The Butterfly Garden Dot Hutchison Read Online

  Besides BY DOT HUTCHISON

A Wounded Name

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author'south imagination or are used fictitiously.

Text copyright © 2016 Dot Hutchison

All rights reserved.

No part of this volume may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval organisation, or transmitted in any course or past any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

www.apub.com

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

ISBN-13: 9781503934719

ISBN-ten: 1503934713

Cover pattern by Damon Za Design

To Mom and Deb

Because you were halfway through answering the question before you realized how deeply disturbing information technology was And because everything else.

CONTENTS

I

2

III

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE Author

I

The techs tell him the girl on the other side of the glass hasn't said a give-and-take since they brought her in. It doesn't surprise him at first, not with the traumas she's been through, but watching her now from behind the one-way mirror, he starts to question that assessment. She sits slumped in the hard metal chair, chin resting on one bandaged hand as the other traces nonsense symbols onto the surface of the stainless steel tabular array. Her eyes are half-airtight, deep shadows bruising the peel below, and her black hair is dull and unwashed, scraped back into a messy knot. She'southward exhausted, clearly.

Only he wouldn't call her traumatized.

Sipping his coffee, FBI Special Amanuensis Victor Hanoverian studies the girl and waits for his team members to arrive. At least his partner, anyhow. The tertiary core member of their team is at the hospital with the other girls, trying to get updates on their conditions and—when possible—their names and fingerprints. Other agents and techs are at the property, and what lilliputian he's heard from them makes him want to phone call home and talk to his own daughters, make sure they're well. But he has a way with people, especially traumatized children, so it's the sensible option for him to exist here, waiting to go in and talk to this item victim.

He can meet the faint pinkish lines around her nose and oral cavity from an oxygen mask, smudges of dirt and soot across her confront and borrowed clothing. Bandages wrap effectually her hands and her upper left arm, and he tin can trace the beefy line of others beneath the thin undershirt someone at the hospital gave her to vesture. She shivers in the off-light-green scrub pants, her bare anxiety pulled away from the cold flooring, but doesn't complain.

He doesn't even know her name.

He doesn't know the names of most of the girls they rescued, or the ones they were far, far besides late to salvage. This one hasn't talked to anyone just the other girls, and even and then in that location were no names, no information. Merely . . . well, he tin't really telephone call it comfort. "You'll die or you lot won't, now relax for the doctors so they can work" wasn't exactly reassuring, just that's exactly how the other girls seemed to have it.

She sits upwards in the chair, her arms extending slowly over her head until her entire back is curved like a bowstring. The mics selection upwards the painful popular of vertebrae. Shaking her head, she slumps back over the table, her cheek pressed against the metal, her palms flat confronting the surface. She'due south facing away from the drinking glass, away from him and the others she knows must be at that place, simply the angle offers another slice of interest: the lines.

The hospital gave him a picture of it; he can see merely the edges of those bright colors peeking out against the back of her shoulder. The balance of the blueprint is harder to come across, merely the undershirt isn't thick enough to obscure it completely. He pulls the film from his pocket and holds it up against the glass, looking between the glossy newspaper and what he can encounter of the design on the girl's dorsum. It wouldn't be meaning except that all but i of the girls have them. Dissimilar colors, different designs, but all the same in essentials.

"You recall he did that to them, sir?" asks 1 of the techs, watching the girl on the monitor. That camera is aimed from the other side of the interview room, showing an enlarged view of her face, her eyes closed, her breaths boring and deep.

"I guess nosotros'll find out." He doesn't similar to make suppositions, particularly when they know and then little yet. This is one of the very few times in his career where what they institute is and then much worse than they could have envisioned. He's accustomed to thinking the worst. When a kid goes missing, you lot work your ass off but don't wait to observe the poor thing live at the end of information technology. Maybe you hope. You don't await. He'south seen bodies so minor it's a wonder at that place are even coffins to fit them, seen children raped before they know the significant of the discussion, just somehow this case is so unexpected he isn't quite sure where his footing is.

He doesn't fifty-fifty know how one-time she is. The doctors guessed xvi to 20-two, but that doesn't help him much. As young as sixteen, she should probably have a representative from child services, but they've already swarmed the hospital and made things hard. They have valuable and necessary services to provide—but that doesn't get them out of his way. He tries to think of his daughters, what they would do if they were locked in a room similar this daughter, but none of them are this cocky-contained. Does that mean she'due south older? Or but that she'south had more practice seeming unaffected?

"Take we heard more from Eddison or Ramirez yet?" he asks the techs, not taking his optics off the girl.

"Eddison's on his way up; Ramirez is still at the infirmary with the parents of the youngest girl," one of the women reports. Yvonne doesn't look at the girl in the room, not even at the monitors. She has an babe girl at home. Victor wonders if he should pull her off—this is only her first day dorsum—but decides she'll say something if she can't handle information technology.

"She was the one who triggered the search?"

"But been gone a couple of days. Disappeared from the mall while shopping with her friends. They said she went out of the dressing room surface area to switch sizes and never came back."

One less person to detect.

