The Butterfly Code

by Wyshynski, Sue

  “They’re basically an army for hire. They’re real bastards. The government calls them in to do its dirty work. They have a huge training facility four hours away. And this weapons factory that you wouldn’t believe.”

  “What do they make?”

  Gage’s bulging shoulders are hunched, and the muscles are working in his jaw. He puts his head in his hands and mutters, “You name it. Custom tanks, dirty weapons, surveillance, robotics. That’s not the worst of it, though.” He meets my eyes. “The CEO has a special interest in humans.”

  “What do you mean, humans? How do you develop humans?” As soon as the words slip from my mouth, a creepy sensation rushes over my body.

  “Resistance to biological weapons and diseases? That’s one way. It gets a lot nastier, though. These freaks are trying to build human supersoldiers.”

  “You mean, like, making people artificially stronger or something?”

  “Yeah. That plus a whole lot of other transhuman mutant shit. Subdermal armor. Robotic implants. Body mods so people punch harder. Run faster. Jump higher. Mods to make them drink less, eat less so they can survive where other people can’t. Brain links so they can control soldiers like it’s a video game. With retinal cameras embedded in their eyeballs. That way generals can move them around without endangering their own precious hides.”

  “That’s insane. Are you serious?”

  “Deadly.”

  Gage hasn’t told me about his own trial, though. Were they exposed to a biological agent? Is that what killed his brother? Or had Gage been … modified? Without meaning to, my eyes roam over his shoulders, down his arms to his hands. He looks normal. Strong, yes, but …

  “You know what,” Gage says, forcing my gaze up to his. “On second thought, I don’t really want to discuss this.”

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” But I’m dying to know.

  “It’s fine. I guess I’m just not ready to talk about it.”

  “Can you tell me this? Is what happened connected to Hunter Cayman? Was he involved?”

  “He was there. I saw him there, Aeris.”

  “Where? Are you saying you saw Dr. Cayman at Blackbird during the experiment?”

  Gage nods.

  My heart crawls into my throat.

  “And then, a couple of months ago, I saw Blackbird’s CEO up at the PRL. He flew there in his helicopter. I was standing on my dock. I saw him land. I watched him get out.”

  “How did you see that far? Did you have binoculars?” I say.

  Or was it just like you seemed to see me that day Hunter and I rode along the cliff top?

  He ignores my question. “You want to know why I don’t trust Cayman? Because he’s in cahoots with Blackbird’s CEO. Brewster King. The criminal who killed my little brother.”

  The beep-beep-beep of my noon dosage alarm jolts us both. I fumble for it and quickly switch it off.

  “Something important?” Gage asks.

  “No! Not at all,” I say, too bright. “It’s nothing.”

  Although Victoria cautioned me numerous times on the importance of taking my medication exactly at noon, I keep playing cards. Ian’s words ring in my mind. Promise me one thing. Take your meds. Religiously, exactly as directed.

  I have to get Gage out of here. But maybe, after all he’s said, I don’t want to take them.

  And if I don’t?

  “Victory!” Gage says, and I realize he’s won.

  “Well played,” I tell him. “I’m kind of tired. I should—”

  He leaps up. “Right, sorry, I should have asked. Let me help you to your room.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “You sure? Let me take you there.”

  “No, really, Gage. I’m good.”

  “Okay.” His face registers disappointment. At the door, he bends, gingerly places his arms around my neck, and kisses my cheek. It’s sweet and I can’t help wishing he created sparks in me the way Hunter did. He’s a good guy. Safe. Reliable as a brother.

  When he’s gone, I hurry to the guest room and grab the large bottle with the heavy silver pills. The clock reads 12:25. Are these things truly safe?

  I picture Victoria. And kind Edward and Lucy. No way would they hurt me. I’m alive because of Hunter. He might have left, but he saved my life. On the operating table, he’d pressed his warm forehead to mine and begged me to return to him. And I did.

  The pills plink against one another as I shake one out. Round and weighty, it presses into my palm. I meet my frightened hazel eyes in its brilliant surface. A nervous flutter thrums in my stomach.

