The Butterfly Code

by Wyshynski, Sue

  The clearheaded me wants to make it all stop.

  A stronger, irrational force, however, is winning out.

  Seven

  The next morning, I’m standing in the kitchen, rubbing my eyes and yawning and willing the coffeemaker to hurry up, when Dad appears. He’s wearing a suit, which strikes me as odd. Sure, he wore one every day when I was growing up, but here in Deep Cove, it’s totally out of place. And his beard has been trimmed back.

  “Wow, Dad,” is about all I can manage.

  He laughs. “I got a call. Sorry, Peanut, but I’m booked on a commuter flight into the city.”

  “Uh-oh, something urgent?”

  Although the brew cycle is still under way, I pour him a coffee and hand it over.

  “In the investment community, everything is urgent. I’ll be away until tomorrow.”

  “Want me to man the store?”

  “No. You have things to do. Mr. Creedy’s coming in.”

  Sammy and I follow him to the garage.

  Wind whistles from outside. Last year’s leaves cartwheel under the electric door as it rises. He starts the Range Rover and rolls down the window.

  “Thanks for the coffee. See you tomorrow.”

  I stand in the wan light from the overhead bulb as he backs into the predawn darkness. His headlights swing around. Dense, pooling mist swallows him whole.

  In the living room, cold rattles down the chimney. I find a blanket and go into the kitchen. The house feels lonely. Empty.

  My phone rings, echoing down the hall from the guest bedroom. I frown at the clock.

  Six a.m.

  It’s still ringing when I pick it up. UNKNOWN comes up on the caller ID.

  “Hello?” I say.

  The line is silent.

  “Hello? Who’s this?”

  “I’m looking for Jack Thorne.” The man’s voice is raspy and official-sounding, yet vaguely familiar.

  “He’s not here. This is his daughter’s phone.”

  “We have a certified delivery scheduled for this morning. A family member has to sign for it. I need to confirm you’ll be at the house.”

  “How did you get my number?”

  “It’s on the order form as the secondary contact.”

  That’s weird. I shrug. “Oh. Well, yeah. Sure, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Dispatch is routing a special van since you’re so far out. Should arrive around noon.”

  “I understand. I’ll be here.”

  I hang up. I forgot to ask what was being delivered.

  The coffeepot in the kitchen calls to me. I go, pour a mug, and add cream. Sliding onto the pine bench, I hunch down with my manuscript and wrap my fingers around the cup of steamy brew. I need to get focused. After a long moment, I carry the music book to the piano and run the first notes.

  Where do you go from here, song? Give me a clue.

  I rub my forehead until my hair is standing on end.

  Finally, I go and stare out the stormy back window. Dawn’s first light rims the steel ocean with metal streaks. As I watch, a thought comes to me.

  If Dad and Hunter are working together, there must be a record of it in his office. It’s wrong to go behind Dad’s back and look. Still, I can’t help my curiosity. If I’m going to do it, I have to move fast. Mr. Creedy’s due to open the store at any moment. I have twenty minutes at most.

  Sammy perks up and lurches to his feet as I dash for the guest bedroom to change out of my pj’s. His claws scratch the wood floor as he scrambles after me.

  Quickly, I wiggle into jeans and a checked blouse and snatch my oversize blue Juilliard hoodie off the ladder-back antique chair. Then I kiss the top of Sammy’s nose.

  “Back in a few.”

  With Dad’s store keys in hand, I sprint outside.

  The thorne country supply sign still hangs at an angle from the storm. There’s no sight of Mr. Creedy—yet. The gravel lot is empty.

  I slide the key into the lock and turn. A bell jangles when I open the store’s glass-paned front door. Familiar scents greet me: warm, dry smells of golden hay and pet food; aging wood; leather leashes, collars, and horse tack; and numerous varieties of soap. Earthy smells, too, like peat moss and planting seeds, and fancy organic topsoil.

