The Butterfly Code

by Wyshynski, Sue

  He’d meant it to be threatening. It sure hadn’t felt that way. Not even with his warm breath against my ear and his fingers tight under my jaw.

  I’m such a fool. I need to stop thinking of him. But I can’t stop. It’s not like switching off a light. Feelings don’t work that way. They linger in the chasms of the heart, welling up without warning, reminding us of the one who was lost.

  Dad glances over as he downshifts to take the corner. “How are you doing?”

  “Glad to be coming home.”

  “That makes two of us. Sammy will be excited.”

  I smile.

  Fog swirls in from the left field, heavy as cream in water. The mist catches the front grille and billows around us, locking us in a veil of obscuring white. Dad switches on his high beams. The bright lights create blinding patterns and only manage to tunnel a few feet. Out of nowhere, the gate appears.

  Dad brakes and stops ten feet short.

  I stare at the place where I was crushed.

  The steel bars glide open and we pass through. There’s no sign of damage, no remnants of awful gore. It’s like nothing happened here. I press my face to the window as they close, watch them gleaming in the Range Rover’s taillights.

  Then I see it.

  The Phoenix Research Lab plaque in the middle, the one with the dog—the black Labrador retriever—chasing the pointed-winged bird. It’s been cracked in two.

  The fog turns to misting rain. Dad switches on the wipers and follows the twisty road.

  “Has there been any news about the investigation?” I ask.

  “Not enough.”

  “Did they catch the bad guys?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. They fled the scene way before the police showed up.”

  “So there weren’t even—like, dead guys?”

  “Dead guys? No.”

  I try to recall that stormy night. I still don’t get how Hunter reached me so fast. A vision flashes into my mind—of Hunter lifting the ATV into the air and throwing it at my attackers. But that’s ridiculous. No one can lift an eight-hundred-pound vehicle. I can almost smell my blood and hear the shouts around me. Had there been a fight? Had Ian been there, too? And Victoria? I remember a woman’s shrill scream before the world went black. Maybe it had been mine. The harder I try to focus on the vision, the faster it slips away.

  “They won’t come after us again, will they?” I ask.

  “I don’t see why they would. We have nothing they want.”

  “No. You’re right. We don’t.” Vague fear winds around my ribs and cinches tight.

  “I’ve installed a security system in the house. Not that we need it. I just don’t want you coming home to any more surprises.”

  I nod as unease sizzles through me. Iron-fist is out there, and who knows what he wants. The damp chill claims my feet. We fall silent awhile, Dad focusing on the twisty, fog-obscured road.

  “Dad, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “I heard you and Hunter talking about a woman. Who was she?”

  “A woman? No.” He keeps his eyes carefully on the road.

  “I heard you. You told him you wanted answers about her. That’s what you said.”

  He’s silent so long maybe he hopes I’ll drop the subject. He’d said a woman. Not Mom, though, because Hunter’s too young to have known her. So then, who? The mist blurs the windshield and the wipers slam it away. Over and over. Mist, slam, mist, slam.

  “Dad?”

  “I’m sorry, Peanut. Whatever you think you heard, you heard wrong.”

  I stare at him, confused.

  He wouldn’t lie, would he? Is it possible he’s telling the truth? As if to reassure me, he reaches out and squeezes my left hand. I can feel how much he loves me, how much he was worried about me. It’s good to have his big hand around mine. Maybe he’s right. I’ve been confused a lot, lately. Maybe this is just one more thing.

  When Dad carries me through the door, Sammy is all dancing legs and earnest yips. He scrambles after us through Dad-land, past softly gleaming leather and wood scented with lemon polish, and the piano, which I’ll get to play whenever I want.

  In the guest bedroom Dad sets me down and Sammy bumps into me in all his furry earnestness.

  “Oof.” I wrap my arms awkwardly around his quivering neck. His fervent affection, despite my abandoning his broken body on the back lawn, makes tears prick at my eyes. “I’m so glad you made it, buddy.”

