The Butterfly Code (11 page)

I’d been on such a high around Hunter. Now I’m drained. Worried about facing Dad.

The seat jostles my damp thighs. I switch on the radio. Static. Rounding a bend in the twisty road sends music blasting through. It’s recognizable yet too fuzzy to bear. I turn it down and keep it on anyway. This coastline feels lonely. Maybe it’s the weather, but it’s almost scary.

Ahead, out of the gloom, a narrow driveway approaches fast. The entrance is marked with a wooden mailbox nailed to a mossy stump. Gage’s place. It’s not much relief, even if it is familiar. What if he sees me? What if he really did recognize me on the cliff? What if he’s pulling out of the drive and waves for me to stop? What will I say about where I’ve been?

After that incident in Foggy Joe’s, his feelings toward Hunter are pretty obvious.

I hate the thought of having to pick sides. Gage and Ella versus Hunter. No one should have to do that.

Slowing, I glance down his gravel lane. It’s all shadowed with heavy wet branches. Deserted. Relief.

I step on the gas.

Five minutes later, the engine knocks and stutters. I check the gas gauge. Empty.
Not now.
Maybe that’s why Mr. Creedy was trying to flag me down.

"Come on, you can make it," I urge. There are still several miles to go.

The truck keeps moving, sputtering along, the wipers whacking back and forth. A large, unmarked transport truck jams past. The force sends my own truck rocking. Weird to see one of those out here. Are they allowed on these small roads? What could it be delivering? Top secret supplies to the Phoenix Research Lab?

Thinking of deliveries sends a groan from my lips.

Dad’s delivery!

How could I have forgotten? Yesterday I’d promised that guy I’d be there. He said they had to make a special trip. I should have at least called. I completely blew them off. I feel horrible.

The truck chooses this instant to die.

Frantic, I pump the gas pedal. Nothing. Before I’m stranded in the middle of the road, I crank the wheel and ease onto the shoulder opposite the cliff. The truck rolls to a silent stop.

Rain drums on the roof. Although the door is locked, I feel oddly vulnerable. Alone without phone service. I peer through the spattered windshield. Maybe if I wait a while, it will stop.

Except it doesn’t.

Time passes achingly slow. No one drives by. Not a soul since the transport truck. I’m freezing. It has to be at least 2:00 p.m. My oxfords are cold and sweaty at the same time. I’ll walk. At least I have my hoodie.

I could go back to Gage’s. But I don’t feel like being grilled as to why I’m out here. There’s no way he actually recognized me up on the cliff riding with Hunter. It only seemed like it. And I don’t feel like lying. It’s easier to walk the extra distance back to Dad’s, even if it is raining.

I zip up my hoodie and catch sight of Hunter’s jacket. I forgot to return it. I inhale the scent of him before setting it back down.

Climbing out, I lock the door. Turning my feet south, I head off on the cold trudge home.

Wet, rotting leaves mix with the scent of damp earth. The road winds along, descending into a tight curve. High branches temporarily shelter me. On one side, crystal droplets cling to a mossy wall. It’s like a picture from a fairy tale. Only the fattest raindrops hit me, exploding on my nose, the top of my head, my hands.

I leave the sheltering trees and follow the ocean bluff. The road veers inland and I’m soon surrounded by exposed, scrubby meadows. Half frozen, I walk faster. I reach a thicket of overhanging trees. I’m drenched and my toes are numb. I pause only momentarily before pressing on.

I reach a familiar abandoned field and know I’m close to Dad’s. I decide to cut across the overgrowth. Jaw clenched against the chill, I stumble along. The image of the spa tub at Dad's swells in my mind until I can almost feel my toes dipping into the swirling, steamy hot water.

Long grass whips against my thighs, trails against my fingers. The rain falls in gentle gusts. Ahead, gnarled apple trees crouch in the tall weeds. They’re the same trees I can see from the guest room window.

Maybe in the fall I’ll come back and pick apples with Dad. I could try my hand at baking apple crisp, with warm cinnamon and brown sugar, served hot, still steaming—

I nearly slam into the back bumper of a shiny black SUV. It’s parked in the grass behind the trees. Is it a wreck?

No—definitely not. Too shiny.

I creep toward the driver’s side. That’s when I see a man in the front seat.