  I hurry past rotating racks of seedling packets to Dad’s office, which is tucked into the rear of the store. The door’s locked. I work my way through the jumble of shop keys and find the correct one. Inside, three tall file cabinets dominate the right wall. I open the drawer with the letter P and riffle through for Phoenix Research Lab. Nothing. I move on to R, and then L. No luck. Nothing under C for Cayman, either.

  Strange.

  Neat stacks of paper lie on his desk. I go sit in his swivel-back chair. The macaroni-decorated pencil cup I made for him in elementary school is right there next to the phone. A delighted laugh bursts from me; I can’t believe he kept it.

  Now I really feel guilty. I hate to imagine his face if he found me going through his private drawers.

  He must have some file on Hunter.

  The bottom drawer is bigger than the rest. Locked. I try the keys. None fit.

  A sound outside makes me freeze. I hold my breath.

  Just the wind.

  Whatever’s important is hidden away. I go through the top drawer one last time. My heart leaps when my fingers touch something hard and square, tucked at the very back. I drag it out onto the desktop. It’s an ancient, scuffed photo album.

  The cover opens with a papery creak.

  Mom looks up at me. My breath catches and my fingers go to her face.

  Why would Dad keep this out here, and not in the house? Does he think this holds some key to her death? Is there something inside he’s been studying?

  I turn a page. It’s another picture of Mom; she looks around five years old. She’s wearing such a funny, endearingly serious expression that my stomach twists. I’d forgotten about these photos. I remember seeing them when I was little. I never noticed where she was. Now, after all these years, I see the picture for what it is. She’s in an airport. There’s a baggage carousel behind her. I wonder where she’s going. Somewhere very snowy and cold, obviously. She’s wearing winter boots and a giant, fur-lined parka, and has one small arm wrapped protectively over a dog carrier crate. The dog inside, a black Labrador, peers up at her through the bars with trusting eyes.

  I imagine her alive in that moment and breathe her in.

  Unable to fully catch my breath, I bend forward and give her a kiss, trying to hold on to the ghost of Mom.

  I flip through the pages.

  Tucked into the back is a notebook.

  This I’ve never seen before. The rise and fall of my chest escalates.

  There’s only one entry. It’s in Mom’s small, slanted scrawl. What’s strange is that the first paragraph starts right in the middle of a sentence. Was there a notebook before this one, and she’s simply carrying on here, having run out of space in the first book? What’s happened to it? Does it still exist somewhere? I flip through the rest of the book, yet it really is empty apart from this. So why only one page? Is it possible this was … her last entry?

  It’s too real, these pen strokes, this physical evidence of her. My fingers grow damp, and I blink hard against the threat of tears. I can almost hear her voice as I read.

  and I can only now conclude that it is the height of human folly to tamper with the human code at such a minute yet critical level. Humans are not made to be divine. And doctors are not meant to play God. It is only by divine intervention, that I stumbled upon the way to correct what’s been done.

  I have inherited this legacy, and I will never shy away from the blame. It lies heavily upon me. After this, I cannot in good conscience contribute further, and caution all those mad enough to do so. Pray all goes well.

  I read the baffling words several times. I knew, even as a small child, that her work consumed her, but what could she possibly have done to feel such guilt? Mom was in
credibly caring and conscientious of others. So what made her write that?

  And what did she mean, humans were not made to be divine? As in godlike? That doesn’t make sense. But could this be a clue? Is this strange legacy the reason why people chased her down and killed her? What happened that made fate tear her away from me? From us?

  I stare at the door. Mom had her secrets. Dad used to question me about them. They never married, even though I’m sure they loved each other. I lived with Mom, and she worked at a lab outside Washington, D.C. Dad mostly lived in New York. We only saw him on weekends. It’s unlikely I’ll ever learn the answer. Who could I ask? Mom is gone. She’s been gone since I was five.

  The digital clock next to the phone blazes at me. It’s getting late. My right leg is curled under me and has gone numb. I stretch it out, and it starts to prickle.

  I close the cover and replace the notebook and the album in Dad’s desk drawer. Then my eyes fall on a stack of papers next to the phone. The words Phoenix Research Lab stare up at me from a printout. I grab the sheet, wide-eyed. It’s a purchase order. An order in Hunter’s name.

