The Girl at the Hanging Tree

by Mary Gray

  My breath ... I’m not breathing. I grapple with WT’s coat. Rip it off. Tear at my sweater. Can’t. Breathe.

  “Gemma”—WT digs his hands into his hair—“you have to see that Calhoun didn’t give you a choice. You were coerced!” Hesitantly, he holds out his hand. He wants to touch me, but I’m not worthy of being touched.

  “He enjoys messing with your head.” WT’s eyes shift back and forth as he searches my face, trying to explain things to me.

  But I’m tired of excuses.

  I took a life.

  Lifting a fist toward the sky, he shouts, “He’s a psychopath, babe!”

  But he doesn’t truly understand what I did. I committed the worst of the worst, an unpardonable hate crime. I deserve to be locked up. Abandoned forever.

  Erased.

  Beneath my skin, I can still feel her—Young Gemma Louise. She wants to regain consciousness and part of me wants to let her. Why not let her? I’ve already done the unthinkable anyway.

  “G ..." In the secrecy of our room, Tansy holds out her hands for me. “I’m sorry I lied. But I did it to protect you. I’m your bodyguard, my sweet.”

  But now I know the answer. A few paces off, there’s a lone jug of gasoline. And like a magnet, it pulls me. I stride over, and, really, it’s light as a watering can—all innocent-like, sitting amongst the primrose and milkweed.

  I lift the can. Mind goes blissfully blank.

  The red handle gives me the water of a shower as bitter liquid washes down my teeth.

  I’m just reaching out my hand—gotta connect with the still-burning hanging tree—when WT wails, “NO, GEMMA! STOP, PLEASE!”

  I turn to smile and say I love you. Time to say goodbye.

  BOOM!

  A gunshot tears across the property, and before I know it, I’m scanning the yard, searching for where the bullet lodged in one of the nearby trees.

  I slap my chest. My damp chest.

  Seems whoever made the shot didn’t hit me.

  And I didn’t touch the fire. That’s a relief. But the boom ... why the boom?

  WT groans as he stumbles into Delilah’s crate.

  53

  I rush to my husband, my hand connecting with something wet on his chest. Blood. No ... it has to be Tansy’s red paint, while smoke and ash barely conceal three stalactite figures lurking in the driveway.

  WT grabs my arm, but he’s still on the ground, suddenly oh so weak. “Put her back.” His gorgeous eyes are so bloodshot this has to be a bad dream.

  Who does he want me to put back?

  Her. Young Gemma Louise.

  When WT starts to say something else, he chokes on his own blood, and no. No—this isn’t happening.

  “You’re strong.” More blood gurgles in his mouth. “Gemma, you know you have to fight.”

  But all I can see is the fiery inferno of Satan’s flames. The adversary telling me to give up and die. He says that I’m no good, no good ... and I’m dangling in his clutches. I really was ready to die.

  Sweat pours down sweet husband’s face. So many foul chemicals worm their way across the grounds, pillaging the twisted, diseased trees.

  But I can’t let him go. Won’t let him go. “Let’s get you to the truck.” I pull on his arm, but it’s like tugging on another stalactite. “You’ll be fine!”

  Tears smear the corners of WT’s eyes. He shoots me another adoring look, sending me to the clock on the mantel. It doesn’t tick, so he plucks it up while introducing me, for the very first time, to his library.

  I’m amazed by how many books there are. Running my fingers over the leather spines, I pretend not to be aware that he’s looking at me.

  The wind rustles the curtains while he sneaks up behind me. Wraps me in his arms. “This is my safe haven,” he says. “You are welcome here anytime you like.”

  Coughing, WT sprays his shirt with another dose of Tansy’s red paint.

  “In my pocket,” he says, but I can’t look away from his gaze for even a moment. I need to freeze time.

  When WT’s gaze trails to where my hand’s resting uselessly on his thigh, I know this is important. So I reach for the narrow pocket in his jeans.

  Digging into the fabric, I suck in a breath as my fingers connect with something small, round, with a princess-cut diamond on top—my wedding ring.

  WT’s breaths come in shorts spurts. He shudders, heaving himself up. “I was going to give it back when you were ready.”

