Cat in the Flock (Dreamslippers Book 1)

by Lisa Brunette

  "I get that. I do."

  Granny Grace smiled. "I'll do anything I can to help you. Will you keep up with the yoga and meditation?"

  "Yes," Cat agreed. "But I also need to find a church."

  "Wait a minute," Granny Grace said. "Why didn't I think about it before? Simon's still clinging to his Catholicism." She stopped, looking a bit guilty. "Let me rephrase that. Simon continues to worship as a Catholic. He attends a very liberal-minded church on Capitol Hill. You should try it. They're known for their music. That's how he got started in the Seattle Men's Choir."

  As it was Saturday, Granny Grace immediately got Simon on the phone, and arrangements were made for Cat to accompany him to church on Sunday.

  That morning, Lee sent her a text message: Kitty Cat, I'll be back. He was on his way to Virginia.

  The cathedral where Simon worshipped was a beautiful Romanesque stone building with a rotunda, the exterior covered in green tile that brightened when it rained. Cat felt a rush of giddy homesickness as they walked through the entrance. There was the familiar hush as the haphazard noises from the street were replaced by reverent silence. Her heels clipped on the marble floor. She smelled incense, someone's perfume. It was White Shoulders, her mother's usual fragrance. Mercy would be proud of her attending mass, Cat thought, though she wasn't doing this for her benefit. Cat dipped her fingers into the holy water font and crossed herself with it. Simon did the same. Together they walked in and took a seat near the front.

  "This church is very committed to public service," he whispered to her, gesturing toward a photo gallery on the side wall. "Those are pictures of the ministry's work helping to repatriate Hmong refugees. They also have a renowned program helping street kids here in Seattle." When Cat asked, Simon explained that the Hmong people had fled Laos during the civil war.

  To Cat's surprise, a woman gave not only the two liturgical readings, which would be common enough, but also the gospel. For the homily, she was joined by the priest, and the two of them delivered it together, taking turns in a sort of dramatic reading style. It was the priest, however, who performed the Eucharist. The woman spoke well; it was obvious that she had put a great deal of thought into both what she would say about the biblical readings and how she would deliver them. She spoke of Jesus’ death as a "cosmic event." This was God's dramatic act to fight evil in the world—a sacrifice, not a violent battle. Cat had never thought of God's sacrifice of Jesus as part of a cosmic battle between good and evil. She wondered then if Granny Grace believed in the existence of evil in the world. Most likely not; none of the meditation or yoga teachers had ever mentioned evil. Their work seemed to center on how to de-stress and counter one's ego, not how to respond to acts of pure, unmitigated evil committed by human beings.

  Cat remembered a nightmare she had had, her own this time, the night of September 11, 2001. Jesus appeared before her, a man wearing blue jeans. He was waving a terry-cloth towel above his head printed with the American flag.

  "Evil is alive and living in the hearts of men," he warned. She'd awakened, her heart filled with pain and fear. Her face was wet; she'd been crying. It was a heady dream for an eleven-year-old to have, and it stayed with her.

  After the first reading, there was a psalm for the congregation to recite. This verse reverberated through Cat, as it captured exactly how she felt: "Give me back the joy of your salvation, and a willing spirit sustain in me."

  The music was good: a local singer-songwriter performing with her band. She sang a hymn called "Spirit Blowing Through Creation," her voice husky. By the end of the performance, she had the congregation on their feet clapping and singing along with her. When Cat turned to give the sign of peace to Simon, he ignored her outstretched hand and gave her a sweet bear hug instead.

  Chapter 6

  Cat felt wet. Her clothing was damp and clinging to her body. For a split second she thought she was a little girl again, waking from having wet the bed. She opened her eyes to find herself in an adult man's body, lying in a puddle of water. The ground around her was soggy and had been torn up. Puddles of mud and damp earth surrounded her. She was completely alone, no signs of life anywhere. All she could see in any direction was the muddy, torn-up earth and then a thick, wet fog in the distance.

