The Butterfly Code (18 page)

"You really freaked me out yesterday." His voice is uneven.

"Hey, I thought you were joining my team."

"I’m trying to, Aeris." He shifts so he’s looking down at me. Then his stubble is grazing my lips and his mouth is pressed against mine.

For a moment, I’m so caught off guard I’m motionless.

His familiar, callused hands weave into my hair, and his chest presses down against mine. I can feel his pulse slamming. This is Gage, my best friend. And this is all wrong. I struggle away, afraid—not of him but of the hurt I’ll see in his cornflower-blue eyes.

It’s why I’ve desperately tried to keep this moment from ever occurring.

"Gage, stop. Gage!" The words are crushed against his lips, and my indignation is rising. Hurt be damned, I don’t want this. With my casts, it’s hard to get my arms in position to push. I do, finally, and shove at his chest. It’s rock hard, like flesh over steel armor.

"Stop it. Quit it!"

He jerks back. I don’t say a word, because he’s reading it all in my eyes. His face flushes. He slumps away from me, head falling onto the pillow, one muscular arm thrown over his face.

"Sorry."

"Look, you’re one of my best friends. You know how much you mean to me. It would kill me to lose you. I just—I don’t want that."

The arm stays in place. Is he mad?

"I don’t want to lose you, either," he murmurs.

His voice is thick. He can’t possibly be . . . crying, can he? I want to comfort him. Instead, I pluck at the dirty edges of my fiberglass cast where it’s gone all jagged.

From the doorway comes the sound of a woman clearing her throat. An unfamiliar doctor stands there dressed in a green shower-cap-style hat and shoe coverings. Her arms are crossed and her lips compressed.

Gage slides out of the bed, shoves his hands in his pockets, but remains next to me.

"Hi, Doctor," I say, acting like she didn’t just see us kissing. "I’m ready to get signed out."

She gestures at someone in the hall. Wheels creak outside the doorway, and then two aides step inside, pushing a gurney. That’s odd. Maybe the wheelchairs are all in use? It’ll be kind of strange to get pushed out to Gage’s truck on that thing.

"I just need a minute to change out of my hospital gown."

"That won’t be necessary," the doctor says, coming to fuss over me with her stethoscope.

"What do you mean?" I ask, laughing. "I’m not wearing this thing home."

She fails to smile. "We need to perform a few more tests."

"What are you talking about? I’m supposed to leave."

"I’ve been ordered to perform a series of labs."

"By who?"

"I received a call from the authorities, and I have to follow up."

"What authorities?" I demand, my voice harsh to hide my concern.

"I’m not at liberty to discuss that."

I glance at Gage. His cheeks are pink. Is it a hangover from our kiss or something more? A few days ago, he’d practically ordered me to visit a regular doctor to make sure I was all right. I’d refused. I recall his awful stint in the military. Could he be suspicious enough of Hunter to have contacted one of the investigators on their case?

I stare at him.
Can’t he just be happy I’m alive?

"Who did you call?" I say.

There’s a beat.

I’m suddenly furious. "Gage?"

"No one. But I’m glad someone did. They
should
check you out."

"I don’t want to be checked out. I thought you were on my team. You told my dad you’d take me home!"

"And I will. God, Aeris, I’m on your side."

I turn to the doctor. "How did these authorities hear about me? Did they just call you out of the blue?"

"We file reports on all patients in a central database. Your name was flagged as a person of interest. You’re the woman who crashed outside the Phoenix Research Lab for Highly Contagious Diseases, correct?" She emphasizes the words
contagious diseases
. "Apparently the PRL falls within some governmental jurisdiction. The government has the right to do some checking up."

"I’m not giving you permission for this. You have no legal right."

The two aides strong-arm me onto the gurney. With an ominous clank, bars rise into place so that I can’t roll off.

"I was told I could go home. I’m a free person, a citizen. You need my permission before you do any extra tests."

"Not when the order comes from a higher authority. You’re being investigated as a public health risk."

"A public health risk? That’s absurd. Who’s this authority?"

She sighs. "If you don’t want me to perform the tests, you’re free to talk to my contact. However, I guarantee he’ll simply repeat what I’ve told you. Is there some reason you don’t want to cooperate?"

"I need to call my dad. Right now."

His phone rings and rings. I try three times. A fourth. Still no answer.

"Aeris." Gage puts his hand on mine. "His store is on fire."

My hair is sticking to my forehead. I swipe it away and dry swallow.

"It’s your call. What do you want me to do, Miss Thorne?" the doctor says. "I think you’re overreacting. These tests are for your own good."

Maybe she’s right. Maybe they are. Despite what Dad said earlier, it’s not my job to keep things secret.

If only I’d taken the silver pill on time. If only I’d never come to this hospital. If only I knew what Hunter did to me. He should have told me.

