The Butterfly Code

by Wyshynski, Sue

  Wind swirls around me when I open my door. I climb onto the cold pavement. To my right, waves crash far below, white and frothy, charging the air with salt. A gust carries the cries of sea birds.

  There must be a place to insert this thing.

  Because I’m going in. There’s no stopping me now. My timid heart is fighting to get me back into the truck, back on the road away from here.

  I shut it out. I can’t stop. I won’t stop.

  I’ve come this far. It’s not about the jacket, or the delivery. Something in there is calling me. Questions that need answers. A man I need to speak to, if only once. If only to clear up this mystery, this confusion, this painful longing that’s beyond all reasonable proportion. If I can just see Hunter, I know I can fix it. Make it stop. Understand it. That’s all I want.

  Or at least all I’m willing to believe.

  Eight

  To the right of the PRL gates stands a ten-by-ten-foot concrete bunker that probably once acted as the estate’s guard shack. Now it’s faced with steel. There’s no visible door, but it appears to be my best bet. I approach, key card in hand, scanning for a slot.

  Three feet from it, the steel slab slides sideways with a hiss and reveals a dim interior.

  Faint lights blink in its depths. I’m not good with cramped places. Especially dark ones. Cold sweat prickles at the base of my skull. I wish I had Sammy with me.

  Out loud I say, “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  Legs wobbly, I step into the concrete shack. Inside, it’s the size of a large ATM booth.

  Whoosh. The door whips shut.

  I stand deadly still, eyes struggling to conform to the darkness. The floor beneath me is a metal grate. That much is clear. Wind gusts up through it, making it rattle. I squint warily down through the waffle slats. All that’s visible is empty black air. Wafts of panic begin to rise. Maybe the floor is attached by a hinge that swings down to dispose of unwanted visitors.

  My claustrophobia goes into overdrive.

  I have to get out of this booth. Now.

  There’s no knob on the door. No trigger. I slam my right shoulder hard against it, again and again. It doesn’t budge. What is this? Am I seriously trapped in here?

  “Open up!” I cry, banging on the cold metal surface. “Let me out!”

  Nothing.

  “Open, you stupid piece of junk!”

  My rage has no effect.

  The door couldn’t care less how freaked out I am. Fumbling in my pocket, I pull out my phone. I’ll call the police, that’s what I’ll do.

  Except there’s no signal.

  Damp, icy wind whistles up from below, sweeping through the grill. It rushes up my legs. I press my body as close to the wall as I can get. My phone has a flashlight. The beam is powerful. I point it downward.

  A bottomless hole drops away.

  All that’s keeping me from falling is this eight-by-eight grill. Closing my eyes, I swallow.

  “Please insert your card.”

  The polite voice rips a small scream from my throat.

  On the wall directly to my left, a panel has slid upward. An ATM-style machine blinks in the semidarkness.

  “Insert card?” I whisper. “I’ll insert the card all right.”

  Shakily I replace the phone in my pocket and get out the key. On the monitor, the words please insert now blink in blue block letters. At least I’m getting somewhere. If only back out the door from where I came. In fact, that’s exactly what I want.

  To get out, back in the truck, and away from here.

  There’s a recessed hole beneath the monitor. I bend and see the slot located at the back. Sticking my hand in there is not exactly inviting, but I do it, holding the key straight. Blindly I jab it until it meets the insertion slot and slips inside.

  A whirring sound makes me whip my hand back.

  Not fast enough. A metal bar clamps over my wrist. My hand, still inside the hole, is manacled in place. Then a red light begins to flash.

  Uh-oh.

  “State your identity,” the robotic female voice says.

  “My … I’m …”

  “State your identity.”

  “I’m here from—”

  The band tightens. It presses painfully into my wrist. My fingers are turning numb.

  “State your identity.”

  “Aeris Thorne!” I shout.

  “Processing.”

  I try to wrench free.

  “Name not recognized.”

  “Jack Thorne’s daughter!” I cry. “Thorne Country Supply. I’m making a delivery, for god’s sake. Just a delivery.” I’m almost sobbing. It’s pathetic and infuriating and terrifying.