  And the delivery date is marked for today.

  My heart rate increases. I scan the contents. Dad would want this delivery made. I’ll be doing him a favor. I should definitely fill his order and take it up there. Hunter will be expecting his goods to arrive.

  Only instead of Dad making the delivery, it will be me.

  Besides, I can return Hunter’s jacket while I’m at it.

  The memory of those piercing amber eyes searching mine is enough to send thrills of energy through me. I need to calm down. So I’m a little charmed. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s not like I’m planning to let anything come of it.

  Maybe I’ll get a chance to clear up some of these mysterious questions. I don’t want to find out anything bad, but surely Hunter wouldn’t be doing something wrong. Would he?

  I ignore the small voice screaming No way, Dad will be furious if I go, and take a closer look at the list of items. Nothing out of the ordinary, except there’s a lot of it. If I’m going to do this, I need to get moving.

  I run for the store’s cash register. Maybe the PRL access card key isn’t there anymore. Maybe Dad took it.

  Praying, I shove my fingers into the secret spot.

  I breathe in relief. Got it.

  The clock is ticking. Mr. Creedy is due anytime.

  I sprint for the house, grab Hunter’s jacket, and return to the shop. There’s a roll-up door for deliveries at the back. Dad’s cube truck is parked next to it. Ears trained for sounds of Creedy’s car, I start to panic. I don’t want to have to explain myself. It takes forever to track down the right bags of straw and oats and lug them outside. What Hunter wants with them is beyond me. I had no idea they were keeping animals.

  My heart is slamming.

  Wheels on gravel send it into overdrive. Time is up.

  “Hi, Mr. Creedy,” I call as he gets out of his car and stares at me in surprise. “I’m going to deliver this order.” I wave the slip.

  His feathered white brows shoot up, and he says, “Well, now, hold on there, Aeris—”

  Before he can complete the thought, I climb in the cab, slam the heavy door, and lurch out onto the street.

  I’ll just have to apologize for taking off when I get back.

  The giant square side mirror reflects Mr. Creedy’s creased face. His mouth is open, his kind, rheumy eyes are frowning. I can’t wave or smile or anything. I’m too busy focusing on driving this thing.

  Sure, I’ve driven it before.

  That doesn’t mean I’m good at it.

  In my hand, the shifter knob shakes, sending vibrations up my arm. I head down the road, away from town. I’m going to hear it later. I must seriously be crazy.

  As I drive, I flash to the phone call I received earlier and the package I’m supposed to sign for. I’d better hurry.

  The road twists, winding down into a thick stand of trees. On the far side, it snakes up again, opening onto a plateau. Choppy ocean surges beneath the cliffs. Storm clouds mount like grimy giants roaming across the sky. Mottled shadows paint the forested hills emerald green, the cliffs stony gray, the ocean quicksilver.

  I spy the long finger of land jutting out into the Atlantic. Another five minutes and I’ll be there, using Dad’s pass to let myself in. A twinge of nervousness makes my foot ease off the gas. With a choking rattle, the engine threatens to stall. I gun it in panic, not wanting to be stranded out here. Dad’s cube truck lunges forward, and I let up on the accelerator.

  Relax. It’s only a delivery. I chew my lip. I’m sure Hunter will be happy to get his jacket back.

  Only a mile left to the promontory entrance.

  I have no idea what to expect.

  I haven’t driven this close since the day Dad and I came out here together, before Hunter’s people bought the land to build the Phoenix Research Lab. That was three years ago.

  Some memories stick in your mind with vivid clarity. I can still recall every single thing about that afternoon.

  Dad was living in New York, and I was at Juilliard. We’d returned to Deep Cove to visit his summerhouse, and to take a vacation ourselves. I hadn’t seen it since those long-ago summers with Ella and Gage. Because of the full-time tenant, we’d stayed away. But now his tenant was moving, and Dad needed to assess the place for any problems before finding someone new.

  On our second day in Deep Cove, he announced he wanted to show me something.

  We climbed into the Range Rover and headed up this way.