With binoculars. Staring at Dad’s house.

W
hy would
someone station themselves in the field across from Dad’s house? Facing his front door? It’s like he’s hiding. But why? I’d stand and confront him if not for the warning bells in my mind that are clanging out a discordant beware.

Is Dad home?

Gingerly, I crane through the bushes at Dad’s driveway. His Range Rover’s back. And I see movement through the front window. At least four people inside.

The driver door opens, and the driver steps out.

I crouch and melt as best I can into the thick growth. The branches protest and I’m only partially covered. He’s got his back to me. For now.

Salt-and-pepper hair, clean, military cut. Dressed in blacks: black vest festooned with loops and mesh and pockets—bulletproof, maybe. Black pants. Black watch. Black leather boots. And a metallic, high-tech prosthetic hand.

Don’t turn. Don’t see me!

A phone is pressed to his ear.

"Tell Jack Thorne he has my word. He cooperates, no one gets hurt."

No one gets hurt?
My cramped legs start to shake. There’s something oddly familiar about his gravelly voice. Recognition dawns. He’s the one who called about the package. To make sure I’d be home. He wanted me there, in the house. Yesterday, when Dad was gone.

There was no delivery. It was a trick.

"Then make him cooperate."

Oh god. My fist goes to my mouth. This can’t be real. What are they going to do to him? Horror mingles with the raindrops trickling down my icy skin. Clenching my teeth to keep from chattering, I back into the cage of leaves.

"What loyalty can Thorne possibly have to Cayman?" the man says.

As in Hunter Cayman?

Whatever’s being said on the other end earns a flurry of curses. The man squeezes the doorframe with his metal hand. Like a horror movie, the frame creaks and warps under the pressure. He’s monster strong.

"Tell Perkins and Guzman to kick him harder," he growls. "I don’t care what you have to do. Just find out where he hid the damn thing."

They’re hurting him. Bile rises in my throat, and outrage surges in my veins. How dare they? I picture them pummeling Dad in his safe, sane living room, and I want to vomit. A branch jabs deep into my lower back. I let it, too scared to move. I have to do something. But what?

"He’s bullshitting. He has the PRL key."

At this, goose bumps break out across my skin.

No, he doesn’t.
I do.

I need to stop this. If it’s the key card he’s after, I’ll give it to him. Anything to get them away from Dad. Through the open car door, the dash is just visible. On it, a gun lies in wait.

The man gives a short, egotistical laugh. "Enough, don’t kill him, yet." It’s congenial. Like he’s out for a couple of beers with his crew. "Plenty of time to satisfy your bloodlust later, Anders."

Are they going to kill him either way? Despite the frigid air, heat washes over me in a slick of terror.
Dad. Oh god, please don’t hurt Dad.
My mind flares with images of him beaten to death. I struggle to block them out.

This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. I can’t let them hurt him. I can’t let them tear him from me. I won’t.

I realize I’m trembling, hard, because the branches pressed into me on all sides have started to shake. If the man turns, he’ll see the twigs twitching. He’ll come and investigate.

Who are they? Why do they want the key?
Why do they need to get into the PRL?
I don’t know what’s going on at Hunter’s lab, but this is crazy.

I have to get help. Fast. But how? We’re over three miles from town.

Maybe if I run—

"You know what?" the man says, wiping the drizzle from his blond buzz cut. "Forget it. Change of plan." He’s got his left arm draped casually through the open window, his right foot up on the SUV’s running board. "I’m getting pissed. Let me talk to him."

Pause.

"Jack Thorne?"

A moment passes as he listens to Dad’s reply. From the way his prosthetic hand tightens around the phone, I don’t think he likes the response.

"Yeah, well, I’ve got your daughter," Iron-fist lies. If only he knew it’s not far from the truth. "So you have a choice. Either I shoot her dead, or you drive us out to the research lab in your Range Rover and unlock that bio-scanner for me. Make up your mind. You’ve got ten minutes."

If only I could tell Dad he’s lying.

"You’ll see her when I say so." The man looks at his watch. "Now you have nine and a half."

I’m moving before I know what I’m doing. Edging away slowly and painfully on all fours. Thorns jab my palms. Giant wet leaves cover the ground like discarded plastic bags.

I have to get to the shop—to a phone. I only hope they don’t see me.