  “Processing. Please wait.”

  Like I have a choice?

  Tiny metal gears sound under my hand. I think I’m being released. Instead, a needle jabs my index finger, drawing blood. A spray that smells of disinfectant follows.

  “Still processing. Thank you for your patience.”

  Patience? This is insane! It’s checking my blood? For what? Proof I’m related to my dad? That’s not possible, is it?

  “Identity accepted.”

  With a pop, the manacle releases my hand. Behind me, the door slides open.

  “Please exit the booth. You have sixty seconds to drive your vehicle onto the property.”

  I stumble backward, rubbing my wrist. Unbelievable. No wonder everyone hates this place. Was that even legal? On the pavement, I put my injured index finger in my mouth. I start walking to the truck, fast.

  The giant gate begins rumbling sideways, opening.

  I’m angry and frightened.

  Inside the truck, the warm leather seat is a welcome comfort. I turn the key, and the engine roars to life. Then I shift into gear. If I’m going to make a break for it, now is the time to leave, to get out of here. Fast.

  Instead, I aim the front wheels toward the compound and rumble through.

  Behind the truck, the gate slides closed.

  No turning back now.

  The lane winds through pristine stands of pine. On the far side, a white post-and-board fence springs up next to the road. A stunningly beautiful horse gallops into view.

  Hunter has horses?

  Of course. Why didn’t I put that together from the items he ordered?

  Black mane and tail streaming, the stallion tosses his head, matching my speed. Under his pounding hooves, a puddle explodes in a glistening spray. I watch him move, imagining I’m riding rather than sitting inside this enclosed cab. Finding the buttons, I roll down both windows. The hoof beats are music to my heart.

  Cantering alongside the truck, the stallion seems to share my goal.

  I doubt we’ll get equal reception, though, from whoever’s waiting ahead.

  Rolling grassy hills run to the distant cliff. Off to the right, the fence leads to a sprawling, well-tended barn, white with an emerald-green roof. To the left, far away, I spy a grand manor house. It stands on a rise, looking so magnificent my breath catches.

  The house must be over a hundred years old. If that’s the lab, any signs of modern technology are well hidden behind the warm, earth-colored bricks. I’m reminded of a manor house from some Victorian-era novel or movie. The kind with butlers and a downstairs staff, and dozens of bedrooms for weekend guests. A place with high tea and manicured gardens for strolling among the roses. For whispered confidences, and forbidden alliances.

  A pothole in the road gives the truck a jolt. I’m bounced in my seat.

  I hadn’t realized the barn would be so far from the house. It’s a good half mile away. In my imagination, I pictured this all so differently. I saw myself arrive, and by some magical coincidence Hunter would appear. But why on earth would he be down at the barn receiving deliveries? He’s a researcher. That’s not his job. It all seems ridiculous now. He’ll be up at that grand house in some lab, working. I can’t go barging around looking for him.

  Even worse, I have to go back and explain
to Dad why I up and decided to make his delivery for him. And that I took the key out of his secret spot in the register to do it.

  I cringe.

  If Mr. Creedy hadn’t seen me leave in the truck, I’d turn around right now and pretend I’d never come. Unfortunately, I’ve dug my hole and there’s no getting out of it. I breathe deep. I’ll deliver the load and find someone to leave the jacket with. When that’s done, I’ll go. End of story.

  The horse veers off, galloping away.

  I downshift. I’m almost at the gravel lot that fronts the scrubbed wooden barn. Then I’m rumbling across it, kicking up dust and squealing to a stop.

  The area is deserted. I wrench open the heavy door and climb down, jumping the last foot. Gravel crunches under my chocolate-brown oxfords. Muddy puddles here and there still shine from the earlier rain. Feeling exposed and nervous, I zip the Juilliard sweatshirt to my chin and pull the hood over my hair. Quickly, I go around back and unlatch the bolt. Then I hit the button that raises the roll-up door like an electric garage.

  My skin prickles and I whip around, expecting to find someone there.

  It’s deserted.

