The Girl at the Hanging Tree

by Mary Gray

  Stop letting your fearful side from holding the reins.

  We’re still a package deal—there’s no losing Tansy—but it’s time to show her who’s boss. I grip the front of my seatbelt. Come what may.

  Goosebumps prickle from my arms as I settle back into my freezing seat. I knew I should have grabbed a coat before leaving the mansion. But I’ve just rubbed the backs of my arms when WT reaches in the back, pulls out a leather jacket, and spreads it over me.

  Grateful, I pull the jacket close. “Thank you.” I melt under the heavy feeling of the genuine leather and silk lining. “Will anybody know we’re coming?” My fingers still feel like ice cubes, so I extend them and rub them in front of the barely blowing air vent.

  WT spins a knob on the dash, sending the heater into overdrive. “There are cameras. Calhoun and Beauchamp like to keep an eye on the place. So, we’ll have to disable them before—” His eyes dart to the rearview mirror where he instinctually scans all the supplies.

  Honestly, I’m relieved he’s prepared to go. We’ll be working together. No matter what happens, I can say we’re doing the right thing.

  “How long has the land been in the family?” I’m not exactly sure I want to know the answer, but I listen while burrowing my arms into the sleeves’ cool lining.

  A sense of practiced calm exudes from WT’s face. “Since about 1850.” The side mirror gets another check from him, and I can’t help finding comfort from how methodical he’s being. “My third great grandfather bought it from the Governor. Pappi, my great-granddad dedicated it to the Klan after he and his friends strung up the Goatman in the ‘30s.” His gaze hardens with disgust, and I can see that he has no love for this part of his family’s history.

  “You’re standing up to them,” I reassure him as I slip on the jacket the rest of the way. “Despite what happens, you—and I—are finally doing what’s right.”

  WT presses his lips together, bowing his head in agreement. Still, it’s become clear that he’s not happy with how long it’s taken him to take a stand on this, to fight. When we pass a billboard with a hen that says, “She’s beauty and grace, she’ll peck you in the face,” my mind drifts to our own villains from the Klan.

  “What are the chances that Calhoun and Beauchamp come before we finish burning down the place?” I steel my nerves against a shudder. “Will they just kill us the way they did with Francesca and Grammy?” Self-consciously, I make sure my hair’s still tied back well enough with my hair tie. “Suppose we do get it done. Can’t they just meet somewhere else in the county?”

  WT’s grip tightens as he cranks the steering wheel to a gravel road on the right. “Both Beauchamp and Calhoun are steeped in tradition. Neither likes deviating from the old ways. One big blow like destroying headquarters—while simultaneously teaming up with the feds—is not something either one will be expecting. Plus, they both keep going on and on about starting things up again with the children. Brainwashing them. The way Pa did to me.”

  My stomach plunges. “They’re sick.” An image of a dozen or so kids wearing white robes in front of a fire sparks in my mind.

  Barreling down the road, WT drives us past a cluster of redbuds. Magenta blooms contrast sharply with our possible impending demise. Still, it’s nice knowing we’re doing what we can to fight evil—even if we are risking our lives.

  I open my mouth to ask more about WT’s involvement with Tim and Delilah when WT takes his foot off the accelerator and slowly turns to look me. His face muscles have relaxed and his pupils have dilated to twice their normal size. “Do you remember our first date?”

  My heart reacts by pumping in overdrive. Nervous, I toy with the woven polyester of my seatbelt. “Pieces of it, but I don’t think you understand the extent of what I’ve lost from my memories.”

  Sorrow crinkles WT’s eyes. “I remember.” His voice comes out husky, though I remember more than I let on, since Tansy and I already talked about it.

  Hula hoops hang and glide across an aerial, silk highway.

  Trapeze artists catch and throw their friends, almost like none of them are real—just figments of our imagination. Dolls and toys. None of them human beings.

  Cologne wafts heavily in the air while the vocals and trumpets take us to a land of enchantment and mystery.

  “You gave me your jacket when Bass Hall was freezing,” I admit quietly.

