The Butterfly Code (16 page)

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?"

I
t’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?"

"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.

A
s 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."