  Shaking off my trepidation, I haul out a sack, shoulder it, and approach the barn door. The wood is warm and dry to the touch. It creaks open easily and thumps against the wall, making me wince.

  Practically tiptoeing, despite the hefty sack, I enter. Horse stalls run down either side. Dust motes swim in narrow shafts of light that stab through knotholes and gaps in the worn outer walls. I start walking, looking for a place to put the delivery. My feet make scuffling noises on the worn redbrick floor. I glance into the first stall, over the open upper half of its Dutch-style door. The stall’s completely clean, as if long unused.

  The bag is growing heavy. I drop it for now and keep walking. Five more empty stalls follow.

  There’s at least one horse that lives in this vast, regal structure. I saw it outside.

  My thoughts roam to Grandpa’s ranch in Montana, a place of cooing doves and nickering horses and the comforting smell of straw. If they’re keeping horses here, they had to get them from somewhere. Is that the connection between Dad and Hunter? Dad had some of Grandpa’s famous thoroughbreds shipped out here? If that’s all that’s going on, why the big secrecy?

  Unless … what?

  Unbidden, a frightening thought slips into my mind. What would a research lab want with horses? Are they doing something to the animals? Experimenting on them? Has Dad found out? The thought makes me sick. That can’t be it, can it?

  I consider running away.

  I don’t, though.

  I have to know.

  The seventh stall is different and I sense I’m getting somewhere. A lofty bed of fragrant hay fills the rectangular space. It’s the sort that invites stolen naps on lazy afternoons.

  Quiet words, muffled and deep in the distance, drift to me.

  I freeze.

  “You got yourself into this,” comes the low, rumbling voice.

  Hunter.

  More words follow that I can’t catch.

  I back up. I should go. My foot makes contact with something metal. A bucket. It clangs along the floor at an alarming volume. I pause, horrified.

  “Victoria?” Hunter calls.

  Oh no.

  “Curiosity got the best of you, did it?” he shouts.

  I turn and sprint.

  A thick arm wraps around my neck. I freeze. Oh god. A guard must have followed me. It can’t be Hunter—he’s too far away to sneak up on me that fast.

  Terrified, I lurch forward and kick back with my right leg.

  There’s a small, deep “oof,” and the arm tightens.

  “Let go,” I gasp, struggling wildly.

  I should never have come in here. I should never have driven through that towering gate.

  “Let me go!” I cry again. “I’m not doing anything wrong!” I wish I knew something, anything, of fighting. Of self-defense. I’m growing winded, too winded to explain what I’m doing here.

  Desperately, I try to struggle free. The arm tightens, and hard muscle digs under my chin. My head is forced up and back, so that it’s pressing against a solid, powerful chest. Fingers pull my hood away enough to expose my right ear. I feel warm breath on my neck.

  The deep voice is quiet. Commanding. “Go ahead, wear yourself out.”

  He’s no security guard. His voice is the one that’s consumed my thoughts for three straight days. Impossible though it seems, he’s there, behind me, holding me in a tight embrace.

  My limbs turn unsteady.

  “Um,” I whisper through lips that have gone dry.

  Sturdy hands spin me around, squeezing my arms hard through my hoodie. I revel in the familiar touch of his fingers, of his broad hands that are holding me upright. Waves of electricity pulse down my arms and into my body. I’m hovering somewhere between fear and awe, hot with a desire that’s completely unlike me.

  Hunter recognizes me instantly. He releases me as if he’d been caught holding his sister’s doll. He looks surprised, pleasantly, perhaps. A smile starts at one corner of his mouth. So contagious that I smile, too. Then his expression shifts and he steps back a foot.

  “Wait. How did you get in here?” His brows are low and unnerving, his irises the tawny, luminous color of amber in sunlight.

  “Through …” I point vaguely toward the road. “Through the gate.”

  “I see.” His gaze moves to my lips, my faltering smile, and back to my eyes. We’re still so close I can smell his warm scent. “It’s just—a little odd to find you here.”

  My hood falls back all the way, and I feel suddenly exposed. “Yes, well, let me explain that.”