  I was joking around. Asking what the big mystery was.

  “I’ll tell you when we get there,” he replied.

  I knew we were headed toward the big country estate on the promontory. I’d heard about the massive home with its open parklands and narrow road in. People claimed it was haunted. The couple who lived there were recluses. Few guests came and went through their gates.

  Dad and I turned the final corner toward the vast residence. We were met with the sight of construction vehicles blocking the entranceway. To my surprise, Dad looked dismayed.

  He maneuvered the Range Rover into a grassy ditch. We climbed out, slamming our doors, and approached a red-faced man in a hard hat and orange vest. His nametag said mike.

  “What’s with all the construction?” Dad asked.

  Mike shrugged his rounded, sweating shoulders. “Someone bought the place.” A tractor began emitting high-pitched beeps. It lurched in reverse. He jabbed out a ruddy hand. “Watch it, you gotta step back.”

  “Who bought it?” Dad asked.

  “Some fancy research operation.”

  “Researchers?” Dad’s voice grew wary. “What kind of researchers?”

  “Dunno. Money up the wazoo, though.”

  “I wish I’d been notified when the place went up for sale. Who made the deal?”

  “Private handover.”

  A tense beat followed.

  “Who was the purchaser?”

  In answer, Mike pointed his thick, grimy index finger at an engraved plaque, still in its plastic wrapping. “That’s all I know.”

  Dad stepped closer to the sign, and his face blanched.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “Nothing.”

  His words didn’t match his grim tone.

  I quickly studied the thing myself, trying to determine what had him so upset. A frolicking dog formed the central figure, a Labrador with a bandanna around its neck. Tongue hanging out and smiling in the way dogs do, it chased a bird in the sky. Soaring upward, the bird’s forked tail and sharp pointed wings reminded me of something. Underneath the raised relief, the words Phoenix Research Lab were printed in large letters.

  Dad cleared his throat. “Thanks. We’ll be off, then.”

  “But, Dad,” I said. “What—”

  “We’ll get out of your way,” he told Mike. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “Not a problem. Have a goo
d one.”

  “You do the same.”

  In the car, Dad let out a big breath, and then gave me a smile that was surely forced. “How about lunch?”

  “Why were you so upset back there?”

  “I wasn’t. Surprised, that’s all. Now how about we get on with our vacation. Pizza? Because I’m starved.”

  As it turned out, the visit was more than a vacation. The lab wasn’t the only place in transition. Rather than finding a new tenant, Dad decided to move back into the summerhouse. Not only that, he took over his tenant’s small tack-and-saddle-supply operation and turned it into Thorne Country Supply.

  Today, three years later, it strikes me just how odd it was for Dad to give up his bustling work in the city. He’d claimed a change of pace would be good for him. He’d transferred his whole life here.

  What changed his mind?

  The Thorne Country Supply delivery truck continues to rattle as I approach the entry to the promontory.

  No construction vehicles now.

  In fact, the area looks quiet and sterile. Towering stone walls block off the prying eyes of drivers who approach along the road. Poles bristle with high-tech surveillance devices. Camera lenses peer out at various angles.

  I’m reminded of a border crossing.

  I slow, wary, feeling like I’ve entered a James Bond film. Am I being watched? Hopefully security is expecting Dad’s truck. If I’m lucky, they won’t look too closely at the driver.

  Both hands turning the giant steering wheel, I maneuver into the driveway. It’s paved with smooth blacktop, a contrast from the bumpy road. Pressing the brakes, I halt the truck before the towering metal gate. There, mounted dead center on the massive bars, is the plaque. The one that made Dad blanch.

  He never did tell me what he’d wanted to show me here.

  I lean forward, face close to the windshield, and study what’s visible beyond the gates. All I can see is a road leading inward, bounded on either side by trees.

  Hunter’s domain is incredibly official. And incredibly mysterious.

  It matches him perfectly.

  I slide the key card from my pocket, wondering where I’m supposed to swipe it. Where’s the intercom box? Scanning left and right reveals no sign of such a thing.