The Butterfly Code (21 page)

Not a minute too soon.

A grassy field comes up at us fast. I grab onto the door with one hand, my seat with the other, bracing myself.

"The pontoon! What about the broken pontoon?" I cry.

"Hold on and pray."

I
do as Hunter suggests
. I pray hard and quick and stare at the approaching ground. It zooms up to meet us, impossibly fast.

The wheels bounce violently.

Then they settle into a brisk, lopsided roll. We limp across the field at a hasty clip.

"Nice work." Hunter slaps the dash as though slapping the shoulder of a good buddy. He toggles switches and dials and the throttle. I look out at the grass whipping past. Flaps on the wings engage, rapidly slowing our progress. Before we reach the tree line, he wheels the plane in a U-turn. The lumpy ground jostles me gently as we taxi.

"Where are we?" I ask.

"Every guy needs a secret hideout. This is mine."

"Secret hideout, huh?"

He shoots me that grin of his, the one I remember from the barn. There’s that angular dimple etched into his right cheek. "Yep. You’re officially visitor number one."

"I feel kind of honored."

"Reserve that thought. You haven’t seen the place yet."

For a moment, our banter brings back the easy familiarity we shared all those weeks ago. Then I’m back on my guard. What is this place? And when can I call Dad? How can I get news of Gage?

A large metal building appears out of the blackness. It’s long with an arched roof and flat front secured with huge double doors. A Quonset hut. Hunter parks the plane a hundred yards from the tall entrance. He hops out, leaving the engine running, strides to the doors, and hauls them open. Then he gets back in the plane and drives us inside.

I unbuckle my seat belt. By the time I’ve shrugged out of it, he’s at my door, reaching a hand to help me to the ground.

"I can manage," I say

He backs up and watches me.

Half a dozen faint white bulbs glow overhead. There’s an SUV parked in the semidarkness. A Porsche Cayenne. It’s black and shiny like his other wild ride, and although it’s too big to be a sports car, it looks fast and powerful. Everything about Hunter is fast and powerful.

"Pretty impressive hideout," I venture.

"Really? You like it?"

"Seeing as it’s the only hideout I’ve ever visited, I don’t have much to compare it to. But yeah, it’s not bad."

At this he rolls his eyes with such exaggeration that my teeth tug at my lower lip to hold back a smile.

To be honest, I can’t believe he owns an airplane hangar with an unmarked water plane and a shiny, luxury getaway car. What reality does he live in?

"Come on. This way." Hunter looks almost sheepish as he leads me to a regular door in the back of the hangar. It’s secured with a key code panel. He types in a bunch of numbers and the lock clicks open. "Ta-da."

I see an apartment that can only be described as over-the-top masculine.

"Interesting," I say.

Low, discreet lights glimmer everywhere. A spotless concrete floor enhances the industrial-style furnishings. Lots of open space. To the right stands a brushed stainless-steel table with two chairs made of the same metal. The kitchen cupboards and freestanding counter are matte black. There’s a matching half fridge.

Far to the left is a bed made up with white sheets and pillows and a gray wool blanket. A bedside table holds a digital clock, a light, and a stack of books. From here they appear to be medical texts. Nothing remotely resembling light reading.

There’s no sign of a TV. Instead, a long bookshelf takes up most of the central area. It’s stuffed with more books. Hardcovers with long, technical-sounding titles. The kind of books that used to fill the house Mom and I shared. At five I’d flip through them and marvel at how smart she must be. Like a goddess, all-knowing, because how else could she interpret such dense paragraphs, complicated diagrams, and bizarre mathematical equations?

There’s only one truly inviting chair. It’s positioned next to the shelves. His hideaway is like an extension of his study back at the PRL.

"It’s very you," I say.

"Is it?"

"Definitely."

"We’re safe here, anyway, and it should warm up soon. Hopefully you won’t find it too uncomfortable."

I glance at the bed. Of course there’s only one. Why would there be more? "No. It’s . . . great."

"I’ll sleep on the floor," he says, clearly reading my thoughts.

"I will," I say, awkward.

His face says that will never happen.

"I’m serious. If you have an extra blanket, that’s all I need," I insist.

"Come on, the bathroom’s back here. If you want, you can take a hot shower to defrost. I’ll find you some clothes. They’ll be big, but I guarantee they’ll be warmer than those damp clothes."

