she spots a flashy box of jewelry. “It needed to be done. You wanted to go gallivantin’ around, who knows where, and I needed to convince you to stay home, locked up n’ safe!”

  It takes everything I have not to punch our reflection in the face. “You do realize people out there have died.”

  Like a hobgoblin who can only think of shiny objects, Tansy reaches for the jewelry box on the counter with its rose gold trim, sparkling in the dappled light.

  But we don’t need any distractions, so I try turning us toward the door. “How can you ever be content, holing up in this place?”

  Tansy growls, spinning back, and flipping open the lid.

  “For the first time, maybe ever, we are going to stand up for what’s right!”

  Pulling out a fatty beaded necklace with a large broach, Tansy says, “Is that what you tell yourself to feel better about the fact that WT’s responsible for the murder of Francesca’s family?” She layers my sweater with a few more necklaces and stuffs our fingers with a slew of diamond rings. Oh, how could I have failed to ask WT about Delilah? And Tim, her daddy?

  “That’s what I thought.” Tansy adjusts her latest necklace with a trio of running horses mounted on the centerpiece.

  “But Tansy, you murder people!”

  “Oh, come, now! That body in the basement was already dead. I just stole him from the funeral home once upon a fortnight.”

  “But ..." I don’t know whether or not I can believe her. I don’t even know if I should ask how she was able to go to the funeral home in the first place.

  “I may or may not have convinced you to go out ..." she says, expertly reading my mind. “Then, I up n’ stole the memory.”

  When does it stop, the insanity? And when will we ever learn to work together and be on the same page?

  “Trust goes both ways.” Tansy eyes me while grabbing a tube of lipstick from the counter and applying it with the panache of a dancer on a Vegas stage.

  She’s just fastening a diamond and pearl comb in the side of our hair when her gaze hardens, and our upper lip curls. “Well, hello, there, sweet cheeks.”

  Never more alone, WT just stands there, arms held unusually close to his sides.

  “As you can see,” Tansy jeers, fastening her favorite hummingbird broach to the neck of my sweater, “I’m havin’ a little heart-to-heart with G.”

  WT stuffs both hands in his pockets. “I can see that.” He surveys my other half with a weightless gaze. But while I can hear the diplomacy in his voice, I know all Tansy can detect is the challenge to her authority. She’s dubbed herself the queen of Hardin Mansion, replete with a dozen rose petal crowns to stake her claim.

  “He isn’t with them.” I vainly try to calm her down while burning oil surges within our veins.

  Hyperaware of each and every one of our movements, I watch, powerless, as Tansy treads up to our husband and sniffs his neck like he’s a piece of meat. “How ... did you not die?”

  He sets his jaw.

  “I drugged you. Hung you. How are you ..." Suddenly wrapping our hand arou
nd his neck, she squeezes it with all her might. He grunts but doesn’t lift a hand. Not even a spark of anger flares across his eyes.

  “Knife,” he eventually says through Tansy’s grip before she releases his neck and traipses our hand along his chest in a tease.

  “Ever the charmer,” Tansy croons. “Oh, how the town’s lamented the loss of their precious king.”

  Rubbing the back of his neck, WT takes a shaky step backward. His shoulder brushes against our dresser while Tansy skulks to the front of the fireplace.

  “You know I don’t care about that,” he says. “We’re here to do what we should have done all along. Bury the Klan. Make sure they never again have a hold on Deep Creek.”

  Tansy makes a giant show of rolling our eyes. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if you’d ‘buried’ them long before you met G.”

  Instantly, WT’s shoulders sag as he hooks his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans. “I would change a lot of what I’ve done if I could go back in time.”

  Suddenly jabbing him in the throat, Tansy shrieks, “And what about your precious Gemma? Are you really willin’ to risk her possibly gainin’ another alter? Another me?”

  WT closes the distance between us. Takes up our hand as if swearing an oath for all to see. “We should all have a cause to believe in.” His hand squeezes our fingers. “Something to fight.”