  She stood and looked at herself. She was so covered in mud she could barely make out that she was wearing a man's suit. In her hand was a little doll, an angel with a harp, likewise covered in mud. Its blond hair was streaked with grime, the halo a tarnished gold wire. She stared at her hands: they were delicate, not calloused from hard labor, but they were a man's hands, the fingernails bitten to the quick. Fear crept up in her, fear that she'd get hypothermia out here in her bare feet, and fear that she didn't know where she was or where to go. But was this her fear, or the dreamer's? She tried separating her own emotions from his, tuning in deeply. She began to feel the loopy edges of her own fear: unfamiliarity, aloneness, cold. Out beyond that were the jagged edges of his. It felt like shards of glass, his fear; it was cold and irrational, and it spun inside a terrible hatred of all this dirt and squalor.

  He was in control; she was just along for the ride. The two of them, the man and Cat riding sidesaddle to his consciousness, peered into the horizon and made out the tip of a roof in the distance, showing through the fog.

  They walked in that direction, the muddy ground sucking at their feet and making them unsteady as they walked. There was a sudden movement out of the corner of their eye, and they turned quickly to see the tail of a snake disappearing into a hole in the ground. So there was life out here, Cat thought. But it was her own thought, not his.

  And it wasn't just one life. It was many. There were more holes, more snakes. Hundreds of them, all around them. One darted toward their ankle to strike, and they jumped just in time to avoid it.

  The building loomed into view. It was a rough shack, like ones she'd seen on farms back home. They raced to the door, pulled it open, jumped inside, and slammed the door shut with both hands.

  Dust fell from the ceiling and onto their head. Still pressing against the door as if the snakes outside could burst through, they peered side to side in the dimly lit room. Light came in only from one smudged window and the cracks between the rough-hewn boards that made up the walls. A thick layer of grime lay over everything. There was a bed on one side, a mass of rumpled yellow sheets piled in the middle of a soiled mattress. On the other side was what passed for a kitchen—a tiny sink overflowing with dirty dishes. Bugs crawled across the pans, plates, and the filthy drain board.

  They let go of the door, satisfied that it would not swing open on its own, and turned around. What Cat saw made her react with surprise, but her dreamer had seen it before; she could feel the contented recognition in him. This is what he'd come here for. This would make everything okay again. It was a glossy white cabinet with a tall spire at the top, in the style of an old-fashioned rural church. The roof of the shack slanted upward to double the height on that side to make room for the spire.

  She didn't know what to make of it. It was a beautiful, elaborate cabinet showing fine craftsmanship, completely out of place in this shack. The cabinet was locked, but the man had the key in his pocket. He pulled it out, inserted it into the lock, turned, and opened both doors.

  Behind it were dozens of wooden cubbyholes, each about two feet wide by two feet tall and housing a porcelain doll dressed as an angel.

  Cat could feel the heat of a red wall of fire and need inside him raging toward the dolls in the cabinet. There was a strong feeling of ownership and also responsibility. It was up to him to deliver them from evil. It was up to him to make sure they didn't sin. He was their keeper; he would make them obey the will of the Lord. The temptations were so raw. The dark, powerful sins of the flesh could tear a little girl to pieces inside until she let evil overcome her, making her hungry, making her spread her legs and let her juices flow, beckoning men with her ripe, red—

  Cat recoiled against the force of the m
an's roiling emotions, knocking herself back. She hit the door behind her, hard. And there was the man in front of her; she could see his lean back in the muddy suit. She'd done it. She was out of him. He stood there gazing at his angels. He seemed unaware of Cat's presence.

  "My pretty little angels," the man said in a voice with a lovely cadence that sounded familiar to her. "So perfect," he intoned, his voice reverent. "So clean."

  He looked at the muddy angel in his hand, sighed, and walked over to the sink overflowing with dishes.

  "Auntie never cleans this place," he muttered. "She's hardly ever here. Always out with her men." One by one, he took the dishes and threw them to the floor, where they shattered, the bugs scattering under the floorboards. Once the sink was empty, he washed the mud from the angel. Then he walked her to the white cabinet and set her into place. He stood there with his arms crossed, admiring his work. Then suddenly he stopped, pointing to two cubbyholes near the top left. They were empty.