I guess now I’ll find out.

A janitor pushes a mop past the doorway, leaving a trail of pine-laced antiseptic fumes. They assault my nose and make my head ache. Perhaps this is for the best.

"All right," I say, committed now. "Let’s get this over with."

L
ights blare down
from the lab ceiling. Bleach and sanitizing hand-wash scent the air. There’s a thermometer clenched between my teeth. A needle protrudes from the back of my hand. Crimson blood flows into a tube. Cold instruments prod my skin. I cringe and struggle to remain calm.

I can’t. I’m scared stiff. Of what, I’m not even sure.

Two aides lift me onto an X-ray table. Impersonal, gloved hands shift me into position and drape me with a heavy, rubberized shield. The clammy weight presses against my thin hospital gown. Machines whir and click. The process is repeated until I’ve been twisted and laid out in every possible position.

I watch the face of the X-ray tech, behind his window. His face shows nothing. When he steps out into the hall, it’s another story. He’s babbling, shocked.

I cower on the table.

"What did you find?" I demand when the X-ray tech returns, jutting out my jaw.

"It’s not my place to say."

"I want to call my dad."

"Discuss that with your doctor."

I’m furious now, desperate to get out and away from these people. I’m wheeled into another room. When the doctor enters, I practically shout my request.

She nods. "We’ll be releasing you shortly."

I’m so surprised my tongue merely stutters out a relieved "Oh."

She goes to a metal rack and removes an instrument. It looks like a power saw. The device whirs to life, and she takes my wrist, pressing the blade against the plaster.

I try to pull back. "What are you doing?"

"Cutting it off."

"My hand?"

"Your cast, Miss Thorne."

"Why?"

"Because your bones are not broken."

I
don’t believe her
.

"You’re insane. Of course my bones are broken."

She holds the X-rays up to the light. "They aren’t now, and they never were. Not a single fracture, not a single scar in the bone."

"But I’m telling you, they were."

"And I’m telling you you’re wrong. Whoever did this is either deranged or has a sick sense of humor."

Rapidly, brutally, she severs the fiberglass. The saw whines. The cast screeches in protest. Then, carefully, she peels the hard cocoons from my arms and legs.

Limb by limb, she frees me from a prison of lies.

I perch naked apart from my gown. I’m too terrified to move lest my arms and legs come unhinged—flop at inhuman angles. A few feet away, the doctor disposes the remains of my fiberglass incarceration. It hits the bottom of the metal trash can with a resounding clang.

"I’m telling you, you mixed up my X-rays."

"We did not mix up your X-rays." She takes my right arm and moves her hands up and down its length, squeezing here and there.

"Any pain here? No? How about here?"

"Maybe we should do the X-rays one more time."

Head bent, she gives me this look that says
Drop it already
. From her frizzy hair to the blue smudges beneath her eyes, it’s obvious she’s overworked and annoyed. Clearly she has other patients to get to. More important ones. Patients without fake injuries or orders from investigative agencies. She slips me into a pair of disposable green booties.

"Stand for me, please. Careful."

Suddenly I want to laugh. I want to scream. I don’t know what I want, really. Answers, I guess. Yes, that’s what I need. I won’t get them from her, though.

The recovery table paper crinkles under me as I slip gingerly forward. My toes touch the ground. It’s icy through the thin coverings. She takes my hands and helps me wobble to my feet. Nothing happens. Nothing snaps. I stand there feeling like an idiot.

"You’ll be a little stiff. That’s expected."

I nod.

"The front desk can arrange some rehab sessions. An aide will take you back to your room."

She opens the door to the bustle outside. I’m helped into a wheelchair. Eyes seem to fasten on me from every direction. The nurses’ station. The other hospital workers. I guess gossip moves quick. I’m the patient some agency is investigating. The one with four broken limbs that aren’t really broken. I scan the sea of pitying eyes.

Look at her. She’s not even hurt. Poor thing. So obviously naive.

I’ve known audiences like this before. Sure, most people wish you the best, yet what about those who long to see you squirm? If I were feeling daring, I’d shout,
It’s a miracle, I can walk!
Like someone on a religious TV show. Instead, I raise my chin and focus my attention on the elevator doors, willing them to hurry up and open.

Upstairs, Gage’s jaw drops, and he stares at my limbs in amazement.

"Don’t even ask. You were right," I tell him.

He doesn’t say
I told you so
. He doesn’t need to. It’s in the curl of his lip when he closes his mouth. In the shine of his eyes.

"Let me get dressed. Then we can go."

To his credit, all he says is, "I’ll be outside. Shout when you’re ready."

Alone, I sink onto the bed.

Hunter lied.

Gage was right.

He lied to me.