They'd taken pictures at the hospital of all the girls, even the ones who'd died en route or on inflow, and were running them through the missing persons database. It will take time for results to come up up, though. When agents or doctors asked the ones in better shape for their names, they turned to look at this girl, clearly a leader among them, and most said nothing. A few seemed to think near information technology before dissolving into sobs that brought the nurses running.

But not this girl in the interview room. When they asked her, she but turned away. As far equally anyone tin can tell, this is 1 girl with no interest in being found.

Which makes some of them wonder if she'south a victim at all.

Victor sighs and drains the last of his coffee, crushing the cup earlier tossing it in the trash bucket past the door. He'd prefer to wait for Ramirez; another female person in the room is ever helpful in circumstances similar this. Can he wait for her? There'due south no telling how long she'll be with the parents, or if other parents will flock to the hospital one time the photos are released to the media. If they're released to the media, he amends with a frown. He hates that role, hates plastering the pictures of victims across television screens and newspapers and so in that location'southward never a way for them to forget what happened to them. At least they can await until they get the missing persons data.

The door opens and slams shut again behind him. The room is soundproof simply the glass rattles slightly and the daughter sits up quickly, eyes narrowed at the mirror. And, presumably, the ones she has to know are behin

d it.

Victor doesn't turn around. No one slams a door quite like Brandon Eddison. "Anything?"

"They've matched a couple of fairly contempo reports, and the parents are on their way. So far it's all East Declension."

Victor pulls the moving picture from the glass and puts information technology back into the pocket of his jacket. "Anything else on our daughter?"

"Some of the others called her Maya after she was brought here. No final proper name."

"Real name?"

Eddison snorts. "Doubtful." He struggles to zip his jacket over his Redskins T-shirt. One time the response team establish the survivors, Victor'south team was chosen in from off duty to handle it. Given Eddison's tastes, Victor's mostly grateful there are no naked women on the shirt. "We've got a squad going through the master firm to see if the bastard kept annihilation personal."

"I think we tin can both agree that he kept some very personal things of theirs."

Perhaps remembering what he saw at the property, Eddison doesn't debate. "Why this one?" he asks. "Ramirez says there are others not too badly injured. More frightened, maybe more willing to talk. This one looks like a tough nut."

"The other girls look to her. I want to know why. They must exist desperate to get domicile, so why do they look at her and choose not to answer questions?"

"You think she might be part of this?"

"That'southward what we need to find out." Picking up the canteen of water from the counter, Victor takes a deep breath. "All right. Let'due south go talk to Maya."

She sits back in the chair when they walk into the interview room, gauze-covered fingers laced together across her stomach. It'southward non equally defensive a posture equally he would wait, and it's clear from his partner'due south scowl that he'southward thrown by it every bit well. Her eyes film over them, taking in details and filing away thoughts, none of which show on her face.

"Give thanks you for coming with us," he greets her, glossing over the lack of choice she'd been given. "This is Special Amanuensis Brandon Eddison, and I'm Special Agent in Charge Victor Hanoverian."

The corner of her rima oris ticks upward in a fleeting movement he tin can't really phone call a grin. "Special Agent in Charge Victor Hanoverian," she repeats, her vox hoarse with smoke. "Quite a mouthful."

"Would you adopt Victor?"

"I don't really accept a preference, just thanks."

He unscrews the cap and hands her the canteen of h2o, using the moment to adjust his strategy. Definitely not traumatized, and non shy either. "Usually in that location'due south another role to the introductions."

"The helpful tidbits?" she says. "You like to weave baskets and take long swims, and Eddison likes to walk the streets in heels and a mini?"

Eddison growls and slams a fist onto the table. "What is your proper name?"

"Don't be rude."

Victor bites his lip against the temptation to smile. Information technology won't aid the state of affairs—certainly won't help his partner's country of mind—but the temptation is there just the same. "Would you please tell united states your name?"

"Thank you lot, just no. I don't believe I care to share that."

"Some of the girls called you Maya."

"And then why did you carp to ask?"

He hears Eddison's precipitous intake of breath, but ignores information technology. "We'd similar to know who you are, how y'all came here. We'd like to help yous go home."

"And if I said I don't need your help to get abode?"

"I'd wonder why you didn't become habitation earlier this."

There's a not-quite grinning, and a flicker of an eyebrow that might be approval. She's a cute daughter, with golden-brown skin and pale chocolate-brown, near amber optics, just she'south not soft. A smile volition have to exist earned. "I think we both know the respond to that. But I'm not in there anymore, am I? I can become domicile from here."

"And where is home?"

"I'yard non sure if information technology'due south there anymore."

"This isn't a game," Eddison snaps.

The daughter appraises him coolly. "No, of form not. People are dead, lives are ruined, and I'thou sure you were very inconvenienced at having to leave your football game."

Eddison flushes, tugging the attachment up higher over his shirt.

"You don't seem all that nervous," Victor notes.

She shrugs and takes a sip of the water, belongings the canteen gingerly in her bandaged hands. "Should I be?"

"Near people are when talking to the FBI."

"It'south not that different from talking with—" She bites her chapped lower lip, winces at the beads of blood that seep through the cracked peel. She takes another sip.