  WT’s shoulders soften slightly. His hands relax around the steering wheel as the truck slows. “You should have seen the look on your face. You”—his voice breaks off—“showed me the very definition of what happiness looks like.”

  A pair of longhorns graze near a trio of yuccas, and it occurs to me how innocent and naïve the cows look, without any attempt to know the difference between wrong or right.

  “I should have been in the circus,” WT says, only half amused, but full-on smiling. “Not that I care for an audience, but then I could have at least been honest about the times I had to lie.”

  “You’re being honest about who you are now.” Without thinking, I lean over and kiss him on the cheek.

  I ... don’t know what came over me. But my lips tingle like they’re made of fairy dust, and my heart leaps as WT’s gaze slowly drifts to mine. I’m “the bona fide imbecile” Tansy always talks about. Heat spasms and flushes up my cheeks. My head feels like I’ve just dived from the Empire State Building.

  Suddenly nervous, I turn away, but before I know it, WT’s cranking the steering wheel to the right.

  At first, I think he’s turning onto another dirt road, but he’s pulling onto the shoulder.

  His cell phone rattles from the console. Wheels kick up dust, and we’ve disappeared into a fog of Indiangrass so tall, it shields us from prying eyes.

  For what feels like eons, WT grips the wheel, refusing to say anything. Not that I blame him. My voice has gone by way of a Shelby Mustang.

  I know what he wants to do—oh, I know what he wants to do—but I’m not there. Even if we are husband and wife.

  Still, he reaches over, and I can feel myself melting into his embrace. He pulls me into his arms, and the fact that he doesn’t ask for permission both terrifies me and is a relief. I want him to hold me. More than anything I’ve ever experienced. But how can that be right?

  His hands are on my hips, clicking off my seatbelt, both luring and liberating me. I should pull back—it makes so much sense to pull back—but in this secret, hidden moment, he’s too much of a temptation to fight.

  Peeling out of the jacket, I nestle closer. He reaches for my sweater, and I giggle. Bat his hand away.

  His eyes twinkle with amusement, but, instead, all he does is smile that boyish smile he only reserves for me. Digging his fingers into my scalp, he pulls me closer while a fireworks show rocks my every cell in my body.

  I slip my hand around the crook of his neck. The other, I fasten around his shoulder, and, when he tugs me closer, we’re so interconnected, it’s like we’re the same body.

  I’m falling—to dripstones and cave pearls—and I wouldn’t give up this moment for any amount of money.

  Seconds stretch into minutes, and minutes could stretch into hours, but all too soon, we break apart, the both of us panting.

  Seems as though my leg’s gotten wrapped around the gear shift, and my sweater’s twisted higher than I ever meant it to be. Straightening it—I note the fact that we’ve made the windows foggy.

  WT’s lips quirk into a smile, but, still, he doesn’t say anything.

  I thread my fingers behind his neck; nuzzle into the side of his face.

  The timber of his voice is a poem in my ear when he whispers, so close, “I love you, Gemma Louise.”

  His skin is warm. Tanned, and my heart skips two happy beats. I love him. I know I love him—more than I can say.

  Leaning back just enough so that I can look him in the eye, I rub my thumb along the side of his neck.

  “You’re beautiful,” he says, his eyes lighting with blue-green int
ensity. “You grow more beautiful with each passing day.”

  Both of my hands, still fastened behind his neck, all but liquefy. I try scooting closer, when my pinky finger takes on a mind of its own and jabs him in the eye.

  I gasp. “Sorry.”

  Laughing, WT uses his palm to rub his eye. “I’ve endured worse.” As soon as he says it, though, he must assume I know he means Tansy, because he quickly takes my hands. “Not that I regret anything. Tansy’s worth all the bumps and bruises.”

  While visions of Tansy hanging him from the roof hit me like a mace, I sag away from him. “How do you handle us?”

  WT doesn’t pressure me to come nearer. “She does keep things interesting.” Tentatively, he trails a thumb down the side of my throat, never pushing too far, his touch continually feather-light.