  I don’t know what Hunter’s connection to Blackbird is. I can’t help thinking Gage read it all wrong. It’s true that when Hunter left, he hurt me deeply, and there’s no excusing it. Gage believes he’s evil. I just can’t, though. He wouldn’t have done terrible experiments on me.

  One thing I know for certain: In the barn with Blaze, I felt goodness in Hunter’s soul. He hadn’t been acting. It had been real.

  I place the pill on my tongue, tilt my head back, and let it tumble down my throat.

  Oh, Hunter, what’s going on?

  I close my eyes and batter myself with the memory of his rough cheek against mine, of the gentle words he whispered in my ear, of the protective hands that fought to save my life. Then I hold my ache close, because it’s all I have left of him.

  As the afternoon wears on, I haul myself carefully into bed. I’m exhausted. Ocean-scented air creeps through the open window. An occasional breeze flutters the curtain and caresses my face. An emerald butterfly wends its way in and flits about the room. It comes to rest on the bookshelf.

  Pain flares in my right arm. Letting out an involuntary cry, I clench it with my good hand. Searing heat rips through every limb, and I double over. It’s happening again, the scorching horror of the hospital. I’m burning. A throbbing, raw hell that nothing can stop except death. I rip at my casts, desperate to be free of them, certain my skin is dissolving underneath. My back twists in an arch, and my head thrashes against the pillow.

  “Stop,” I beg. “Stop it.”

  Sweat drenches my hair. I curl onto my side, shuddering in fear. My belly is clenched so hard it feels as though I’ve done a thousand sit-ups. Is something wrong with the drugs? Or is it because I was late taking the silver pill?

  “Someone, help me,” I whisper.

  From out of the void, there comes a response. A rapid, distant stirring. Arms, tendrils of arms, reaching toward my heart.

  The pain lessens, but only briefly. It erupts again, pulling me under. Terrified, I ride out wave after wave. After what feels like hours, the attacks grow farther apart and finally cease.

  Spent, I lie panting and stare at the white ceiling.

  I have to call Victoria.

  I fumble for the phone and stop. She’ll take me back to the lab. I can’t do it.

  Sammy’s erratic trot makes a beeline my way. He lumbers up to me and presses his damp nose against my hand. His velvet ears move like radar dishes, alive with worry as if verifying I’m safe. To my embarrassment, I blink back a pathetic tear.

  “How did you know I needed you?” I whisper.

  He puts his chin on the bed, and I lean my head next to his.

  “You’re a good boy,” I tell him.

  Could the timing of the pill really be that critical? Or am I experiencing some buildup of the meds, and the timing was simply coincidental? I wipe my good hand on the sheets. I don’t ever want to go through that horror again. It will turn me insane. No one emerges from hell without eventually paying the price. They’ll have to commit me. Will I have to fear this always? Will I have to take the meds forever?

  If I was hurt badly a second time, I’m not sure I could go through with it. People who are burned at the stake die within hours. Maybe minutes. I don’t know. But the bonfire tore at my body for weeks.

  I love life. More than anything.

  Yet given the choice, I couldn’t brave the
horror I went through at the PRL again.

  I would choose death instead.

  I struggle into the wheelchair and head straight for the piano. I need to wipe the fear from my mind. It’s close to four when Ella shows up. I’m so glad to see her I practically suffocate her with my heavy casts as I give her a hug.

  Her cheeks dimple in a broad grin. “Good to see you, too. You don’t look nearly as bad as I thought you would.”

  I laugh. “I’m calling it plaster chic.”

  “Ha!” She laughs. “I never noticed you had such good skin. You’re all kinds of glowy.”

  “Am I?” I put my fingers to my cheek. Come to think of it, my skin does feel different. Smoother.

  “You sure Cayman didn’t comp you a little cosmetic treatment while you were out? Laser peel?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Can you imagine? That would be funny.”

  We head into the living room. I hadn’t given my skin much thought, but she’s right. Could it be a side effect of the drugs? A good one, yes, but is it the only one? Sweat prickles under my arms. No, of course not. There are the flames. The pain. What if it comes again? What if I have those attacks for the rest of my life?