I pause. "I need to contact my dad. And I want to find out if there’s any news on Gage."

He shakes his head. "Too dangerous. King’s got ears everywhere. He’d trace us the minute the call went through. Victoria will have contacted your dad. She knew I was headed to get you."

"What if they try to go after him?"

"It’s you they’re after."

"And what about Gage? Do you think they—"

"There’s no point speculating until we can get more information."

"Maybe they let him go."

"Maybe. Gage has a few tricks up his sleeve. He won’t go down easily."

I’m glad he doesn’t claim everything’s going to be fine. Nothing’s fine, and I don’t know when it will be ever again. His fingers work the back of his neck, even as I sense his need to comfort me. There’s a pull between us, as though he’s about to stretch out his arms and wrap me close. Even if I wanted him to, I don’t deserve anyone’s comfort.

I clear my throat. "I better get in the shower."

"Right. I’ll find those clothes."

Alone, I undress and turn on the faucet. Was it just this morning the doctor cut me free? It seems like decades ago. Shards of gravel are embedded in my skin. I step beneath the hot stream and scrub my hands and knees and feet. Hunter’s shower gel pummels me with the bright, crisp scent of lemons, a too-bright smell that wars with my dark thoughts. I scrub hard until the skin is red and all the grit is gone. Then I let the water scorch me, trying to burn away my worry and fear, my chaos and bottomless guilt.

As I’m drying myself, there comes a knock at the door.

I open it a crack and Hunter hands a shirt and pants into the steamy room. Our fingers touch. To my chagrin, a pulse, electric, shoots down my arm and all the way into my body.

"Thanks," I say.

"Hold on. Stay there." His hand pulls back and reappears holding a short coil of rope. "I had to wing it with the belt."

"That’ll work," I say.

His T-shirt smells good. Like him. I pull the enormous thing over my head. It falls to my knees. I slide into the pair of soft fatigues and knot the rope at my waist. The cuffs require six roll-ups until my feet are showing. Instead of shoes, he’s supplied me with two pairs of thick wool socks. I layer them on and check myself out in the mirror.

Lovely.

I try tucking his shirt in, which looks dumb, so I pull it out again. Then I shuffle through the door.

Hunter is in the kitchen, opening a jar of spaghetti sauce. He turns as I step out of the bathroom. His gaze shifts from my face to my socks and back up again, taking me in so completely that I stiffen and my arms involuntarily cross over my chest.

"I look ridiculous. I know."

"I wouldn’t say that." He leans back against the counter.

Whatever. Finding myself at a loss for words, I step past him to the two-burner hot plate. "What are you making?" Like it’s not obvious. God. Could I think of anything more intelligent to say?

"Pasta. It’s the only thing I can cook."

"Sounds good. Want help?"

"Sure."

I find a pot and fill it with water. "So what’s it like to know how to fly an airplane? To be able to go anywhere you want?"

"I won’t lie. It’s great."

"Have you ever been afraid you were going to crash?"

"Not yet," he says.

"When did you learn?"

"Oh, a while ago," he says, his tone vague.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" I ask as he dumps the sauce into a pan.

"A sister. She’s gone now."

"I’m sorry. Were you close?"

"Growing up, yeah. She would’ve liked you. You would’ve liked her, too, I think."

"So you’re the only one left. That must be hard."

"It’s not so bad." Still, an emotive sensation curls into me. Sorrow. It’s as old and as heavy as the stones of a lost city. My mouth opens in surprise under the weight of it. He turns away and adjusts the flame. Or can he tell that I sense him?

"My sister got sick a while back," he says by way of explanation. "Enough about me. I want to hear about you."

"What do you want to know?"

"I want to know you."

At this, I actually laugh a little and I feel the tension easing. We serve up two plates and sit. The conversation comes slowly. It’s like we’re getting reacquainted. All the time I’m sensing his emotions, faint as ghostlike tendrils between us. It’s hard to stay focused. Finally I let go and let the emotions do their thing. It starts to feel like music, like a soundtrack under our words. I should be frightened. I’m not somehow. It’s actually enjoyable. My own emotions expand and contract with his, so that it’s like we’re dancing, the words and feelings lacing us together.