  Dad helps me under the covers. My eyes close, and my head drops back. The last thing to cross my mind before dozing off is Victoria and Edward’s reaction when they find me gone.

  I should’ve left a note. A thank you, at least.

  Turns out I’m no better than Hunter.

  A commotion at the front door wakes me. Dad’s words are drowned out by a woman’s high, commanding voice.

  “Where is she?”

  My eyes fly open. Wan morning light bleeds through the half-shuttered window. Victoria appears in my doorway, surreal and striking in this house. She’s wearing a bloodred leather ensemble: a fitted jacket, skintight skirt, and tall boots. Her luminous face is as scary-beautiful as ever.

  “Hi,” I manage.

  Her eyes sear into me. There’s an awkward beat.

  Finally, I say, “You could wear a Red Cross hat with that.”

  “A Red Cross hat.”

  “Yes. A leather one.”

  “Do you have any idea of the scare you gave us?”

  “I figured it was better this way.”

  “You’re coming back with me. Now.”

  I pluck at the covers. “No, Victoria, I’m not.”

  She stalks to my bedside and sorts through my medication. “Did you take the red pills?”

  “Not yet.”

  She shakes two out and thrusts a half-empty glass of water into my hand. I swallow them with the tepid liquid.

  “You can’t stay here. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I’m perfectly safe, and there’s no way you’re dragging me back.”

  She rubs her face and I know she’s worried. I sense it, faintly, stirring through me.

  “I’m sorry. I should have left a note. I’ve been a huge burden on you guys, and you’ve done enough. I’m really all right now. And I’m hugely grateful. If I haven’t told you that, I am. I mean it.”

  Arms crossed, Victoria studies the bookshelf. It’s vacant apart from my violin case. She touches the clasp. Emotions jangle beneath her hard surface. It’s clear my words have touched her, but not enough to ease the jarring pings of worry. So the linked effect has returned. Not that I’m about to tell her.

  She paces to the dresser and picks up what appears to be a letter in a heavy envelope.

  “I’m surprised you’re getting mail here. This isn’t your actual residence, is it?”

  “Let me see that.”

  She hands it over, and then it all comes rushing back to me. My application to the music company. All else is forgotten as I tear it open.

  Dear Ms. Aeris Thorne,

  Applause has reviewed your application. We’d like to see you in person. We have an interview slot open at 3:00 p.m. on July 22. Please call or e-mail to confirm your availability. Our offices are located in Hartford, CT, at the address listed above.

  Sincerely,

  Nathan Biggs, CEO

  “I can’t believe this! They want me to come for an interview.”

  “Who?”

  “A movie sound track company.” I glance at the address again. “In Hartford.”

  Victoria’s smooth brow creases. “How did they find you?”

  “I was recommended. I applied.”

  “When do they want you there?”

  I’m so dizzy with excitement that for a moment I’d forgotten my injuries. “Two weeks.”

  “That’s not going to work.”

  She’s right. Still, I say, “Are you out of your mind? No way am I turning this down.”

  “T
ell them you’ll come later. In a few months.”

  “It doesn’t work that way. They won’t wait. It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of. I have to go.” And I realize now it’s the truth. I’m going, casts and all.

  “Let me see that.” She snatches the letter with her willowy fingers and studies it. I wait for her reply, but she sets it down as if the subject never came up.

  “You need to come back to the PRL. I can’t keep you safe here.”

  “I’m not coming back, Victoria. I’m sorry.”

  She walks nervously to the window, twitches the blinds, and peers out.

  “I’m right down the road. I’ll call you if I get sick, promise.”

  “I don’t know how to convince you. You’re not my prisoner. Please, stay inside, take your meds, focus on getting better. I’m trusting you.”

  “Tell Edward and Lucy good-bye?”

  She gives me a curt nod. As I hear her give Dad the wheelchair we abandoned in the PRL’s front hall, it dawns on me that although she came, she knew I wouldn’t be going back.

  When she’s gone, I make Dad sit next to me on the four-poster bed.