  Tears won’t stop flooding my eyes.

  WT takes my hand, and I know this is it. This is really it. “Tell them it’s your turn to keep them safe.”

  His head lolls back, and NO. He’s not allowed to die.

  “Oooh, that’s it!” Tansy cheerily claps her hands while WT lies, lifeless, against the crate. “I was goin’ to say it, but it really is time for you to be the queen of the clan! Er, ‘clan,’” Tansy sputters, truly embarrassed. “Always to be spelled with a ‘c.’”

  But I can’t think—do—anything.

  I’ve lost him. I’ve really lost him when I was just beginning to see who he was to me.

  We talked about children.

  He never really cared if our first was a girl or a boy.

  And now he’s gone—never again to go to Palo Duro, or eat breakfast in the garden with me.

  I wrap my arms around my husband’s chest while the fire around us grows, sadistic and hungry. If we don’t get up soon, Tansy and I will be burned alive.

  Shooting me a sorrowful look, Tansy eventually says, “Ready to bury her, my sweet?”

  I would give anything not to deal with our other alter right now—Young Gemma Louise. But there’s still at least three guys out there who want us dead. And I’m in the mood to see somebody pay.

  54

  Problem is, Young Gemma Louise doesn’t want to go away.

  Lights flicker—actual lightbulbs burst—from every single corner of Tansy’s and my mind.

  The toy box appears—flickers in the back left corner.

  The right.

  It’s going in and out of focus and I’m worried if we don’t strap her down now, she’s going to reemerge even stronger next time.

  The child mutters something from her back corner while another gunshot booms across the yard.

  “What is she saying?” I steel my nerve while I ask Tansy.

  “She’s searching for chopped man’s body ..." Tansy eyes a pile of bracelets peeking out from under her canopied bed. “It’s why she comes out. Remember the time you got lost in Boyd?”

  “Before all of this?”

  Tansy nods.

  “Yeah, Calhoun said he helped me ..."

  “Stuck his fat nose in where it didn’t belong, he did. The goon poked and prodded like we were a science experiment! Gemma, he was truly fascinated by Young Gemma Louise. That was the first time she took over—since Tim’s hanging.” Glancing back at the glowing embers of the hanging tree’s fire, she adds, “The second time, of course, was with the squirrel n’ magpie. Fact is, Calhoun and the others are waitin’ for us, and we still have to tuck ol’ Young Gemma Louise away!”

  “Do you know where the Klan buries their bodies?”

  Tansy shakes her head, hair staticky. “I imagine those threads will unravel the minute the police start pullin’ the string.”

  “Okay”—I try to find my gumption, but it isn’t exactly easy. All I have left is a giant hole in my chest ever since WT …

  But, any second, Calhoun or the others will shoot me. I know I have to put Young Gemma Louise back, but I don’t see how I can tackle not being shot while wrangling yet another alter in my mind. Not wanting to admit I can’t do it alone, yet also seeing there’s a reason why I created my other half, I turn to Tansy.

  “I need you to put her away.”

  We veer around a burning stump, a piece of scrap metal that’s seen much better days.

  “I know she wants answers, but we don’t have them yet. Maybe you can tell her that we’ll kno
w the location of chopped man and the others once they’re uncovered by the FBI.”

  Tansy wrings her hands. “You don’t happen to know how to lock her up? She’s a tad bit squirrely.”

  I survey the gigantic pile of necklaces that seem to be growing on Tansy’s side of our mind.

  “Bury her.”

  Tansy’s eyes widen before she sets the pile of jewelry in her sights. “Oooh! I did that sorta thing to you all the time.”

  “We’ll talk about that later, but, for now, you are my ladybird—built to sound the alarm when the bad guys are coming.”

  Tansy stares at me, stunned. “At long last, you finally remember the nursery rhyme!”

  “Took me a while. I forgot it was from one of the tours we gave in D.C.”

  I smile, until it sinks in that Tansy’s more interested in thinking about nursery rhymes than losing WT. But maybe that’s good thing; she can rationally perform her newfound mission. And I can focus on not being shot while holding onto WT’s last gift—my wedding ring.