  Tansy drops his hand like there’s a high likelihood that she’ll contract leprosy. “The Klan isn’t like an afternoon church luncheon, William. You cannot simply come an’ go as you please.”

  I open my mouth to argue—make her see reason, somehow, some way—when Tansy grabs the granite wall between our consciousness, heaves it over, and flat-out buries me.

  48

  Sheer will—unrelenting desire—is an extraordinary thing.

  When Tansy put me away all those times, I went, bowed, almost willingly. But this time’s different. I’m different. She may be covering me with the shame of how I never told on Edgar—how he murdered and destroyed that poor man’s body—but I’m not him. I won’t allow this granite to block the view any longer. Time to start seizing control and doing what’s right.

  Shifting the granite’s weight, I try to heave it off, but it’s heavier, slicker than I expected. I don’t know how long I can hold on—stay cognizant of what’s happening—though, for the first time in probably forever, I’m truly willing to fight.

  With my palm pressing into the cool rock of the granite, I’m able to secretly tap into Tansy’s side of our mind.

  She’s bending down. Shoving WT in the side of the knees with this mischievous look on her face. He staggers, but he still doesn’t unleash his anger. Simply lifts his arm to cover his face.

  Tansy lifts a vase. Chucks it at his head, and, almost like he’s tempted to let her hit him, he ducks just in time.

  She peels open his jacket. Snickers while slipping out an Apache gold pocketknife.

  “Ain’t this pretty?” Tansy tosses it in the air before flipping open the knife.

  WT bites his upper lip, clearly doing everything in his power not to hurt me. Holding out his hands, he says, “All I need is for you to get in the car, Tansy.”

  Quick as a flash, she scrambles toward the settee. Hops on his back. Sinking her teeth into his ear, she whispers, “Well, aren’t you a pair of fussy britches.” Kicking him three times in the thigh, she then clambers off. “Catch me if you can!” She giggles before hightailing it to the hallway.

  Grabbing pictures, lamps—anything she can get her hands on to prevent WT from coming within reach—she darts for the stairs before stumbling a little. But she rights herself. Oh, she needs to be careful if she doesn’t want to trip and break our neck with this tomfoolery.

  Luckily, WT’s hot on our heels. Holds out his hands as if to catch her—if she would ever cooperate with such a thing.

  “The difference between G n’ me, William, is I don’t leave.” Tansy wrenches a sconce from the wall and hurls it straight at WT’s face.

  He ducks to miss the sconce. Ducks again to avoid a two-headed cat painting. “You can believe what you want. But you shouldn’t try to stop Gemma from doing what she feels is right.”

  Hobble-hobble-flap.

  Hobble-hobble, step-flap.

  Looks like Tansy’s impersonating a loon that’s had too much to drink. Taking three more steps down the steps, she slurs, “What amazes me is you think you’re capable of bein’ redeemed! Actually, it’s amazin’ to me that you still wanna hold onto a sham of a marriage that never should have happened in the first place.”

  Swiping at a brass light dangling from a thick chain from the ceiling, Tansy adds, “Not like Gemma could be considered an ideal partner, considerin’ the baggage I bring.”

  She fastens her hands on the rail; actually lifts up one leg. She’s going to slide down, but she can barely walk down the steps, let alone balance this way.

  WT seizes our arm. “You are going to kill her.”

  “That would be you, love. Not me.”

  Gently placing his hands on our hips, he lifts us from the rail while she kicks and screams. He bundles us up in his arms, and I wish Tansy could see how patient he’s being. It would be much easier for him to march us straight to the door with us thrown over his shoulder. But he simply pins her gently yet firmly to the steps and leans forward with so much love in his eyes. “Tansy.”

  With the heel of our foot, she kicks him on the bottom half of his face.

  Blood trickles from his chin, and he’s going to have a fat lip. “Tansy, we both know that you keep Gemma locked up in here, because you are terrified of what’s outside.”