My heart constricts as my faith in Hunter’s goodness topples. He left me trapped with no explanation. I trusted him. And Victoria, Edward, Lucy, too. Acting like they cared about me. All along it was a lie.

Why?

There’s a phone beside the bed. I pick it up and ask the hospital operator to connect me with the Phoenix Research Lab. It takes a few minutes, and then Victoria comes on the line.

"I’m at St. Mary’s General Hospital," I say, foregoing any greeting. She knows my voice. "We need to talk. Come to my dad’s house. One hour. Show up or I’m calling the police."

Before she can answer, I slam down the receiver.

I recall what Ella said about my smooth skin. I yank up the hem of the hospital gown and stare at my newly exposed thighs. Then my arms. They’re flawless. I can’t find a single scar. Not even the faded gash from the ice skating accident. Every tiny blemish is gone as though airbrushed away. So my bones were fine, yet they fixed my skin?

My mind spins, seeking purchase, seeking steady ground. Were they fine or not?

The digital clock on the bedside table clicks from
11:59
to
12:00
. Shaking, I pull the leather satchel from its hiding place and heft it into my lap. Dizzy flutters twirl in my stomach.
What do I do?
What the hell am I supposed to do? Take the silver pill? If I don’t, it’s clear what will happen.

If I do?

Hunter, what did you do to me? How do I reconcile this with the caring man who held me in his arms and sang to me? The man with the cocky, warm smile and the rumbling laugh. The one with eyes that I could drown in. Yet he’s a scoundrel of the worst sort. Once again I’m in his grip, yet this time it’s not the kind of grip a girl dreams of.

Fingers shaking, I pry the lid from the bottle.

A lukewarm glass of water sits on the table. With a swift gulp, I swallow it down. Then I pull on the long white nightshirt with the music notes from yesterday, haul the satchel over my shoulder, and climb into the waiting wheelchair.

Banging on the door. Gage calls, "Aeris? Come on, we need to go."

"Ready!" I call, sounding more confident than I feel.

Gage is strangely nervous as he wheels me out to his truck. He must still be embarrassed about our kiss. I tune him out, lost in my own bubble of fear. No one can help me. No one can pull me out of this mess. My bones are well, but I’m not.

I need to get up and move.

"I want to walk," I tell him.

"You’re too weak. Let’s just get out of here."

"Gage, I want to stand, stop pushing."

"Okay, okay."

Before I can move he comes around and props me on my two legs, holding me as if I were a newborn foal in danger of tumbling over. "There. Good?"

"Yes, if you let go."

He raises both hands, palms up.

My nightshirt flaps loosely against my bare legs, making me feel exposed and naked. I expect my knees to shake and wobble. Oddly, they don’t. I take a deep breath and a wondrous strength surges through my freed limbs. My muscles ache with the need to run. Away. Hard and far from my fear.

"Put this on. You must be freezing." Gage hands me his heavy
Gore-Tex
jacket. This time, unlike outside the Zenith Club, I do.

"Now can we leave?" he asks, impatient.

I nod and climb in.

He hands me my bag and I clutch at the horrible thing. What happens when the meds run out? Will I have to take them for the rest of my life? I stare into my lap as he abandons the chair and climbs in. Another thought strikes. Something even worse.

What happens if I can’t get more?

Gage speaks first. "What the hell was Cayman doing?" He wrenches the car into gear and roars out of the lot. "Sticking you in those casts? I thought he was a freak, but the guy’s a sadistic psycho."

I hate it. Hearing
Hunter
and
psycho
in the same sentence. I hate it more than anything. How could I have fallen for him? At the same time, dread prickles all over me. Never have I felt so alone. So isolated in this horrible reality. My mouth is nearly numb with terror.

What’s in those pills? And why did he put me in those useless casts? What did he do to my body?

I dig my fists deep into Gage’s pockets, pulling his coat tight around me. My knuckles bump up against several small, tubular shapes. I fish them out and stare at a wrapped syringe and an unused blood-collection tube.

"What are these?" I ask, holding them away as Gage swipes at me.

"They’re nothing."

"You stole these from the hospital? Or do you just carry needles around with you?" I stare at him as color floods his cheeks. "Wait, were you going to take my blood?"

"No! No, of course not."

"You’re a horrible liar, Gage. You were when we were kids, and you still are."

"Fine. It’s because I care about you, okay? I wanted to make sure you were really all right."

"So, what? You were just going to take my blood without even asking me? Don’t you think I’ve had enough of that from Hunter? And what about the hospital? You think you’re going to find stuff they didn’t? You’re no doctor. What the hell?"

"No—I was going to ask you first. Of course. And yeah, I’m not a doctor, but I have a scientist friend who knows stuff, and I thought he might be able to run tests the hospital couldn’t. That’s all. That’s it. Like I said, there must be some reason Cayman put you in those casts. Don’t you want to find out?"

