White cloth surrounded me. White cloth with dark eyes peering out of round holes. Lamplight burned at my corneas. The soles of my boots scraped against dirt and rocks, and only then did I remember the little gun wedged inside, down in the crook of my right foot, below the ankle bone. Up ahead, glimpses of Joe’s trousers and bare toes peeked through a wall of white cotton. He was on his knees, and they were dragging him toward the highway beyond a narrow thicket of firs on the east side of our property.
A surge of terror gripped my arms and legs. I acquired a strength that nearly set me free from the hands bearing down on my wrists. One of my captors grabbed the back of my neck and pushed me forward, onward, in the direction of a Ford truck that looked to be the Paulissens’, parked beyond the trees on the side of the highway. Nothing seemed real.
The air turned cold, and everyone’s feet crackled through pine needles on the dark earth beneath us. A bird of some sort flapped its wings out of nowhere and rushed over my head with a suddenness and swiftness that made me scream into the cloth.
I’m dead, I’m dead, I thought, and my knees sank again to the ground. The Klan members had to drag me; I would not willingly walk to whatever fate they intended for me and Joe. Stones and twigs tore at my legs and stung my skin, but I would not walk. I smelled a citrus-tinged cologne that reminded me of Laurence, but my brain forced me to think of the hooded men as creatures and strangers—not neighbors and childhood companions.
One of the Klansmen pulled down the wooden gate at the back of the truck’s bed. Three of the robed figures hoisted Joe into the vehicle. Two of them jumped in after him and dragged him by his pinned-back arms across the floor, toward the back of the cab. Two more Klansmen lifted me in by my arms and legs. I writhed and fought, but they shoved me into the open compartment and climbed right in after me before I could reach for my boot. One of them pulled me down onto my back and held me by my elbows, while the other pinned down my legs by my knees. I prayed my little derringer wouldn’t slide into view at the edge of my boot. I prayed the truck would crash and kill our attackers before they yanked us anywhere near a tree and a rope.
Someone closed up the back of the truck, rocking the bed, and the remaining Klansmen must have climbed into the cab, for I heard car doors opening and shutting.
The truck engine grumbled to life, and the vehicle lurched forward and headed down the highway, the floor of the bed rattling against the back of my skull. I heard Joe squirming and grunting behind me, and I realized that one of his feet was thrashing about near my right eye. Mainly, though, I saw hooded faces looming above me, and the wide black sky that stretched overhead, the stars winking down as though it were a regular July night in a regular summer. I closed my eyes and pushed my mind to thoughts of Daddy and me standing side by side in the green waters of the creek. I made myself hear the sound of my father’s deep voice singing “Wade in the Water,” while the current trickled past the tree roots and branches hanging out from the shore. Cool waters lapped at my stinging knees. Daddy’s large, warm hand wrapped around mine. The sun shone hot and sweet on my face, and I no longer tasted the cotton of the cloth that bound my mouth or felt hands forcing down my limbs. I willed Joe to escape, too, to join Laurence in the woods when they weren’t yet sixteen; to taste their first kiss and run his fingers through the sunshine in Laurence’s hair.
The brakes of the truck squealed to a stop. My body jolted. Car doors opened. I writhed again and arched my back, but hands grabbed me and yanked me forward in the dark. My feet hit the ground with a thump that made the gun jump in my boot, and I thanked God for the safety mechanism.
“Look what we found,” said one of the Klansmen who squeezed down on my arm. I recognized his voice as being that of Mr. Franklin from the Dry Dock. “Both of them, huddled in the stable on the girl’s family’s property.”
The man whipped me around toward a scene of bright light, and my breath caught in my throat.
A wooden cross, at least eight feet tall, burned in the patch of tall grasses between the Dry Dock and Ginger’s. The inferno crackled and strengthened and reflected off the glass of the Dry Dock’s windows, brightening the white of the Klansmen’s robes. Beyond the cross stood the oak tree, looking larger and blacker and more monstrous than I remembered, its crooked boughs stretching out to the surrounding darkness. Four more Klan members waited by the tree, and they held torches that illuminated a noose that hung from the thickest branch.
Behind me, Klansmen pulled Joe out of the truck, his mouth and hands still bound. His eyes widened at the cross and the noose, the fire shining against his brown irises, and he dropped to his knees.