  She tries kicking him again, but he pins her knee with his elbow, never once raising his voice. “You control her. Belittle her. You say you’re protecting Gemma, but you stunt the amazing force for good she can be.”

  Fear, laser-sharp and focused, unexpectedly skitters down Tansy’s spine. Suddenly, all she can see is WT, looming large above her, and he’s Edgar, who’s going to whip us good if we don’t clean out the stalls much faster. He has more chores for us to do if he ever again catches us reading those “useless” childhood stories.

  “Tansy.” I try to console her. “He isn’t Edgar. You have nothing to fear from WT.”

  Tansy gathers all the saliva in the recesses of our throat and spits the biggest loogie of our life. “You never shoulda involved her in your filthy life!”

  A mountain of regret shines in WT’s eyes. He doesn’t bother to wipe off the spit. Only when he lifts his elbow from pinning her, do I see that he’s considering letting her do to him exactly what she’s planning. “I have to repair what I’ve done. You’re right.”

  Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, Tansy head-butts him before opening the blade. “Now, King”—she licks our lips, deliriously greedy—"sit still while I cut out the both of your eyes!”

  “Tansy!” I shout at her, but she’s too busy giggling maniacally. True, I’d hoped she’d see reason, but now I can see that I have to intercede this time.

  Putting his life in her hands, WT quietly releases her and scoots half a foot away. “I’ll let you take both of them if it means you’ll believe what I’m saying.”

  Now this is just crazy.

  “WT!” I can’t get my lips to work. “TANSY!”

  I pound my hands into the granite, failing to get either of them to acknowledge me. Saliva builds up in the corners of our mouth; our entire body shakes.

  Well, I can sit back and watch her turn Jeffrey Dahmer ... or I can prove that I’m ready to be in charge.

  Using arm muscles I didn’t even know I had, I grasp the granite wall and heave it to the side.

  49

  Granite crumbles to a stormy, foamy sea.

  The knife clatters to the ground, and I’ve barely registered that I’ve resumed control when WT clutches my arm.

  “Gemma?” The duality of hope and fear war within his eyes. But there’s no reason to fea
r—Tansy’s already crawling back to her mental corner, head hung low, while she pulls the covers over her eyes. I don’t know how long she’ll be waving the white flag, but I suspect this is my moment. With or without her blessing, it’s time to get out of this place.

  Before we do anything else, though, I have to kiss the crease lines on WT’s brow. “That’s for not hurting her.”

  “I would never do that.” He captures my hand like it’s an elusive butterfly. Whiskers tickle my skin; he kisses my knuckles slowly.

  “I know.” I giggle for a moment—the emotion’s so out of place—before drawing silent again. We have a mission—a real mission—and the first step to conquering it is tearing off these necklaces so I can concentrate.

  Piling the rings, necklaces, then hummingbird broach on top, I catch sight of WT smiling sadly. “You’re certain you want to do this?”

  “Never been more certain of anything in my life.”

  “But you do know she’s just protecting you.”

  “I’m never going to grow or get any better unless I have the freedom to do as I please.”

  Ducking his head, WT extends a hand to me, smiling a little. “To not turning a blind eye.”

  I grasp his hand, lifting my chin. “To not turning a blind eye.”

  It only takes us about fifteen minutes to load up a pair of rifles and a dozen or so cans of gasoline. Matches, too—while keeping them a safe distance from the gas. I think about asking WT about the location of the property, but it’s got to be within twenty or so minutes if it’s in Wise County.

  As WT peels out of the driveway, my eye catches on a familiar face. Cherry lipstick and no small amount of friendliness in her eyes—it’s purple jogging suit lady. She still has her dogs, and their tails are wagging a million miles an hour—Jewel and Macy. What I would give to pet them again. Dig my fingers into their soft fur and pat their bellies.

  She doesn’t see us at first, but I wave at the dog owner as it occurs to me that I’ve adopted her exact same mindset—stop letting my fearful side from holding the reins. It’s funny, it’s like I didn’t hear her before. But now it’s the only thing I can hear, ricocheting through my mind.