I stare down at my bare feet. Wiggle my toes. They’re blue with cold.

"Obviously he wanted to keep you trapped," Gage says.

"Trapped? If he wanted me trapped, he would have kept me at the research lab."
Although Victoria did try to make me come back.
"Anyway, Hunter left. He couldn’t care less about me."

Gage keeps checking the rearview mirror. I twist in my seat. The traffic is light.

"What’s wrong, is someone following us?"

"No, we’re fine." His fingers wring the steering wheel. "And even if he left and you went home, you were still trapped. Why?"

"I don’t know."

He scoffs. "So if it wasn’t about keeping you under control, then what? He lied and said your arms and legs were broken for fun? That’s almost worse."

"My bones
were
broken." And as I said the words, I knew it.

"I’m sure it seemed that way to you."

It didn’t just seem that way. In the operating room at the PRL—when the police came—the researchers were afraid. Ian claimed they’d suspect I should be dead. That I was too damaged.

"I was crushed," I insist.

"A lot was happening; you were being chased. Obviously it was confusing."

"I was thrown against a huge iron gate and the ATV hit me. Square on. I watched it. I heard my bones break. Don’t tell me what did or didn’t happen. You weren’t there." I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them. They feel bare and thin without their thick fiberglass shell.

"Okay," he concedes. "You were hurt. And probably needed stitches. Which you got."

"My bones were broken!"

"Not according to the X-rays."

I put my forehead to the glass and stare out at a cluster of dilapidated houses. On one tiny front yard, weeds sprout through the remains of a rusted-out bed frame.

I lick my dry lips. "I don’t know what’s real anymore."

"What’s real is that someone triggered that alert. Why else would the authorities order those tests?"

"But what authorities? You sure you didn’t call anyone?"

"No." He slams his fist on the dash. "But like I said, I’m glad someone did. I thought Cayman performed the same operation on you as they performed on my unit."

"Maybe they did."

"Nope."

"How can you tell?"

"The X-rays would show it." His voice is grim.

"Wait, what operation did they perform on your unit?" They’d been operated on? I thought they’d been exposed to some deadly infectious agent. I dry swallow. "What would your X-rays show?"

He’s silent, his dark pupils fastened to the road.

"Gage? What would they show?"

The run-down houses have given way to open pasture. Birds huddle on the wires, watching us pass.

"We don’t talk about it."

"Who’s we? You and the other soldiers they experimented on?"

His shoulders are hunched forward. He nods.

"You and the guys living down at your compound?"

"Yep."

I’m stunned by his weighty tone, by the meaning in that tiny word. The blacktop snakes out in front of us, snakes up the wild coast, snakes toward home. Toward a place that seems on the surface so peaceful. It’s not. Gage’s jaw is tense. I know suddenly that hidden along the ocean bluffs, a war is gathering.

"Please tell me what’s going on. Please tell me what happened during that experiment."

I can see the decision battling in his mind. He wrenches the steering wheel, slamming the brakes at the same time. We skid onto the shoulder, fishtailing and kicking up dust. When the truck comes to a stop, he thrusts open his door. Salt air rushes in, along with the sound of distant waves.

"What are you doing?"

"Showing you."

I open my door. The blacktop sends blinding rays of hot sunshine blasting upward, radiating warmth along my legs. Gage lopes along the gravel edge, heading toward a signpost that warns of dangerous curves ahead. He shoots me a backward glance. Then, casually, like a runner grabbing a baton in a relay race, he lifts the sign from the ground, taking the poured concrete base as he goes. He keeps jogging; it’s effortless.

I watch in disbelief as he stops and tosses the thing into the air. It whirls skyward, flipping end over end, flying at least thirty feet high. Bits of dirt rain down from the weighty lump of concrete stuck to the bottom. Reaching its full arc, it slows, stops, and comes plummeting down.

"Watch out," I gasp, even though I know he can’t hear me.

With one hand, he catches the pole and proceeds to wrap the metal into easy knots. He could be tying his shoe for all the effort on his face. There’s none. Literally none.

My jaw is hanging open.

Witnessing Hunter fight those men in my half-conscious, shocked state was one thing. This is real. This is happening. Gage is bending a giant metal signpost into a pretzel. His face flashes red as I gape at him. There’s pride, though, too. For all his anger, he’s almost smug.

He saunters toward the truck. "Probably shouldn’t destroy public property like this, huh."

"No. Probably not."

Unwinding the knots takes a little more work. "Guess I tied them a little tight."

Finally, he replants it in the dirt. I’m so shaken when he climbs back into the driver’s seat I can’t find my voice. When I do, I squeak, "
How?
"