Beyond the gnarled apple trees, I stand and run, skirting wide until I come up on the road. Two lanes of rutted, wet blacktop. Twenty feet of total exposure. Hopefully, I’ve put enough space between the orchard and me that I won’t be spotted. Holding my breath, I sprint into the open.

Bulrushes populate the ditch on the far side. I crash into them, my legs plunging unexpectedly deep so that I topple completely. I land at an angle, cupped by slippery-wet broken stalks. Velvet bulrush heads wave wildly. My whole body clenches against discovery, against the fear of shouts, of pounding footsteps.

No one comes.

I stand. My right ankle sends up a searing blast of pain.

All I need to do is get to the feed store. Customers must be there. It’s the middle of the day.

The clock is ticking. I have to move.

I clench my fists against the raging throb of my ankle and lope toward the store. I’m coming at an angle, from the side. What stands out is the empty lot. That’s odd. Then I see the
closed
sign on the door. Weird. With no witnesses to guard me, I can’t risk the front entrance. It’s too likely they’ll see me. I’ll try the back way.

It takes an extra few minutes to change direction and work my way through the brambles. When I reach the rear wall, I pause at a darkened window. It’s grimy with rotted leaves and pebbles on the sill. I press my nose to the surface. The greasy glass makes it hard to see through.

Half the lights are switched off inside.

I make out the rack of seed packets. A little farther, a lump resolves itself into an overturned chair. I gape, frozen at the mass of ropes and the frail, bony body strapped to it. Mr. Creedy gapes back at me. He doesn’t see me, though. He’ll never see me again. There’s a small red hole in the middle of his forehead.

Dead.

Poor, old Mr. Creedy is dead.

Terror makes my head spin. It’s like I’m lifting off the ground, zooming upward in a bubble of fear, amped as though I’ve drunk fifty cups of coffee. My breath comes out in pants. I avert my head, trying to shut away the image. I turn back and he’s still there. Still staring. It’s not a bad dream. This is real.

Fingers shaking, I wipe rain from my face.

Blackness creeps over me.
No, god.
I can’t let it. I can’t pass out.

Oh, Mr. Creedy, how could I have been so terrible to you yesterday morning? Driving away, without listening, without explaining, like you didn’t matter? You do matter. I’m sorry. I wish you could hear me say I’m so sorry.

Anger floods me. Who are these monsters? I straighten and am preparing to head for the door when instinct makes me glance one last time through the window.

A shadow falls across Mr. Creedy’s prone form. Then a man steps over him and crosses to the register. I duck out of view, heart slamming. What am I going to do if I can’t get in there to use the phone? The nearest house is too far, especially with my twisted ankle swelling by the minute. And I don’t even know where the nearest police station is. I’ve never even seen a police car around here. Maybe there isn’t one in the county. Maybe a county this small shares one with another county.

I’m wasting time on nothing!

I can’t just confront the men in Dad’s house. They’ll kill us both. Iron-fist made that clear enough. Once we’re of no use to him, we’re dead.

The shed in the backyard—that’s where I need to go. I need to get at Dad’s four-wheel ATV and drive for help.

It’s our only hope.

Open grass stretches between the store and the house. I get down on my belly and start crawling for the shed. Mud squishes between my fingers. My sweatshirt inches up and sodden grass rubs against my belly. My ankle throbs as I drag it along. I’m completely behind the house now. All windows are in view. I crawl past the barbecue and smoker. They’re glossy with rain. I catch sight of fur, unmoving, between them. Then blood. Black, almost, in the grim light.

"Sammy," I sob, unable to hold the name back in my throat.

The fur moves. My heart starts beating faster. Please, let him be all right!

Ears perk up slowly, and then his head. He sees me. Or smells me. His tail flops once, twice, and he lets out a whimper. I put my hand to my mouth. The desperate need to run to him and try to fix him tears holes in my chest. Blurs my ability to think straight. I have to think straight, though. There’s no helping him, not like this. If I try now, we’re all gone.

He whimpers again, and I motion for him to stay quiet.

"Stay, Sammy, stay," I whisper, knowing he can’t understand.

All he understands is that I’m not going to him. That I’m leaving him there to die.

Time is running out. Hating myself, I keep moving.

The shed is now ten feet away. I reach the door. Locked.