  “I want to know about Mom.”

  “What can I tell you?” His black beard has grown back out, half hiding his face.

  Dad and I never talk about her, so it’s a struggle. It comes out in a rush. “I was thinking about the accident in Switzerland. Victoria told me the PRL has a branch there. I know this is a long shot, but is there any chance Mom was connected to the research lab?”

  He stiffens.

  “Have you looked into it?”

  “She kept her work from me, Peanut. You know we weren’t living together.”

  Before I can stop myself, I say, “Was I a mistake? Didn’t you love each other?”

  “Of course we loved each other.” He’s gruff. “But she had a lot going on, and we agreed it would be better to live separately. Until she was ready.”

  I feel hurt and anger rising. I’ve kept it down too long. “What was more important than us being a family?”

  “There are times when life isn’t that simple.”

  My anger turns white hot. Everyone has been putting me off and putting me off, and I won’t stand for it.

  “What aren’t you telling me, Dad? I’m not going to sit here and listen to you claim you’re in the dark. Because you’re not. You’re hiding things from me. You have no right. She was my mom. She would have wanted me to know, and I resent you trying to protect me! I won’t be shoved away any longer. What happened to her belongs just as much to me as it does to you. More! I was the one who lived with her. I was the one she kept by her side. I was in the car, not you. I was with her when she died.”

  Dad stands abruptly. It’s clear I’ve wounded him. How could I suggest Mom loved me more when I know how heartbroken he was over her death? He’s never loved another woman since. But I’m furious. Beyond furious.

  “Your mother loved you more than anything. And if I ever learn the truth of what happened to you two that day, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”

  I hear his brutal honesty. Am I being paranoid, believing he has answers that don’t exist?

  “Wait, Dad?” He’s already angry, so what’s one more thing? “I went through your desk. I found—”

  “You went through my desk? Really, Aeris? Why?”

  “I found Mom’s photo album.” My voice breaks. “Did you ever think I might want to see those pictures, too?”

  He rubs his head and blows out a sigh. “I shouldn’t have kept it in there. You’re right. You should have it. I’ll bring it to you.”

  Dad’s at the shop. I sit near the piano in the wheelchair and open the photo album. My forehead scrunches as I study the one of Mom and her dog. An odd sensation tugs at me, as though a message is staring up at me, yet I can’t quite puzzle it out.

  Then my breath catches. I examine the black Labrador in the crate, looking cute in his red bandanna. It’s a lot like the dog on the PRL plaque. The one on the front gate. The logo. The dog chasing a phoenix. A Labrador dog, with a bandanna around its neck.

  No. It’s a coincidence. It has to be.

  The journal is still there. I open it and ponder her cryptic words. Doctors are not meant to play God. Was it also a coincidence that Hunter had said nearly the same thing?

  Was there a link here?

  I touch her pen strokes.

  Is it possible the PRL and Hunter’s research are part of Mom’s legacy? Could I be alive because of her work?

  Images come in flashes. Symbols of regeneration. The painted butterflies on the domed ceiling in the operating room. The caterpillars and cocoons bursting with life. The fiery bird that the lab is named after. The phoenix that dies and comes back to life.

  Just like I heard Ian claim I did.

  Was I dead on that operating table until Hunter intervened?

  If Mom had somehow been involved in uncovering a key to human regeneration, and her legacy is still under way at the PRL, it explains why Iron-fist is so desperate to break into the facility. Yet it’s not perfect. Far from it.

  I haven’t allowed myself to think of my frightening episode in Hunter’s study, yet now it rushes into me in all its pain and horror. What if what I felt from him was real? What if somehow, by some inexplicable force, I did sense him? What if whatever he did to heal me is contagious and I infected him and that’s why he left? Because he’s sick? A cold bubble of worry breaks over my skin.

  The ringing phone yanks me from my reverie. I roll into the kitchen and read the caller ID.

  Gage.

  After a moment’s hesitation, I pick up.

  “Hello?”

  “I heard you were back. Want a visitor?”