  “But we are more than you bargained for.” My throat scratches as I try swallowing.

  WT slips a comforting hand beneath my thigh. “What you have to know is, I’m not going anywhere. I may have made mistakes in the past, but we’re finally doing what I born to do. Fixing the wrongs of my family.”

  “What if Tansy pops up again and makes things tricky?”

  “Then we’ll handle her.” He grasps my hand again. “You’re stronger than even both of us realize. Gemma, there may come a time when you doubt this, but I need you to know that I’m here for every facet of you—every side of Gemma Louise.”

  “How many sides are you expecting there to be?” I’m laughing.

  Even harder, he clasps my hand. “Exactly the number you need.”

  I feel like he’s telling me something with this, but he’s probably just showing me his support, so I rise to the occasion and ask him about the one fear that’s constantly plaguing both Tansy’s and my mind. “What if I get too many?”

  A river of empathy shines from the lines in WT’s face. “Gemma, every one of us has hidden sides. You’re just honest about who you are, and I love that about you.”

  All I can do is stare at my lap as more blood rushes to my cheeks.

  WT lifts my chin. Pauses for me to look at him before saying, “I owe you all that I am. You gave me the courage to change.”

  50

  A one-story house lurks like a phantom next to us on the gravel driveway. A broken cattle guard prevents us from pulling up farther, and thick brush obscures the entire place.

  When WT grabs a rifle from the truck bed, he offers me a second.

  “Just in case,” he says. His hand lingers on my fingers, sending an electric shock through me, and I give him a small smile, almost wanting to smile wide. But this isn’t the place or time.

  While he gets to work unloading the truck, I drift closer and closer to the property. Knee-high buffalo grass and waist-high thistles dare me to believe this is a peaceful place, but a few paces off, the sight of a red rail fence juts through my ribs with a jackknife.

  A hunter’s stand hangs in one of the bur oak trees, which twists and conforms to an unseen presence, diseased. Much closer to where I stand is the remnants of an old bonfire with a few pieces of strip metal and ash—black and hunter green. Behind the old fire, though, lies a strange three-by-six foot crate. Wooden bars. Human-sized.

  Pushing back the nerves from dealing with Tansy again, I take the risk and turn to my other half. “Last time I was here, what happened, Tansy?”

  She flops to the other side of her bed, covering her head with her arms to hide. “Return home, G.”

  But this is our time to actually stand up to the bad guys. “I’m ready to know the truth. Ladybird ... you truly can tell me.”

  When she rips off her blankets, I think she’s about to get up, when she flips over and stares straight down into her mattress, insinuating she’s not in the mood to listen to me.

  But it doesn’t take her long to roll back to her side. Flip her pillow. I know I’ve never tried working with her out in the open, but we have to do this to know how to move forward.

  “Tansy, you know this is important to me.”

  In her room, a sparkle of light glints off a small pile of jade earrings. Amethysts. A heap of opals shine bright and metallic from another corner, as if whispering something.

  Were they there before? I don’t think so. Why would they appear now in her fantasy? What I do know is, it’s clear that Tansy’s not feeling well; she’s not so much as wearing a pair of earrings. The only thing she’s got on is a thin slip, making her look even more thin and vulnerable this night. I want to hold her. Hug her—not just because the weather’s dipped back down to the thirties, but because we’ve gone through so much together. I don’t know who I would be anymore without Tansy.

  Wishing I knew how to get her attention, I tentatively straighten WT’s coat. Zip it to my chin, biding my time.

  After what feels like hours, Tansy throws out her arms and croons, “Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home! Your house is on fire, your children shall burn!”

  Not exactly what I was hoping, but it’s a start. “I know this is difficult, Tansy, but, look, we’re having a conversation right now, and we’re not even inside!”

  Tansy plugs her ears, sticking out her tongue while WT clicks off a camera at the top corner of the house. I have to assume that he’s the last thing Jesse and Calhoun saw ... or will see. Please, don’t let them be watching the footage. We need time.