  Smoke flares over the grass; I guess it’s been a while now that I’ve been coughing. And now the Klan’s patch of land has become nothing but a scratched-out, yellow Crayola painting. Too many overgrown candles threaten to swallow me whole. Ash mingles with singed bark. The entire land smells of campfire, and I won’t feel the need to go camping for a very long time.

  Wildfire tugs beads of sweat from every inch of my body. When I duck beneath a tree branch, it crashes to the ground. Fumes wash across everything.

  Shuddery breaths ripple from my chest, when, all at once, the smoke clears, and right there are Calhoun, Dwayne, and Jesse.

  They’re still standing in the driveway. I’ll reach them in about twenty feet.

  While Calhoun raises his rifle to shoot me, I have to wonder if he felt any remorse about shooting WT. Or has his conscience been squashed altogether? Actually enjoys forcing innocents to get their hands dirty.

  As my chest expands, Tansy peeks out from a curtain she’s pinned up between her and my side of our mind. Her hair’s a little singed and a fair amount of soot blackens her eyes, but her smile’s ginormous.

  “I did it!” she says. “It may have taken a Titanic-amount of broaches n’ rings, but I put her back. I knew I could do it, G!”

  My smile is genuine. “Way to go, Tansy.”

  But right when I expect her to barrage me with the play-by-play, she lifts her arm and points at a spot through the smoke. “Look, look, lookety!”

  Black clothes, black helmets, big guns ...

  I think I might be imaging things, but SWAT team officers are stationed behind one of the few unburned oak trees. One’s training a submachine gun on Calhoun—while Calhoun’s stationed himself between Dwayne and Jesse.

  From their smug expressions, though, it looks like none of them have any idea their fates are about to change.

  Suddenly stiff, I climb over the fence. Briefly wish I could turn the rifle on Calhoun for all he’s done to me.

  But I can’t think about my own vendetta.

  This isn’t about a vendetta.

  I have to play this right.

  Tansy and I step over a hollowed-out log; we spot yet another dark-clothed officer—hiding behind one of the bur oaks at the corner of the property.

  Three more officers are stationed on the other side of WT’s truck.

  Another’s hunkered low behind Calhoun’s Mercedes.

  I’m just trying not to smile while Calhoun cocks his rifle, testing me. “Still want to run off with her when she helped her scum husband burn Klan property, Dwayne?”

  Dwayne’s fat bottom lip puckers. Reaching over, he yanks the rifle straight out of Calhoun’s hands. “Don’t you dare shoot my future wife!”

  Tansy bristles, and I have to call out my other half. “How come you never strung Dwayne up like you did to WT?”

  She crosses her arms from her bed, full-on pouting. “‘Cause of my ridiculous feelin’s. I was gonna give him what he had comin’, but I never found the right method, right time ..."

  “So you’re over him?”

  “Oh, you have no idea.”

  Calhoun and Dwayne grapple over the gun—Calhoun’s just getting it back—when the SWAT team officer from behind the bur oak yells, “Weapons on the ground, hands in the air!”

  All three men go still, eyes stretched unusually wide.

  Calhoun’s shoulders stiffen, and it’s clear he’s still planning on using the gun on somebody, so the officer yells again.

  “Gun. Down. NOW!”

  Arms impossibly stiff, Calhoun raises his gun—like he’s going to use it on me—when the officer behind WT’s truck picks him off like we’re playing airsoft. But every single one of those guns is as real as Jim Bowie’s hunting knife.

  Calhoun hits the ground, eyes blank. Dwayne and Jesse pause for maybe two seconds, when Dwayne scrambles for the gun and flies backward the minute a string of gunshots hit him in the chest—right where his heart is supposed to be.

  Tansy gives the motherlode of all gasps but quickly recovers herself. “Couldn’t imagine a more rightful ending.”

  Now there’s only one Klan leader left. Jesse. Question is, how’s he going to react to being surrounded today?

  Putting his hands in the air, he looks at me, eyes as cool as ice.

  Two police officers are already putting him in handcuffs and dragging him away.

  When an officer with a crewcut and a face like a squirrel tentatively stalks toward me, the world suddenly goes still. It’s Agent Spence. And he wants to talk to me.

