The Butterfly Code (13 page)

"How can I forget when you keep reminding me?" His bitter feelings flood me. "I’m going to find a drink."

Hunter says, "Good luck with that."

"Yeah." Ian lets out a harsh laugh.

I breathe out, spent.

"The police are here," comes Victoria’s voice. "They’re demanding to see her."

"Damn it," Hunter growls.

"They can’t hurt us now," Lucy says. "Let them in."

A second later, hard, squeaky shoes make tracks across the floor. A man coughs. Two more mutter words I don’t catch.

Fiery pain grabs me and yanks me into a volcanic abyss.

The brightly lit room and its people are lost to me.

There’s no way back.

I
have
no idea how much time has passed.

Occasionally, I hear voices. Hunter, Victoria, Ian. Commenting on my status.

More than the voices, however, it’s the emotions of the people in the room that I latch onto for distraction. It’s the only thing that brings me some measure of relief. How I feel them, I don’t know; yet they comfort me. Is it a side effect from the accident? Forced solitude that’s making my senses stronger? Complete imagination, perhaps? Insanity?

Whatever the cause, it occurs to me in this moment that people wear emotional signatures. I feel Victoria in the room with me now. She’s a fierce blend of satire and sharp edges, with an odd vulnerability underneath that I can’t quite put my finger on.

There’s a clank of metal instruments dropping on a tray. Small wheels rolling across the floor. Buttons clicking on a keyboard. The sound is mildly muffled, as though my bed has tall, solid sides.

I’m getting that same fear from her again. It’s deep and blended with churning confusion. Anger warring with fierce caring. For what, I can’t tell. Her emotions are just that—emotions with no further information attached. Like hearing jarring movie music with a blanket covering the TV screen.

Ian enters. A wave washes between them and I follow its movement, letting it obscure my own agony. It’s love, for her.

"Don’t worry, it’s under control," he says.

"Is it? We don’t know that." She’s not accusatory. She’s looking for reassurance.

"The levels are experiencing significant die-off. Look here, at the numbers."

Are they talking about me? No, must be some research thing.

"They
were
dying off," she says in a stiff tone. "Now they’re holding steady."

"A brief plateau. It’s going to be fine."

"If not?"

Alarming waves hit me. Dark and loud. Pummeling me from their end of the room. Their frightened feelings mix with my pain. It’s like they can sense me in the same way I sense them. As if my pain is affecting them internally. Injuring them.

"Ian," Victoria demands, "and if she’s not under control?"

"Then we’ll deal with her."

His tone fills me with terror.

"How?" she demands.

There’s a long pause.

"I’ve got to get out of here," Ian growls. "It’s too much. It’s giving me a headache."

I desperately try to pull back from him. Why do they want to get me under control? What’s happened to me?

Things grow jumbled then. My legs are shattering. Every one of my bones is exploding. I’m like the giant oak in front of Dad’s house, aflame. Tree limbs cracking and sputtering in the blaze. Over it all comes the sound of my unfinished composition.

I can’t go on. I just can’t make it.

Mom’s here.

Oh god, thank you, Mom. I miss you. Need you.

Her cool hand touches my brow and drapes icy wet cloths over my flaming eyes. I want to tell her what I’m going through. I don’t need to, though; it’s clear she understands. The fierce sympathy that flows from her soothes me.

When she speaks, it’s with Victoria’s voice. "I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. Not even you."

I fade for a while, into a place of blissful silence.

H
ow many hours have passed
?

Hunter’s in the room. His emotional signature is instantly recognizable. It’s a barrage of contradictions I’m coming to know. Guarded yet expansive. Cheerful yet sober. Stubborn and dark, but with a bright streak leaking through. Solid yet wary—of what, I can’t see.

It’s a surprise when I hear Dad speak. I didn’t feel him there. I strain to use my newly honed senses, imagined or not, to detect how he’s holding up.

He’s blank.

"How did you find out?" Dad says. Grim.

"From her blood sample at the security booth. Victoria ran a trace. That was when it all started making sense. You, for one."

I’m trying to focus, yet the more I do, the more the earlier fear I felt toward Dad starts creeping up. Enraged that I could fall prey to such a hallucination, I clamp my terror down by sheer force of will. The effort leaves me spent.