And then I remember where we are and the things he hid from me, and I push away my half-eaten plate. My stomach aches, and I don’t even know how I ever took a single bite.

"I want to know about the casts," I say.

He sets his fork down carefully. "I wondered when that would come up. Then again, I thought you might have puzzled it out."

"And how on earth would I have done that?"

One of his brows arcs upward.

"Okay. Let me guess. If you’re the good guy—and I’m still not completely sure about that—"

"I am the good guy."

"You’d probably say you did it as a cover-up."

"Tell me—how would it look if some brutally injured woman walked out of our facility four weeks after an accident without a single scratch? I knew you’d refuse to stay put. I knew King would be watching. And the police had seen you firsthand. This way, the world would see what they expected to see. It was a ruse, that’s all. And it didn’t work."

"You could’ve told me. I would’ve been careful—I would’ve played along."

"I needed you to get better, not worry about your treatment. I didn’t want you burdened with our secret. I was trying to protect you. That’s all."

"Because you and the others—what you’ve done to yourselves—it’s a secret?"

"Yes. And it would hurt all of us if it got out. We’d lose our freedom."

I recall King’s men, who’d chased me down like I was a specimen. A thing to be put under glass, dissected and studied piece by piece.

Rain begins to patter against the curved metal roof, slow and steady. I believe him. That was the fear I felt from Ian and Victoria. And although I don’t agree with him keeping things from me, I begin to understand a little why he might have.

"I don’t want any more people getting hurt. It’s my secret now, and I won’t share it with anyone."

T
he rain is coming
down as I inspect Hunter’s bookshelves. I notice an old record turntable in a cabinet and crouch down.

"Does this work?" I ask.

"It does, but there’s no needle right now."

He crouches by me on the concrete floor. Our bodies are not touching, but I’m aware of his warmth and size and solidness. If I move even an inch, our legs would press together. They feel almost magnetized. I pull out an armful of vinyl albums.

"Chopin’s nocturnes? Arthur Rubinstein’s version? He played it brilliantly."

"Really? Those were my mother’s. I’m not sure I know it."

"Opus nine, number two in E-flat major? You’d recognize it for sure. It’s been in movies, TV shows, some video games, even, I think. And there’s this great British rock band called Muse that did a version that’s like Queen meets Chopin."

"Queen meets Chopin, huh?" His eyes flicker at me, crinkling at the corners. "How does it go?"

I put my head down for a second, searching for the lyrics. "I think it starts out something like . . .
You and me are the same.
. . ."

"Sing it."

I roll my eyes. "All right. You asked for it."

I sing until I forget the words, and I trail off into the nocturne. His expression warms in recognition of the notes. They’re beautiful and almost painfully nostalgic. His carefully crafted walls, if that’s what they are, seem to be slipping. I close my eyes and glide over the threshold as his world opens up to me. It’s a place of heavy, swirling dark emotions. Yet there are pinpricks of lightness. I don’t know how or even what I’m doing, but I continue to feel my way forward and brush against a barely concealed field of desire. I can almost sense him pulling me closer, and I let him for a moment before my consciousness spins away. I hum and fly deeper, entering the dark, tortured shadowlands of some indefinable wound. It’s caustic, boiling, ancient, and almost boundless. It startles me in its intensity, and I focus all my attention on it, trying to see, trying to understand, trying to know—

"That’s enough," Hunter says sharply.

"Oh!" I say, my eyes flying open. The sensation snaps off.

"We have a long day tomorrow." He stands abruptly. "You should get some sleep."

I rise, horribly awkward, desperately eager to escape. Was that real? Or had he been reacting to some weird expression on my face? Had I looked like a crazy person? Because right now I feel crazy. Almost hungover, like I’m having a sick reaction to what just happened.

"If you have that extra blanket—" I begin.

"You’re sleeping in the bed." His stony face brooks no argument.

I glower at him. I don’t appreciate being barked at. Maybe he’s the good guy. But it doesn’t mean he’s a nice guy. Whatever. I’m done. I just want this day to be over.

Stiff-backed, I say, "Fine." Fully dressed, I tug up the sheets and crawl in.

He takes a brief shower and switches off the lights. I hear him settle into the leather chair. I turn to face the wall and do my best to shut him out.