  Twenty-Two

  It’s good to hear Gage’s friendly voice on the line.

  “Word gets around quick,” I say.

  “Small town, you’re the big excitement. Well, at least for me and Ella.” I can hear his grin. “So what do you say?”

  “I look pretty funky.”

  “I can manage funky.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Okay, yes. Come over. That would be nice.”

  “I’m ten minutes away. Need anything?”

  “Nope. Just knock.”

  I wait at the piano, playing one-handed and fretting over the call I made earlier to Applause before I could get cold feet. I spoke to a woman. She confirmed my interview. I’m going. I promised I’d be there.

  The knock comes, two long, three short, and I burst out laughing. I can’t remember the last time I heard that.

  “Coming!” I shout, and trundle to the door. With my good hand, I fumble with the lock and then wheel myself back a few feet. “It’s open.”

  His blond head peeks around the corner. He’s wearing a big grin and carrying a grocery bag.

  “Thanks for dressing up,” he says.

  I’m wearing what fits over my casts: flannel boxers and an oversize T-shirt that reads i’ll be bach. “Yeah, no problem. Took me hours,” I joke. “What’s in the bag?”

  “Stuff.”

  “Sounds good. Want to sit in the kitchen?”

  “Lead the way.”

  The bag contains a pack of playing cards, two supersized Mars bars, a box of powdered doughnuts, and a six-pack of ginger ale. Summer fort food. “Nice,” I tell him. “Except for one thing. I still don’t play poker.”

  “Good enough. War or Crazy Eights? You remember those, right?”

  I laugh.

  We’re halfway through a fierce game when he says, “I sure am glad you made it.”

  “Really? ’Cause I’m about to beat you,” I tease.

  “I’m serious. I just wish you would’ve gone to a hospital, instead of letting those freaks take care of you.”

  “Freaks?” I freeze. “That’s pretty harsh, Gage. They saved my life.”

  He rips a fresh can from the six-pack, pops the tab, and stares at it as froth bubbles up through the hole. />
  “I was unconscious. It’s not like I had a choice. But even if I did, there wasn’t time. I would’ve bled to death waiting for an ambulance.”

  “You could have been airlifted,” he says.

  “There’s no way.”

  “They sure have you convinced.”

  “I was there!”

  “How do you know they weren’t exaggerating? Maybe they didn’t want you going to a hospital. Ever think of that?”

  I gape at him. “That’s ridiculous! Look at me. It’s not like I needed a few stitches. I was hurt. Badly.”

  He twists and untwists a used candy wrapper, worrying it into a knot. When I can take it no longer, I snare it from him and stuff it in the empty grocery bag.

  “Did it ever occur to you,” he asks, “that your accident could have given them the perfect chance to do a little human research?”

  “No,” I lie.

  “You were there for four weeks. Why didn’t they send you to a hospital after the initial emergency was over?”

  Blood thumps in my temples. “Let’s just play, all right?”

  He sips his drink and draws a card. His words have hit home, though. The game ends in a tie. I watch him shuffle the cards in silence.

  “Gage?”

  He glances up, his cornflower-blue eyes brooding beneath his scruffy blond hair.

  “What exactly happened to you in the military?”

  His mouth opens. I guess it’s the last thing he’s expecting.

  “Maybe it’s none of my business,” I say. “I just—”

  “No—I’ll tell you. I want you to know.” Gage shoves his thick hand through his hair. He glances out at the sea, cracking his knuckles. “A group of us got in trouble doing something stupid. We were goofing off—it’s not important what we did. But we got sentenced to six months’ confinement. There was this medical trial no one wanted to enter, so they gave us the choice: Be guinea pigs for three weeks or serve time. We took the three weeks.”

  “Is that normal?”

  “Definitely not. It came up in the hearing later—but at this point we were a bunch of idiots who saw an easy way out.”

  “So the military does medical trials?”

  “It was run by a private contractor. You might’ve heard of them. Blackbird?”

  “I suppose, in the news, I guess. What do they do, exactly?”