The air is charged, electrified.
I swallow. “And?” I say.
“And I can imagine twelve reasons why I’m going to hell for this, but would you like to go?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you’re not afraid of small planes.”
“I’m not.” Even if I were mortally terrified of them, I wouldn’t admit it.
He finds my fingers and I’m breathless as his thumb brushes over the back of my hand. “All right.”
“All right,” I say back.
His eyes soften and his mouth turns up a little, and those addictive smile lines appear in his tanned, masculine cheeks. “Drive safely, Aeris Thorne.”
“I will, Hunter Cayman. Take care of Blaze.”
“Yep. I bet she misses you already.”
He steps back to let me leave. The key shakes in my icy fingers. I’m on fire with nerves and excitement. I insert it into the ignition and turn. The engine rattles to life. He stands, arms crossed over his broad chest, as I pull onto the paved lane. He’s still there, his tanned skin gleaming with rivulets, until a curve in the drive and a grove of trees obscures the view.
What have I done? I want to whoop. But what about my promise to myself to not get involved again?
And what am I going to tell Dad?
Up ahead, the towering fence appears and security cameras swivel toward me. The rain increases in tempo. It begins to drum a fervid beat against the roof of the cab. I spot the looming gates that span the exit. They open wide as I approach.
I guide the truck through and its wheels shudder over the metal strip.
When I’m out, the gates clang swiftly shut.
The rain seems more brutal here on the deserted road. Cold slips through my shirt. I fumble with the heater. Muggy air blasts from the vents, fogging up the windshield.
I swore I wouldn’t open my heart again. I swore nothing would disrupt my focus on music. And what do I do? Fall for the only guy who’s on my friends’ and family’s blacklist.
Then I remember his arms around me as we rode bareback across the fields. I lose myself in a daydream that’s filled with the sound of his voice in my ear. It’s just for the summer. A few good weeks. Before I go back to New York.
A squirrel dashes across the road. I’m torn from my reverie and crane toward the side-view mirror. It’s there, scampering away.
I catch sight of my hazel eyes in the mirror. What had Victoria been searching for when she’d pinned me with her flashlight? Her actions had been beyond strange. And why had she left so abruptly? Was it something she saw?
My breath catches.
Or something she didn’t see?
Something I witnessed in Hunter’s eyes outside the dance club? I recall him lowering his dark glasses when that car came zooming around the corner. The high beams caught his pupils, and for a second they’d appeared to reflect like the pupils of a cat.
Is that how she’d expected mine to behave?
Except they didn’t?
No. That’s too crazy. The incident outside the dance club had been a trick of the light. Hunter didn’t have cat eyes. Not today. Then again, what if I’d shone a beam into them, the way Victoria had into mine?
I wipe the mist from the window and keep driving.
Something strange is taking place at the PRL. But what? Is it related to their work? Clearly they haven’t accidentally infected themselves with whatever contagious diseases they’re studying. If anything they seem super healthy. Glowing with life. Hunter is as strong as any athlete.
So what is it?
The truck careens through a puddle. I grab the wheel, willing it under control. The motion causes a flicker of pain at the tip of my index finger. I’m reminded of the security booth with its handcuff, its “biometric scan,” and the metal-grating floor that drops away to nothing.
Does Dad endure that process every time he goes there? I can’t believe he’d accept such treatment.
A better question might be—how am I going to explain to Dad why I made a delivery to the Phoenix Research Lab?
He must have gotten Hunter’s messages about Blaze by now. Maybe he’ll be so preoccupied he won’t care. I should call him. Easing off the gas, I fumble in the glove box for my phone.
My cell’s dead. A quick search tells me there’s no charger in the truck. There’s probably no signal out here anyway. The clammy interior makes my clothes stick to my arms and chest. Outside, the storm is a gray velvet blur.
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 wal
k 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.
Thirteen
Why 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.
The Butterfly Code Page 11