"Look. She’s alive," Hunter says. "And she’s going to be fine. Exactly as she was. No long-term effects. You could at least be happy about that."

"I am. By god, yes, I am." Dad sounds older. Tired. Beaten down. I want to hug him and tell him not to worry.

"The worst of it is over."

"I wish you’d told me all this before."

"I’m sure you can appreciate why I didn’t," Hunter replies.

"Can she hear us?" Dad asks.

There’s a beat of silence.

"No." Despite Hunter’s calm voice, angry self-condemnation bubbles beneath the surface. "She’ll be out for another few days."

I hear Dad’s comforting footsteps draw closer. There’s his familiar, homey scent. The sheet rustles under my chin as he pulls it higher. I want to call out to him, yet my mouth won’t move.

"I don’t want her knowing about this," Dad says. "What you’ve done. She’s suffered enough. She has her whole life ahead. Promise me. One man to another."

"You don’t need my promise. I have no intention of standing in her way. We want the same thing."

They’re leaving now. I don’t want to be abandoned. I’m in agony. Stop.

It was easy to be brave out on the road, driving for my life. Yet all my pluck has disappeared. My endurance is nearing its breaking point. I can’t go on. I just can’t make it.

From across the room, Dad is speaking. I grit my teeth and listen hard.

"I still want answers. I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll find them with or without your help."

Is he talking about the attackers?

"I want them as much as you do. She deserves that much," Hunter says, gruff. "I’m sorry." Sadness leaks out, real and true. "We all cared about her, no matter what you think."

Wait, what? Who are they talking about?
For an instant, I think it’s Mom. Of course, that’s not possible. Hunter’s too young to have known her.

Dad grunts.

Hunter clears his throat. "I only hope we’ve made you gain a little trust in us. In me."

"I’ll think about it," Dad replies.

I’ve heard that tone before, though. It’s going to take a lot more than apologies to heal the conflict between them.

I slip away, the flames crackling around me, tugging at this strange mystery as I go.

I
’m packed
in an ice bath.

I awake, wild. Hunter is stronger. He’s speaking to me, low and fast, trying to keep me there. Gasps tear from my mouth. I fight harder. The noise of my bandaged limbs slamming into porcelain echoes in my ears. Am I in a cast? Am I naked?

Hunter keeps piling more ice over me. My teeth chatter.

Strangely, the room smells of flowers. Peonies.

The touch of his fingers on my forehead is soft, gentle. Sweetness mingles with the pain, sweeping the horrors away and lifting me above them.

Yet something’s wrong. My pain is no longer just my own. It’s in him, too. The fire is starting to rage, to tear him down. It’s like I’ve infected him with my alarming affliction.

I’m imagining it.

I must be imagining it.

No! There it is again, broadcasting loud and clear, pouring out from his center, the flares hot and wild. His fingers spasm in agony against my cheek. He rips his hand away.

"No," he growls to himself.

Am I causing this? Am I hurting him? Desperately, I struggle to untangle my senses from his.

Go
,
my mind shouts at him
. Go! You have to go.

Then he starts to hum. Low and rough, the sound of someone not used to music. It’s a lullaby. I’m not sure if it’s me he’s trying to comfort or both of us. His voice resonates in his chest. Off-key or not, I know that tune. Even without the words.

It’s Mom’s lullaby.

We float together to the time of the beat, and our pain begins to fade. Can he sense my emotional body the way I sense his? I listen like we’re two musicians, straining to hear his retort. To my surprise, a faint stirring comes to me. And then he’s there, pressing against my own emotions, holding them, caressing them in a way that’s foreign and strange, yet somehow natural.

He offers hope, and I link into it, trailing notes of fear. He soothes those away, buoying my heart with caring and brightness. Our shared pain is shoved deeper, a gritty undercurrent beneath a shower of shooting stars. It’s wonderful. Incredible. The way humans should always be. I’m breathless and he catches my breathlessness. Laughter bubbles up in me like starry champagne; it swirls into him until it breaks from his mouth in a chuckle. It’s staggering, this merging of souls.

No, not any soul. His.

How is this possible?

Still he hums on, off-key yet perfect beyond words.

Victoria’s presence flares in my periphery. The hurting roars back.

"I used to sing that to her," she says, her English accent coming out stronger than usual.

"I know," Hunter says, voice tense as he clamps down on his pain. "With the way you had it stuck in our heads, it’s not likely I’ll ever forget it."

