Free The Butterfly Code by Sue Wyshynski

here.
    What changed his mind?
    The Thorne Country Supply delivery truck continues to rattle as I approach the entry to the promontory.
    No construction vehicles now.
    In fact, the area looks quiet and sterile. Towering stone walls block off the prying eyes of drivers who approach along the road. Poles bristle with high-tech surveillance devices. Camera lenses peer out at various angles.
    I’m reminded of a border crossing.
    I slow, wary, feeling like I’ve entered a James Bond film. Am I being watched? Hopefully security is expecting Dad’s truck. If I’m lucky, they won’t look too closely at the driver.
    Both hands turning the giant steering wheel, I maneuver into the driveway. It’s paved with smooth blacktop, a contrast from the bumpy road. Pressing the brakes, I halt the truck before the towering metal gate. There, mounted dead center on the massive bars, is the plaque. The one that made Dad blanch.
    He never did tell me what he'd wanted to show me here.
    I lean forward, face close to the windshield, and study what’s visible beyond the gates. All I can see is a road leading inward, bounded on either side by trees.
    Hunter’s domain is incredibly official. And incredibly mysterious.
    It matches him perfectly.
    I slide the key card from my pocket, wondering where I’m supposed to swipe it. Where’s the intercom box? Scanning left and right reveals no sign of such a thing.
    Wind swirls around me when I open my door. I climb onto the cold pavement. To my right, waves crash far below, white and frothy, charging the air with salt. A gust carries the cries of sea birds.
    There must be a place to insert this thing.
    Because I’m going in. There’s no stopping me now. My timid heart is fighting to get me back into the truck, back on the road away from here.
    I shut it out. I can’t stop. I won’t stop.
    I’ve come this far. It’s not about the jacket, or the delivery. Something in there is calling me. Questions that need answers. A man I need to speak to, if only once. If only to clear up this mystery, this confusion, this painful longing that’s beyond all reasonable proportion. If I can just see Hunter, I know I can fix it. Make it stop. Understand it. That’s all I want.
    Or at least all I’m willing to believe.

Eight
    T o the right of the PRL gates stands a ten-by-ten-foot concrete bunker that probably once acted as the estate’s guard shack. Now it’s faced with steel. There’s no visible door, but it appears to be my best bet. I approach, key card in hand, scanning for a slot.
    Three feet from it, the steel slab slides sideways with a hiss and reveals a dim interior.
    Faint lights blink in its depths. I’m not good with cramped places. Especially dark ones. Cold sweat prickles at the base of my skull. I wish I had Sammy with me.
    Out loud I say, "Now we’re getting somewhere."
    Legs wobbly, I step into the concrete shack. Inside, it’s the size of a large ATM booth.
    Whoosh. The door whips shut.
    I stand deadly still, eyes struggling to conform to the darkness. The floor beneath me is a metal grate. That much is clear. Wind gusts up through it, making it rattle. I squint warily down through the waffle slats. All that’s visible is empty black air. Wafts of panic begin to rise. Maybe the floor is attached by a hinge that swings down to dispose of unwanted visitors.
    My claustrophobia goes into overdrive.
    I have to get out of this booth. Now.
    There’s no knob on the door. No trigger. I slam my right shoulder hard against it, again and again. It doesn’t budge. What is this? Am I seriously trapped in here?
    "Open up!" I cry, banging on the cold metal surface. "Let me out!"
    Nothing.
    "Open, you stupid piece of junk!"
    My rage has no effect.
    The door couldn’t care less how freaked out I am. Fumbling in my pocket, I pull out my phone. I’ll call the police, that’s what I’ll do.
    Except there’s no signal.
    Damp, icy wind whistles up from below, sweeping through the grill. It rushes up my