  “So I told my mom I’d get her the same one. Can’t you just see her with it?”

  “I’m sorry, I just drifted off there for a second. What are you getting your mom?”

  Ella laughs. “Never mind. It’s boring.”

  “It’s not! Sorry. I’m out of it today.”

  She slides her hands under her jeans-clad legs and leans forward, eyes shining. “So give me the dirt. What happened with you and Dr. Cayman?”

  “Uh …”

  A brisk, salty breeze rattles the half-open sliding-glass door. Her heart-shaped face is expectant.

  “What’s he like?”

  “I didn’t really see much of him.”

  “Seriously? That’s too bad.” She sits back. “It’s funny. Even though I said you weren’t his type, I got this weird feeling that day we drove past him in my car. I got this vibe like something was going on between you two. You were so tense and he was—it’s not like he stared at you; it’s more like he was trying not to.”

  Outside, the damp greenery has grown so lush from all the rain that plants are crushing one another. I’m tempted to spill all of it and cry on Ella’s shoulder. Maybe it would feel good to talk.

  “You read him wrong,” I say.

  “Bummer. He’s cute. Correction, not cute. Hot. Seriously hot.”

  “Yeah, he is… . too bad he’s not my type.”

  “That whole type business is ridiculous. It’s not about that. You never know who you might like. Sometimes a guy asks you out, and you go. Maybe you have an okay time, so you decide to go on another date. After a while, you’re a couple.”

  “I don’t think I ever want to date a guy until I get used to him.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “It’s what happened with me and Trey. Which is why we didn’t work out. I want a guy who makes my heart pound from the first moment I see him. I want his voice, when he speaks my name for the first time, to make my knees tremble. I want him to see me the way I’m seeing him, like a revelation, like our whole lives have led up to this moment.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” Ella says. “Unfortunately, that only happens in romance novels and fairy tales.”

  The next few days are spent between the piano and my laptop, punctuated by daily visits from Ella and Gage. There’s a large Wikipedia entry on Blackbird detailing its rise to power and its link to various military scandals. The company’s like a cockroach—it just shakes off trouble and moves on. Reports of Gage’s medical trials are small and vague.

  I search for Brewster King, the CEO Gage mentioned. The guy has done an amazing job of staying under the radar—I can’t even find a photograph. Another search that leads nowhere is for a link between Blackbird and Hunter Cayman.

  Mom’s journal and the questions about Switzerland has sparked fresh interest in me, as well. I wonder if it’s worth tracking down people she went to school with. I could get a class roster from her college days. And what about the company she worked at? I know Dad tracked down her old coworkers years ago but didn’t learn anything that led to answers. Is it worth revisiting them? What if she was doing freelance work on the side? Had those people been contacted? Who were her mentors, if any? I know the man who attacked us knew her.

  But how?

  His words have echoed over and over in me, down through the years.

  I wish you’d behaved more professionally, Julia.

  What had he meant?

  I pick up the journal and read it for what feels like the hundredth time. A tiny memory comes to me. It could be nothing. Then again … it was about butterflies. She’d told me about them in detail, their life stages. How they regenerated. She’d been obsessed with them. She even kept a small collection of them in her lab. Wait—she’d kept live ones. I jerk upright as I recall them flying around in a glassed-in room. Was that real or my four-year-old imagination at work?

  Whatever the case, there’s no online record of her and such a lab existing.

  I’m hunched over my laptop when I get the distinct feeling I’m being watched. I bolt upright and wrench around. My door is open. The hairs stand up on my arms. I wheel quickly toward the hall. Empty. My skin vibrates with the certainty that I’m not alone. I tour the whole house, yanking open closets, peering behind curtains and under tables. Not a soul.

  In the guest room, I go to the blinds and twitch them aside the way Victoria had the day she visited. Feeling trapped and defenseless in my wheelchair, I squint at the apple orchard where Iron-fist hid his SUV.