"You’ve really done it to us, you know that?" Her voice is tight. Tired. Worried.

He doesn’t reply.

"You have to stop this," she tells him. "What about the others? They’re coming soon."

"Don’t tell me what I already know," he says. "I’ve reached the same conclusion."

"It’s for the best."

"Is it?"

"Come on, Hunter. We’ve all been through it!" Victoria’s emotions always have a sharp edge. Sympathetic or not, they rattle.

"Not me."

"Yes, well. That’s what’s got me most concerned."

"For my tender heart?" he scoffs. "Or that I’ll do something insane?"

"Both."

"Relax. Maybe I don’t deserve to feel safe, but you do. I won’t put any of you at more risk."

Together, they lift me from the ice and place me amid crisp sheets that smell of freshly washed cotton. An inkling of worry tugs at me. I reach out to Hunter to gauge his inner state and meet a solid wall of calm.

Victoria said he had to stop this. Stop what?

I drop off into a troubled, restless sleep.

Hunter comes to me in my dreams. He speaks gently to me, words of comfort. Stroking my forehead. Kissing my cheek. The feel of his lips against my burning skin obscures all else. I’ve dreamed of his kiss since that night in the barn, wondering how it would feel. I yearn to throw off my chains, force my unmoving arms to break free and wrap around him.

In my dream, his heart responds to mine, thumping hard and loud. He runs his rough fingers along my jaw, barely touching. Sparks shoot wild through my skin, mingling with his, swirling down into my belly.

"Stop feeling this way." His voice is ragged. "It’s killing me."

The dream slips out of reach. Try though I do, I can’t bring it back.

A
soft breeze
wafts over me, perfumed with rain-washed grass cuttings. Warmth radiates across the bridge of my nose and my parted lips. I sigh, stretching slightly, a good ache running the length of my limbs and down my arching back. I can’t quite fully move, though. My arms and legs are caught by something.

My lids flutter wide.

And then I remember: I’m paralyzed.

Shock catapults around my skull until I realize my left hand is clenched. Wait, I can feel my left hand. Oh my god. I really can.

I try to move under the clinging, fluffy duvet that’s been pulled up to my neck. Finally, after much awkward thrashing, I manage to send the duvet slipping over the side. Air creeps across me, and the flesh on my belly prickles under its touch. I wrench my head up, afraid I might be naked.

No, thank god. I’m dressed in a light, sleeveless gown. Wires run from my chest to a softly beeping heart monitor. I stare at the casts. Four of them—one on each leg from toe to hip, one on each arm. My right hand is completely encased. But my left hand is free. And I’m still clenching it hard. I relax my fingers and breathe out.

So I’m not paralyzed. He was right. Yet only time will tell if I’ll still have the ability to play music like before. A queasy burning fills my stomach. I focus on the room.

It’s so pretty I spend a moment taking it all in. A large vase of pink blooms stands on an antique wood dresser. The walls are painted in rosy hues that blend with the floral design on the cream curtains. Antique moldings edge the ceiling. A chaise longue with a quilt thrown over it begs to be curled up on with a book. An alcove in the far corner holds a deep window seat piled with cushions. A fireplace is partially hidden by a screen painted with two swans, their necks curving to form a heart. For a ridiculous moment, I expect a butler to appear.

Footsteps creak nearby. I’m suddenly nervous.

"Hunter?" I call.

"It’s good to see you awake," a reedy voice says.

Not Hunter.

Turning, I struggle to catch sight of the man coming into view.

He’s older with mostly white strands in his carefully combed back hair, wearing a black tailored suit. A throwback from another century. He holds a long-necked silver watering can and a cloth. His movements are quiet and efficient as he fills the vase. Okay, wait. There really is a butler? Have I entered some comic book dimension?

Unnerved, I try to reach out to him with my senses. Nothing.

Instantly, I feel silly.

"I’m afraid I have you at a disadvantage." His face is nice when he smiles. Open yet polite, the kind of face that turns amused rather than annoyed by life’s trials. He folds the cover and sets it on a trunk at the foot of the bed. "I know your name, but you don’t know mine. I’m Edward."

I feel ridiculous, lying here. There’s a queasy burning in my stomach. Still, I manage, "Nice to meet you."

"The honor is mine."