Panic rises. I roll into the shadows and fumble in my front pocket for Dad’s extra set of keys, the ones I used this morning to get into the shop. The ring holds four brass-colored Yales, the truck and Range Rover keys, and one with a black plastic fob. The Yale marked with yellow tape is for the store. I try another. Too big. The second one slides home. Using both hands, I shove on the accordion door. It opens sideways, making plastic grinding, grunting noises as I pull it wide.

Musty air spills out. A dusty-winged brown moth lies dead on the floor, its lustrous eyes still shining. Shovels and rakes all clotted with earth stand erect along the far wall. If I were a hero in a film, I’d use one as a weapon and free us all. But I’m not a hero. I’m just a person.

In the middle, hunched under a camouflage tarp, lies the daunting form of Dad’s mean, four-wheel ATV.

Hyperaware of any sound from outside, I slide the tarp off and scrunch it into one corner. The wicked machine with its four huge tires is something a futuristic droid should drive. Sanded steel bars everywhere, a leather seat high up in the middle.
can-am outlander max xt
in block letters stenciled down its tail.

Dad told me once he took the limiter off and it goes eighty or ninety miles per hour. I have no clue what a limiter is, but I told him he was crazy to even think of driving it half that fast.

Who’s the crazy one now?

From outside comes the medium-pitched hum of an engine. Past the house, a section of road is visible. I catch sight of Iron-fist’s SUV driving along it. The engine grows louder. I know it’s in the driveway. I hear it slow to an idle.

Time is up.

He’s come for Dad.

A helmet dangles from a hook. I grab it and wrench it on. My fingers are trembling so hard I can hardly fasten the strap. It’s too big, slipping forward over my eyes. I shove it back and climb onto the ATV, straddling the leather seat. The key with the plastic fob fits the ignition. A thrill of panic shoots through me at the sound of the engine. I aim the front wheels toward the lawn and twist the right accelerator handle. The ATV leaps forward, almost throwing me off. Instantly I let off the gas.

I jolt to a halt. Right there, outside. Right in the middle of the back lawn.

I know I’m in naked view to anyone who glances out the window. The ATV is loud. Seriously loud.

My heart slams and I’ve barely gone five feet. I shoot a glance at the kitchen door. It’s opening. I have to get around the house. Past the SUV in the drive.
Oh god, I can’t do it. I can’t do this!

Don’t think, Aeris! Just drive!

My legs are shaking as hard as the thrumming monster under me. I give the accelerator a twist. One of Iron-fist’s men comes out the back door. Military. Navy SEAL or special ops. Except there’s no visible insignia. No marks of office at all. What he does have is a gun.

He plants his feet wide, points his arms straight, and aims.

"STOP YOUR VEHICLE!"

I force my terror down and rocket forward.

The gun explodes. I’m around the side of the house. I’m numb. Am I hit? No, I’d know. I’m sure I’d know, and I’m still driving, still moving. Sliding around to the front. Onto the driveway.
Oh god, there he is.
The man from the SUV. The man in charge. Iron-fist himself. He’s snaking around his vehicle’s front grill to face me; his powerful prosthetic hand is drawing a weapon.

It’s the tourist man from Dad’s store.
The one with the buckskin gloves and too-crisp flannel shirt. The one who claimed his wife was dying. The one with the creepy, pale-gray android eyes.

"Hello again," he shouts. Then he laughs.

A jolt of recognition from somewhere deep inside floods my consciousness. A childish, primal fear grips me. I’ve heard that awful snicker before. In my nightmares. In a place that smells of blood and burning steel. I thought it lived only in my imagination. But his laugh is real. A sound that has lingered like a fingerprint in my mind.

His shaved jaw juts out a little, jaunty almost. There’s a glint in his eye, a hint of delight at my unexpected attack. It’s obvious he sees me as a challenge easily taken down and toyed with. He thinks I’ll falter, ease off the gas to avoid hitting him.

Not today, mister.

Not ever.

I wrap my fingers tighter around the knobby, soft rubber grips. My whole body clenches with a need to attack him. Worse. To destroy him.

I twist the accelerator all the way.

The ATV bucks. It lurches up on two wheels, nearly tipping me into the dirt. Then the front end slams down, and it takes off like a bat. Flying. He shouts and dives clear.