  "Those two are missing," he cried, his voice growing angry and hard. "Sherrie and the girl. They're supposed to be here." For the first time he turned and looked at Cat directly, but his eyes didn't seem to register that he saw her. She must be invisible to him, she realized. His face looked familiar to her, as if she'd seen him before, but his eyes were black, like onyx stones. His was the emptiest gaze Cat had ever seen. She expected him to come unhinged, to be angry to the point of losing control, but he did not; in fact, he seemed to shrink into himself like a quasar, the focus pulled in more tightly. With an even, heavy tone, he announced, "I need to get them back."

  Cat woke, this time fully aware that she had been dreaming and with the presence of mind to know what she needed to do. It wasn't time for her rounds, but she left the hut anyway, taking her backpack and her flashlight with her.

  She'd been waiting for this moment for days.

  Cat walked to the back of the building and took the bolt cutters out of her backpack. In a matter of seconds, she'd cut the newly secured padlock and was inside the building. She allowed her eyes some time to adjust to the light, keeping her flashlight doused. She knew exactly where to go—to the second floor. She walked quietly up the stairs, feeling her way as she went.

  She crept softly, listening until she heard breathing. There was definitely someone in here. Her dreamer!

  She stepped slowly, her hand on the flashlight.

  The room was darker than the hallway had been. Someone had papered the window, blocking out light from the streetlights, the moon, and the stars. She could make out a very large figure covered in blankets on a makeshift bed, plywood under a cheap mattress, and piles of clothes and other belongings strewn throughout the room.

  The element of surprise would be to her advantage this time. There was no way she was going to let her trespasser get away. She crept up to the bed. Her sleeper had his back to her and the blankets up over his head. Cat took a deep, calming breath and then reached out for the top of the blanket.

  She pulled the blanket down, shining the flashlight on her sleeper, and saw not one head, but two. A woman and a little girl. Cat remembered a name in rainbow-colored letters on a pink roller bag: R-U-T-H. It was the girl from the plane, the one who'd dreamed of a devil with a pitchfork.

  Cat startled them both awake, the woman reacting first in horror and then surprise, as if she expected to be caught, but not by Cat. The girl opened her mouth as if to scream, but the mother instinctively clamped her hand over her mouth. "Shh!" she hissed. "It's okay. Don't yell."

  "Who are you? What are you doing here?" Cat demanded.

  The woman sat up on the makeshift bed, gathering the blanket around her for warmth. Her attention was on the girl. "Sh, sh," she said, rocking the girl in her arms, her hand still clamped around her mouth. "It's okay. No screaming. It's okay." The girl slowly quieted down, but big tears flowed from her shut eyes. Cat felt bad.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to upset her. But you're—" Cat struggled to define the exact offense these two innocuous people could possibly be charged with committing. "Trespassing," she settled on, though the word rang out in the dim room as a hollow accusation.

  "Don't turn us in," the woman said. "Please. We're homeless."

  Cat looked around the room. They didn't have much, but there was a space heater and a cell phone plugged into a plateless wall socket. The builders had wired the building for electricity before the project was halted, though no light fixtures had yet been installed. If they were homeless, they were either really good at scavenging, or someone was helping them. A cell phone would need a billing address. Cat scanned the pairs of shoes lined up on one side of the wall. The woman's were brand-new, high-end hiking shoes, and their neatly folded clothes looked well made and new as well. Plus, she knew these were the people she saw on the plane. She needed no confirmation, for the girl's dark, sad look was burned into her memory, and there was the pink roller bag with R-U-T-H in rainbow lettering across the front.

  "I saw you on the plane," Cat said. "From St. Louis."

  The woman's eyes widened a moment in fear and then narrowed. "No, you didn't," she said. "It must be a mistake. I'm from Seattle. I'm homeless... My husband left us, and I lost my job. I found this building and knew I could stay here for a while. Please... don't tell anyone we're here."

  "We need to get you out of here. We need to get you better... accommodations." Cat couldn't believe she'd just used the word "accommodations," as if this were a resort.

  "No," the woman refused. "The shelters are full up. There's nowhere for us to go. We're safer here. We have food." She gestured toward a stack of canned beans and vegetables on a wooden construction spool in the corner, acting as a kitchen table. There was a backpacking stove and several bottles of fuel. The woman was certainly prepared.