"Where am I? Am I in the research lab?"

"Yes. In the west wing of the original house. We felt you’d be comfortable here."

"It’s like something from a storybook."

"The man who built it had a daughter. This was her bedroom."

Having watered the plants, he sets down the can and retrieves the duvet from the floor.

"Are those flowers peonies?" I ask.

"They are. A fellow horticulturist?"

"No—I’ve always liked them. They were my mother’s favorite flower."

"Yes." Pause. "They grow in the gardens."

"They’re enormous."

"They’re the original plantings. It’s quite a sight when the buds appear. The whole garden comes to life with blooms and butterflies."

"Isn’t it a shame to cut them?"

"Lucy suspected they might bring some comfort. Besides, it’s our duty to enjoy such beauty. Even," he adds, "when one is stuck indoors."

"Lucy?" I ask, recalling the woman’s name from the operating room and the day the police came. "Is she a doctor here?"

The click of feminine heels sound in the doorway. Without even turning, I know it’s Victoria. I cringe.

"Lucy is Edward’s wife," she says. "And a surrogate mother to the rest of us misfits," she adds in a wry, humorous tone. Yet I almost believe there’s truth in it. She’s dressed in high tan boots, a leather micro-skirt and camel cashmere sweater. Her eyes are lined with copper pencil and a similar shade gleams on her lips. How a person can make copper lipstick attractive is beyond me, but she does.

"I’m off. I’ll be back with lunch," Edward says.

He’s leaving me here with her? Alone? "Oh, I’m really not hungry," I say.

Victoria crosses her arms, reading my face. "Do I alarm you?"

I glance at Edward for help.

"Victoria, be nice."

"This is me being nice."

The older gentleman actually looks amused. "Yes, I suppose it is."

He nods at me and departs. I’m left, horrified, wanting to call him back. A bee drones through the half-open window. It starts bumping against the glass.

"Where’s Hunter?" I say.

Victoria ratchets me into a seated position. "Not here."

"When’s he getting back?"

"I couldn’t say."

"But he’ll be back later today, right?"

"Oh no. I don’t think he’ll be back in the foreseeable future."

I gape at her and my stomach bottoms out.
He’s gone?
"Doesn’t he have research to do?"

"I hardly think that’s any of your business."

The buzzing bee grows more urgent. She swivels and tries to shoo the trapped creature out the window. It zigzags upward and is hidden among the drapes.

So he just left? Without even saying good-bye? The stupid heart machine starts pinging faster, and I can hardly breathe. "I don’t understand, I thought . . ."
What, that he’d be waiting at my bedside like a prince from a fairy tale, looking into my eyes as they fluttered open?
Gently kissing my forehead?
"I didn’t realize he was planning to go."

"You thought he’d share his plans with you?"

Is that anger in her voice? I try desperately to reach out to her with my senses. I’m almost sure a faint deflection shoots from her. Then nothing. Try as I do, she’s blank. That’s when I realize the truth. It was all in my imagination, thinking I could sense their emotions. All of it.

Just like I imagined Hunter had deep feelings for me.

"Hunter’s a busy man. He has numerous duties," she says.

Is that what I was to him? A duty? I close my eyes, aching and unable to ward off the depth of the blow.

"What about Blaze? He just abandoned the filly?"

"Your father’s taking care of her."

I stare at the swans, tracing the shapes of their twined necks. "I don’t suppose he left a note or anything?"

"No." She holds out a small plastic cup and picks up a glass of water from the nightstand. "Here. Take this."

I frown into the cup, struggling to hide my emotions. There’s a marble-sized metal ball inside. "What is it?"

"A pill."

It’s unlike any pill I’ve ever seen. I peer at the thing. It reflects my pale face. "It’s huge."

"Yes, well, bottoms up."

I roll it back and forth. "Is this really necessary?"

"If you want to live, yes." She taps her foot. "Just swallow the little beast."

"Easy for you to say. You’re not the one doing it. I can hardly choke down a baby aspirin."

Her face lights with a flash of anger. "You have no idea how lucky you are. So stop staring into that cup and take the damn thing. And be happy about it. Because you’re alive and you’re getting better and you’re going to walk out of here and that will be it. You’ll be normal, Aeris."

Her outburst shocks me. She looks pained, and it becomes clear she’s actually concerned about me, despite her harsh attitude.