  “Ma’am?” he calls out to me. While I’m finally out of the fire’s clutches, I’m half-tempted to turn around and join WT.

  “Ma’am,” he repeats. “Ms. Hardin. Are you all right?” Thin arms, thin hair. Agent Spence is certainly on the gangly side.

  I’m tempted—oh, I’m tempted to tell him that yes, everything is just fine. Tansy and I could return home. Squabble over what to wear while she chooses the subject for her next macabre painting.

  But that wouldn’t be fair.

  Not to everyone else.

  Taking a deep breath, I stick my hands in the air.

  “I need to turn myself in,” I say.

  Epilogue

  There’s something oddly invigorating about running with Tansy. She knows who I am. Knows the decisions we’ve had to make. She’s even contented herself with wearing a small pair of hoop earrings while we endure our time in Millwood—the mental health facility the judge chose for Tansy and me.

  We took a plea deal. I get to stay here in exchange for everything I know about the Klan in Wise County. My lawyer says I may even be able to get out soon. If I keep up with my good behavior. We’ll see.

  Sure, settling in at Millwood has been a little bit tricky, but now that I have my daily runs, it’s getting easier to manage my frustrations. I get thirty minutes on this squeaky treadmill every morning.

  Tansy’s been a trooper, though she misses the mansion and Jerusha and Hawkins. Luckily, Natalie’s volunteered to take care of the cats. She takes care of our yard, too, though Tansy insists that the less work, Natalie does, the better—in the name of keeping the tourists away.

  Inside this weight room, the fogged-up window has a great view of a huge rose bush outside. Sometimes I like to pretend WT’s standing out there—pruning the roses to keep an eye on me. Honestly, I dream about him all the time. We’re usually in Palo Duro or dancing outside on the Fourth of July. I’ve even started reading some of his favorite books—1984 and Band of Brothers. Dracula, too, though Tansy claims Mina’s a sissy.

  Oh, that’s why the treadmill squeaks—the belt’s on crooked—not to mention the bashed-in electronic display. At least Big Henry, the orderly posted outside the door, never gives me any trouble. As long as I keep Tansy’s and my conversations inside our mind.

  In Group, I’ve learned that I still carry around a lot of guilt for the people who’ve died. My therapist likes to remind me th
at I was coerced—Calhoun made me take Tim’s life. But sometimes I’d give anything to know that I’d fought back. Stopped myself from becoming Young Gemma Louise in some way.

  Of course, I never would have needed to form any alters if Edgar hadn’t exposed me to “chopped man” in the first place. And I never would have split from Tansy even further if Calhoun wasn’t consumed with “resurrecting the old ways.”

  But it did happen. And I’ve come to terms with the fact that even though things aren’t exactly ideal right now, God’s justice is always just—even if it means I have to wait to see some of that justice in the next life.

  Thankfully, WT set up his will to not only take care of me but Delilah, who’s also undergoing intense therapy. He also willed a huge portion of his fortune to helping orphaned kids. Another chunk to the NAACP.

  When my treadmill’s timer goes off, I know my run’s complete. Feeling a smidge of regret, I slow my speed.

  Big Henry, in his gray scrubs and pockmarked face, isn’t much of a talker, but he also never freaks out when I pull my hair into a pony. Technically, hair ties aren’t allowed here—but he’s also seen the hair fiascos I end up with after tossing and turning all night with Tansy.

  Holding out his hand, Big Henry doesn’t say a word when I hand over my hair tie before we’re spotted by the other orderlies.

  Our rubber-soled, Velcro shoes scuffle along the tile almost peacefully. And the plain, cream walls are a minimalist’s interior design dream. I used to get breakfast in bed—until I started exercising.

  The halogen lights do tend to flicker, but that just adds to the ambiance of the place.

  After we pass the file room, and three more doors, Big Henry stations himself outside my room with this faux tough look on his face.

  Inside my room, the utilitarian bed is firm as ever with its unforgiving, plywood frame. More cream walls form the backdrop, and, really, I don’t mind it. Though the lack of color around here makes Tansy go absolutely batty.

  “They don’t even have pastels,” she whines. “Hurry on up and take your meds. I’m soooo ready to hibernate.”