  Cat sat back on her heels and sighed. "If they find you, I could lose my job," she said.

  "I won't mention you. You didn't know we were here."

  There was something earnest in the woman's face, not to mention desperate, that made Cat decide to help her even though she knew the woman was lying.

  "Okay," Cat agreed. "But I want to try to help you. Maybe a church—"

  "No!" the woman cried out violently. "Not a church. I won't go to a church."

  "Sorry," Cat apologized, wary. This woman was obviously in some dire emotional situation. Cat would have to tread lightly to not set her off.

  The girl spoke up then. "The church people are weird. But I like the singing. I like baby Jesus."

  "Sh..." the mother said, attempting to rock her to sleep. "She needs her rest," the woman explained to Cat.

  "This is no place for a kid," Cat remarked. "I can't leave you here."

  "We won't be here that long," the woman said. "We're waiting for my sister. She's taking us to Canada. Please..."

  Her words prickled Cat's memory banks. The gosling. A mother goose. Canadian geese, heading north. She'd slipped into this woman's dream.

  But the angel dreamer—that was someone else, and he was still nearby, possibly still asleep. She needed to find him.

  "All right," Cat said, sighing. "I'll let you stay here the rest of tonight, but we have to come up with a better solution than this."

  The woman narrowed her eyes at her. "You don't understand. This is the best solution for us. We're so close."

  The girl had already fallen back to sleep in her mother's arms. Cat replied, "I'll check on you in the morning." Then, unsure that it was the right thing to do, she left them there, in their makeshift bed.

  She walked down the stairs, out of the condo building, and back out to the street. She scanned the nearby buildings. The neighborhood was zoned for mixed-use, but most of what was here wasn't livable space but office buildings, shops, and restaurants. The city had been actively trying to mix the use in the neighborhood, encouraging more residential units so more people could live and work in close proximity. But the initiative had been halted by the real estate market collapse, the Fletcher-B
ander project being just one example. There were a few other stalled projects. Behind the condo was an enormous pit in the ground where a builder had begun digging a sub-level parking garage. On either side of the condo site were half-empty commercial real estate buildings with retail spaces at street level, "for lease" signs in their windows.

  So a sleeper would be too far down the street for Cat to be able to slip into his dream, or in an apartment building too close to a hundred other dreamers—unless, like she'd thought before, he were in a car.

  She scanned up and down the rows of parked cars. Again, nothing stood out to her. Slowly, she walked past them, looking carefully for anything out of the ordinary. There was a Texas plate on a brand-new red Prius that caused her a split-second of excitement, but the car was utterly empty, and clean, too: nothing but a Starbucks coffee cup in the drink holder to show it had been recently driven.

  There were more than the average neighborhood's share of Priuses, a few Hondas, and a couple of the newer domestic cars. Then she noticed him: a figure sitting in a white sedan, asleep in the front seat, as if he'd been waiting for someone and dozed off. She couldn't quite make out what he looked like, but it was a man. She glanced at her cell phone to check the time. It was 4:05 am. What was he doing out here?

  She debated what to do. It wasn't exactly her jurisdiction. He wasn't on the condo property, and she had no reason to call the cops on him, as it wasn't against the law to sit in a car. But the fact that he was sleeping in a car in this area at this time of night was suspicious. She wanted to at least get a better look at the guy, see if he was the one in the dream. She crept toward the car, quietly, hoping he'd remain asleep.

  The car looked nondescript, like a rental, but maybe he was just the type not to put any bumper stickers or other identifiers on his vehicle. Rental agencies didn't mark cars as theirs in order to deter theft on tourists, so rentals tended to blend in, making it harder for law enforcement to identify them. The telltale sign of a rental is a bar code sticker either on the driver's side door or the windshield. If she had an in with the agency, she could ask them to run the bar code to tell her the name of the renter. If she were a cop, she could run the plates, but that wasn't an option, obviously. Granny Grace had friends on the force, but Cat couldn't take the time to get that going and risk losing her dreamer. She moved quietly around to the driver's side, taking care not to let her shadow, cast by the streetlight behind her, fall across his face.