The truth is, I could be stuck in a shared hospital ward right now surrounded by sick patients. Instead, I’m in what amounts to a luxury, private care facility. They have all the latest machines and medicines, and they’ve taken exceptional care of me. Perhaps beyond that—doing things I don’t even want to question.

She’s right. I need to get back to my music. I have to practice before September. I have to be in complete working order. There’s no way I’m losing my hard-won position in the Philharmonic. More than that, I need to disappear from Hunter’s world. From any reminders of him. If this pill can get me there, I don’t care how big it is.

I tip it into my mouth. It weighs heavily on my tongue, and I feel a mild sense of panic.

Victoria hands me the water. "Quick, a big gulp."

I nod and do so. An odd, acrid smell fills my nostrils. I fight to stop gagging. Once the pill starts moving, it’s like a bowling ball, tumbling back and down, down, down.

After she leaves, I call Dad from the landline beside my bed. I hadn’t realized how shaken up I am until I hear his comforting voice.

"I'll finish up here as fast as I can. See you shortly," he tells me.

Alone, I stare at the ceiling. This beautiful house is far from what I expected. I would have thought they’d have cleared out a room like this and filled it with beakers and Bunsen burners.

But then what do I know?

I thought Hunter would be waiting for me to awake, like a prince.

I curl my good arm around myself, squeezing and unsqueezing my fist and praying that I’ll still have my old abilities. Closing my eyes, I recall Hunter’s warm, low voice humming a lullaby with the two of us wrapped together in its melody. How had I read him so wrong? Were his feelings for me like my feelings for Gage? I cringe, knowing what Gage must feel and the bitter sting of rejection.

Hunter knew he’d done his duty by me, and so he left. He didn’t care the way I do.

But it’s over. He’s gone. And he’s not coming back.

D
ad sits
on a chair next to my bed. We talk quietly about Sammy and Blaze.

"The foal’s doing really well. I told Grandpa about you staying up all night with her. He said you’re a chip off the old ranch."

I laugh and picture her small, velveteen face. What a time that had been. Both tragic and joyful. For a while, Hunter, Blaze, and I had existed in our tiny bubble. We’d muddled our way through, side by side. For Hunter and me, it had been a night of confessions, of shared dreams, of sitting so close our legs touched. And in the morning, on Ranger’s back, he’d held me to him like we were lovers.

"Oh, before I forget, I brought you some things." Dad hands me my iPod. I cling to it like a lifeline. Next he shocks me by pulling my composition manuscript from his leather bag.

"What made you think I’d need this?" I ask.

"I notice stuff."

"You’re awesome." I keep it on my lap, unwilling to voice my fear that my muscles won’t be quite the same.

"Mr. Creedy’s funeral was a few weeks ago. Most of the town showed up."

"I’m going to miss him."

"Yep. Me too."

"Have they found the people who did this?"

"There’s an investigation under way. That’s all I know."

"But they must have come to question you. Why did those men want to get in here? And how did they know you had the key?"

"I guess they were watching me."

"What if they come back? I’m worried about you."

Dad eyes the heart monitor and strokes the damp hair from my forehead. "I’m fine. I gave up my PRL access card. I’m no use to them. The only way I can get in is if Ian or Edward meets me at the gate. It will all be sorted out."

"Were those men military? What did they say to you in the house?"

"Not a lot. Nothing worth repeating. I wish I could tell you more."

"What’s so important in here that they’d want to break in?"

He shakes his head. "I couldn’t say."

"Maybe they want to steal an infectious agent?"

"Maybe. I should let you rest." He stands. "Ella and Gage have been asking about you."

"Tell them hello."

When I’m alone, the silence in my room is oppressive. It crushes in.

Never have I felt so trapped.

Did I matter so little to Hunter that he felt a good-bye wasn’t necessary? What happened between us?

I won’t feel sorry for myself. I won’t.

There’s no point to it.

Angry, I stick out my tongue and lick the salty tear that betrays me. Through blurred eyes, I find the fireplace screen with the pair of painted swans. They’re centered on its curved, rectangular surface, two heads bowed in an eternal embrace.

Hunter doesn’t want these feelings of mine.

The realization squeezes my chest so I can hardly breathe.

I never wanted them, either. This sort of pain is exactly what I was trying to avoid. So how have I found myself here alone?