  Grabbing the first of his jugs, WT douses the house and surrounding brush. He grabs another. Goes to work on a three-foot-high stump surrounded by a healthy batch of milkweed.

  “You don’t care about the avalanche!” Tansy’s hair flies with static as she springs up from her bed, pouting.

  At least she’s engaging me in conversation, so I pause to lean the rifle against the fence, trying to think. “Of course I care. But Tansy ... the Klan kills people. We have to expose this evil—for Francesca. And Grammy.”

  Once again, Tansy falls to her bed, thrashing her sheets. Kicking off her blanket, she induces another static whirlwind before sitting up and throwing her hands toward her canopy. “You are goin’ to regret this, G!”

  It’s possible. I suppose I very much might regret poking the bear that is my subconscious mind. But Calhoun and Jesse could arrive at any second, and I can’t risk not remembering.

  While I was able to pry loose the other memories by visiting the places where they happened, I can feel this one, just itching to get out, to break free. But for whatever reason, I can’t quite see it yet. And Tansy’s holding onto it like her most treasured piece of jewelry.

  No ... that’s not what’s going on. This is something else entirely. She’s sitting on the center of her bed, holding fast to the final piece of truth ... not for herself ... but to protect me.

  Shoulders sagging in defeat, she suddenly rolls off her bed, slip skewing to the side. “You’ll let me keep the house. Swear you won’t go sellin’ it out from under me.” But even as she says this, I’m not so sure that’s what’s been stopping her all this time.

  She rips off the bedsheets.

  The fleur-de-lis print glides through the air before kissing the ground and vanishing from sight.

  Leaning down, she smacks her now-barren mattress. “And you’ll start bringin’ home some old plasters n’ gemstones for my art projects—whatsoever I like.”

  Not exactly sure where I’ll come up with said supplies, I nod, grateful that she’s proving her ability to compromise.

  Perching on the edge of her bed, she holds out our arms like she’s about to summon the dead. “Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home! Your house is on fire, your children shall burn!” And face-dives into the mattress with more focus than I’ve seen her give anything.

  Cotton meets teeth. I don’t know how, but I feel like I’m right there with her as we get a nose-full of springs. It’s possible that her only plan is for us both to asphyxiate to death when her nursery rhyme bleeds into something else—something with hoots and catcalls, and we spiral into the black forest of another time.

&nbs
p; 51

  Low, Gregorian-like chants slither across the grounds, twisting and feeding.

  Mist. I’m surrounded by an ocean of mist. Brush so thick there’s bound to be a copperhead or two in those weeds.

  I seem to be currently on a gravel road, yes, but, no—a driveway. Just before a broken cattle guard are a row of vehicles.

  WT’s navy truck.

  And Calhoun’s fancy, white Mercedes.

  A pair of four-wheelers with mud splattered on the tires front Jesse Beauchamp’s police truck of black and white. What I don’t get is why they’re here, in the middle of nowhere, and out so late.

  A burgundy truck with its front fender smashed in hunches on the edge of the road ahead of my Bimmer, which is safely tucked behind a pair of elm trees. About ten meters past the fence lies a bonfire that stretches its orange-hued fist to the smoky sky. No one tends the fire. I’m grateful for it. Don’t need anyone knowing I’ve arrived.

  Hoisting myself over the fence, I wade through the brush, my blouse catching on a honey locust’s thorns. It doesn’t take me long to tug myself free. My gaze lands on something wooden and unnatural ... the most peculiar-looking tree—almost like a totem pole, with horizontal slats crossing the thick trunk and base.

  While the bonfire crackles, I drift further and further into the property. A pack of dogs snarl from somewhere behind the house, and maybe that’s why WT’s come? To help the dogs? About five minutes ago, I followed him over, though I had to hang back half a mile or so for him not to spot me. Though I’m not in the habit of following my husband, he’s been acting strange. More phone calls than usual. Fitful sleep. When he slipped out shortly after midnight, I knew I had to follow him, see if I could figure out what was happening.

  But if this is an oil field he’s been eyeing, he should be checking it out during the day.