  It must be the light, because I can see every single leaf in clear detail. Green and vibrant and laced with veins. Was my vision always this good? Maybe it’s the strong sunlight after weeks of gloomy storm clouds that’s making the world so clear. Or maybe … it’s like my skin.

  I rub my forehead. Regardless, I don’t see anyone hiding out there. No metallic reflections behind the trees. So then why do I feel like eyeballs are drilling into my neck?

  The sensation of being watched looms all day. The next day, too. Maybe I’m being paranoid. Dad had said Iron-fist was monitoring him before their attack. Did that include surveillance inside the house? Could they have taken fresh interest now that I’m here with the meds?

  I search my room for hidden cameras. I search the whole house. I’ve heard they can be tiny and undetectable. No matter where I look, I can’t find the source of my suspicions.

  Twenty-Three

  It’s shortly after eleven in the morning when Ella and Gage show up.

  “A double visit? Awesome,” I say.

  “We’re taking you on a mini getaway,” Ella announces.

  “Really?” I rub my dirty hair. I’ve run out of oversize Tshirts and boxers and am wearing a white knee-length nightshirt decorated with black music notes over underpants. Oh, for the days when I can pull on a pair of jeans again. “Forget it. It’s one thing to have you guys here, but I don’t want to scare the rest of the world.”

  “You look great,” Gage insists. “You’re injured; so what? It happens.”

  “Anyway,” Ella says, “We’re taking you out in the boat. You won’t see anyone. It’ll be good for you to get some air. Liven you up.”

  “Sounds tempting.” I recall Victoria’s warning to stay inside and get better. To be honest, I’m not sure what staying inside has to do with it. Edward took me out to the gardens at the PRL and I haven’t enjoyed the outdoors since. That can’t be healthy. Besides, I’d love to escape this sensation of being watched.

  “What do you say? Come on,” Ella urges.

  I cave. “Let me just call my dad and tell him.”

  The phone in the shop goes to voice mail. He must be busy with customers.

  “I’ll leave him a note.”

  Thirty minutes later, we’re on the do
ck. Ella and I laugh as Gage carries me onto his boat, joking about pirates and lasses in plaster casts and billowing nightshirts.

  From my position on the cushioned bench seat, I watch them toss off ropes and push away from shore. They’re right. It’s good to get out in the open. My eyes find the cliff that belongs to the PRL. The small section where Hunter and I rode along the top appears deserted. The longing I thought I’d overcome rises hot and painful.

  I turn and focus on the surging green ocean.

  The engine roars to life. I need this escape.

  Ella whoops and grins at me as the twenty-foot cruiser powers away from shore. Under the open sky, the breeze rushes through my hair. The boat flies seaward, cresting and falling over the whitecaps. In the distance, the dock shrinks rapidly until it disappears into the rocky shoreline.

  Gage shoots me a smile, and my lips curve up of their own accord.

  The sea begins to rip away the past weeks. Even my casts feel lighter until I’m barely aware of them. A pod of dolphins springs out of the ocean. We shout, and Gage steers closer. They’re all glossy and spinning and chattering away. They disappear into their secret underworld and we race farther on, chased by cormorants and flashes of silver herring. Stretching farther and farther from Deep Cove until its choking chains snap and fall away.

  A town appears in the distance, perched along the shoreline. From here, the buildings look like toy models. Gage’s cheeks are ruddy as he motions at it with his head.

  “There’s a great fish-and-chip place over there. We can pull up with the boat and get food to go. Want to?”

  “Sure. Sounds great.”

  Gage aims the boat shoreward.

  Three feet from the starboard rail, an ash-white seabird coasts alongside the boat. It turns to probe me with its shiny black eyes. From the pilot’s chair, an alarm starts to beep.

  Worry jerks me upright. It reminds me of my own alarm. The one that tells me to take my pills.

  “What’s that beeping?” Ella asks.

  I glance up at the bright afternoon sun. I don’t have to look at the time to know it’s well past noon. Probably closer to one thirty or two. The alarm continues to beep. A sickening sensation slithers into my belly.