"With?" he prompts gently.

"Him," she answers. "The Gardener."

"The human who held you—you lot talked with his gardener?"

She shakes her head. "He was the Gardener."

Yous accept to understand, I didn't give him that proper noun out of fear or reverence, or some misguided sense of propriety. I didn't give him that proper noun at all. Like annihilation else in that place, it was made up out of the whole cloth of our ignorance. What wasn't known was created, what wasn't created eventually ceased to matter. It'southward a form of pragmatism, I suppose. Warm, loving people who desperately need approval from others fall victim to Stockholm syndrome, while the rest of us fall to pragmatism. Having seen both sides in others, I'chiliad for pragmatism.

I heard the name my outset day in the Garden.

I came to with a splitting headache, a hundred times worse than whatsoever hangover I'd ever experienced. I couldn't fifty-fifty open my optics at first. Hurting lanced through my skull with every breath, permit alone movement. I must accept fabricated a sound because suddenly there was a cool, clammy cloth over my forehead and eyes and a voice promising that it was only h2o.

I wasn't certain which unnerved me more: the fact that this was plain a frequent concern for her, or the fact that it was a her at all. At that place'd been no woman in the pair that kidnapped me, of that much I was sure.

An arm slid behind my shoulders, gently pulling me upright, and a paw pressed a glass against my lips. "Simply water, I promise," she said again.

I drank. It didn't really matter if information technology was "only water" or non.

"Tin you eat pills?"

"Yes," I whispered, and even that much sound collection some other nail through my skull.

"Open up upwards, then." When I obeyed, she placed two apartment pills on my natural language and brought the water upwardly again. I swallowed obediently, then tried not to vomit when she gently lowered me back to a absurd canvass and a business firm mattress. She didn't say anything else for a long time, non until the colored lights stopped dancing across the backs of my eyelids and I started to move of my own volition. Then she pulled abroad the textile across my confront, shielding my eyes from the overhead light until I could stop blinking.

"So you've done this a few times before," I croaked.

She handed me the drinking glass of water.

Even folded over on herself, on a stool beside the bed, it was easy to run across that she was tall. Tall and sinewy with long legs and lean muscles similar an Amazon. Or a lioness, really, considering she slumped bonelessly like a true cat. Tawny gold pilus was piled atop her head in some fancy nonsense, revealing a face with strong compages and deep chocolate-brown eyes with flecks of gold. She wore a silky, black dress that tied high effectually her neck.

She accepted my frank appraisement with something like relief. I suppose information technology was better than shrieking hysterics, which she'd probably gotten before.

"I'm called Lyonette," she said when I'd looked my make full and given my attending back to the water. "Don't bother telling me your name considering I won't be able to employ it. Best to forget it, if you can."

"Where are nosotros?"

"The Garden."

"The Garden?"

She shrugged, and even that was a fluid gesture, something graceful rather than inelegant. "Information technology'south as good a proper noun for it every bit whatever. Practice you want to see it?"

"I don't suppose you know a shortc

ut to a way out of here?"

She simply looked at me.

Right. I swung my legs over the border of the bed, planted my fists on the mattress, and realized I could see every bit of me there was to see. "Clothing?"

"Here." She handed me a slice of silky, black something that proved to be a slinky, human knee-length dress that came high around the neck and low on the dorsum. Really low. If I'd had dimples on my ass, she'd've been seeing them. She helped me tie the ropy sash around my hips, then gave me a gentle button toward the doorway.

The room was plain, severely so, with nothing in information technology but the bed and a small toilet and sink in one corner. In another corner was what seemed to be a tiny open shower. The walls were fabricated of thick glass, with a doorway in place of a door, and there was a track on either side of the glass.

Lyonette saw me looking at the track marks and scowled. "Solid walls come up down to keep us in our rooms and out of sight," she explained.

"Frequently?"

"Sometimes."

The doorway opened into a narrow hallway, running forth to my right, but only a brusk way on my left before it hit a corner. Near direct beyond from the doorway was some other entryway with more of that tracking—it led into a cave, damp and cool. An open arch on the far side of the cave brought breezes running through the dark rock infinite, bits of light catching in the waterfall that babbled and churned just outside. Lyonette led me out from behind the curtain of water into a garden so beautiful information technology nearly hurt to await at it. Brilliant flowers of every conceivable color bloomed in a riotous profusion of leaves and copse, clouds of butterflies drifting through them. A man-made cliff rose higher up united states, more greenery and trees alive on its apartment top, and the trees on the edges only brushed the sides of the glass roof that loomed impossibly far away. I could encounter tall black walls through the lower-level greenery, too tall to see what was beyond, and little pockets of open space surrounded by vines. I thought they might be doorways to halls like the one we'd been in.

The atrium was massive, virtually overwhelming in its sheer size earlier you even looked at the anarchism of color. The waterfall fed into a narrow stream that meandered downwardly to a small pond decked in water lilies, white sand paths tracking through the greenery to those other doors.

shivermagas1938.blogspot.com

Source: https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/dot-hutchison/60341-the_butterfly_garden.html

Share this post