  He raises a hand and steps farther away. Even so, it’s like we’re magnetized.

  “I don’t mean to cut you off, but I’m right in the middle of something.”

  A loud whinny sounds in the distance.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  The whinny comes again, more urgent. I lean past him, trying to spot the horse.

  “I don’t suppose you know anything about mares?”

  “Actually…” I flash to Grandpa’s ranch. “Yes. I do.”

  “Then come on.”

  I’m so surprised when he gives my wrist a tug that I jump.

  “Hurry.”

  What could have happened? Hopefully nothing serious.

  Whatever it is, I need to get focused. And not on him.

  I can’t believe he keeps horses. As usual, he’s dressed nothing like I picture a researcher should dress. More like some special ops guy about to head out on a mission. His powerful legs are clad in black army fatigues. His T-shirt is black, too, and sticking to his muscular back in all the right places. He’s sort of scary, yet sort of beautiful, too.

  Worry begins to blot out my excitement. The closer we come to the whinnying animal, the more I start to wish I hadn’t made such fanciful claims. Yes, I know something of horses. To say I could help an injured one would be stretching the truth. Seriously stretching the truth.

  Nine

  From up ahead, I sense fear. But maybe it’s me who’s afraid.

  “What’s your name?” he shouts as we hurry down the row of stalls. His stride eats up the distance so that I have to run to keep pace.

  “Aeris.”

  There’s a supercharged pause.

  On a laugh, he says, “I suppose it would be.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Never mind. I’m Hunter, by the way. Glad to actually meet you.”

  His words give me a fuzzy feeling. “What’s going on? Is the horse hurt?”

  “Not hurt, but she’s definitely feeling some pain.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He stops and his big thumb and long fingers circle my elbow. A pulse seems to shoot between us. Then he gestures over a stall’s half-open Dutch door. A horse lies on a bed of hay, the golden hues stained. The animal’s chestnut coat, beautiful once, is dr
enched and matted with sweat. Straw sticks to her sides. She’s clearly rolled over, probably writhing in discomfort. Her belly is wildly swollen.

  Large dark eyes swivel toward us, and the heavy head rises up. She looks exactly like Dakota. My favorite horse. It’s almost uncanny.

  “Okay, Poppy,” Hunter says, his voice a low rumble.

  The liquid-brown eyes meet mine. I read something pleading there.

  “She’s pregnant?” I say. “She’s having it now?”

  “No stopping her, I think.”

  The realization hits and I feel a surge of excitement. “A baby horse. Wow.”

  “I know. Right?” He releases me and unlatches the stall door. My skin is almost cold in the absence of those strong fingers. He’s grinning, and there’s a small dimple etched into the angular plane of his right cheek that makes him almost boyish. Gone for now is the dark aura. Instead he’s as floored as I’d be if I was about to welcome a foal.

  “Who’s your vet?” I say. “Why aren’t they here?”

  “I have an expert. But he’s not answering his phone. I was about to start looking up local vets.”

  Dad. He’s talking about Dad. That must be why Dad was in Hunter’s car yesterday, why he told Hunter it wasn’t time when he came into the shop. But now it is time.

  “I don’t suppose you know anyone?” he asks, hopeful, searching my face.

  “I think it might be too late,” I say. “Look.”

  The foal is emerging. Tiny hooves have appeared.

  “You’re right. Guess it’s down to you and me.”

  I nod. “We can do this, right? I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  “Absolutely.”

  In the stall Poppy tosses her head, the whites of her eyes showing beneath thick lashes. Her round velvet nostrils are damp and flaring. Breath wheezes in and out of her. It’s all so fast that mere moments pass, and then the tiny foal lies in the straw. Completely still. Hidden in its protective sac.

  “Should we be doing something?” he asks.

  “Something’s wrong. It’s supposed to be getting itself out of there. I don’t think it can breathe inside that bag.”

  Hunter wrenches open the stall door, and the two of us bang into each other in our rush. He’s solid as a wall and I almost land on my butt. His hands steady me, fastening firmly around my slender hips even as he’s diving to his knees beside the foal.