Dream Weaver (Dream Weaver #1) (6 page)

             
“Leave me alone,” I screamed into Adrian’s face.

             
“You don’t
need
to be alone right now. You
need
to be with your family,” he argued.

             
I laughed sardonically, “So dead, then?”

             
“Emari, that’s not what I…”

             
“Well, you’re not my family, are you?” I saw him flinch, knew my jab plunged straight to the heart but I plowed on anyway, careless of his feelings.
My
grief was the most profound. “My family is gone. Shall I join them?”

             
Silence.

             
Adrian held my arms and I felt his body vibrate under the stress. I dropped my voice to a lethal whisper. “Now. Let me go and get the hell out of my house.”

              His body froze solid with shock and grief. Zecharias and Jane Sweet were his friends, but they were my parents. He dropped his hands to his sides with a quiet smack and shuffled to the door. He paused, the knob crushed in his fist. “Emari…” his voice so strained it was thin, tight, fragile.

             
But I was merciless. “Get. The hell. Out.”

             
He walked out without another word.

              I had been selfish, and ruthless. I couldn’t leave him in that kind of pain again. He and Celeste deserved better.

             
The next message was a “checking in” message from Collin, and the rest of the calls were from Jesse, all of them short and sweet. I smiled as I listened and erased each one.

             
As my phone snapped shut, a knock on the front door shattered the stillness of my home. Ice slashed through my veins. My fingers found the stun gun between the couch cushions. I crept slowly to the door, peered through the oval, beveled glass. Memories flagged and tumbled as I focused on a police officer on the other side. The stance was familiar; Officer Elliot in her cop pose.
My eyebrows crushed together as I entered the alarm code into the pad and opened the door.

             
“Officer Elliot?”

             
“Molly,” she smiled.

             
“Um, okay. Molly. What are you doing here?” Although, as soon as the words left my lips, I knew the answer.

             
“Ivy,” we said in unison, and then laughed. I noticed the youthful timbre of her voice. She smiled at me, shrugged, and continued. “She called me because she couldn’t get ahold of you and she was worried.”

             
“Uh, yeah, I’m fine. I just turned my phone off for a couple of days.” Though I wasn’t really sure how many days it had been.

             
“That’s what I figured, but I told her I’d check up on you, anyway,” she smiled again and glanced over my shoulder into the house. I wondered if she came prepared with a battering ram to ‘check on me’ if I hadn’t answered the door. The silence stretched and she shifted her weight awkwardly from foot to foot. “Could I come in? I wanted to talk to you, if I could.”

             
“Um. Sure.” I opened the door and gestured her in with the stun gun. Her eyebrow quirked. “Uh, yeah…I…uh…” I babbled and gingerly placed it on the shelf by the door.

             
“Don’t sweat it. I understand. Just be careful you don’t zap yourself.” One corner of her mouth ticked up in a lopsided smile.

             
We sat on the couch and talked about the weather and road conditions. I imagined her with her long dark hair down, out of its tight regulation bun, and in jeans and a t-shirt. I guessed she must not be a whole lot older than me.

             
“You look really good. You’re healing very quickly,” she said after scrutinizing my face a few moments.

             
“Thanks. I’m a little surprised myself.”

             
“I wanted you to know about the assault crisis programs available in town,” she said. “It might help you a lot to get involved in one.”

             
I scowled as I contemplated standing in front of people telling them my story.
Yeah…No.
I distracted myself from the thought, marveled at how easily she slid between her business and casual personas. It was as though being a cop was an innate part of her, something she was predestined to be. I still didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up. ‘Rich heiress’ had kind of been dropped in my lap.

             
“So, did you get—him, yet?” I asked, hopeful.

             
“Not yet, but we’ve got some solid leads. I have some pictures if you think you can ID him. If you’re feeling up to it. It would really help.”

             
I nodded and she reached into her breast pocket and withdrew four pictures, mug shots. I listened to the sliding
shush
of each picture, and the
snap
, like a card from a deck, as she placed them in a neat row on the couch cushion between us. I kept my eyes locked on her face, afraid to look.
Pathetic! Letting a stupid picture scare you.
“Is he there?” I nodded toward the row of pictures, my green eyes still locked on the tranquil blue safety of hers.

             
“We think so.” She held my gaze, her face calm and encouraging. “We just need your ID to go pick him up.”

             
I let my eyes drift to the front of her uniform, with all the cop paraphernalia hanging on her, and realized she wore a bulletproof vest. “Does that thing get hot?” I nodded toward her vest.

             
“You get use to it. They’re a lot lighter than they use to be. Advances in technology and all.” She smiled encouragement, patient with my reticence.

             
I nodded again and drew in a deep breath. Closing my eyes, I turned my face to the pictures. I let out the breath and opened my eyes slowly. After scanning the first two pictures, I knew immediately that neither of these two was the man who attacked me.

             
My eyes locked on the third. I didn’t even bother to glance at the fourth.

             
My heart crashed to a halt, then rebooted and banged wildly in my chest as if trying to escape from him again.

             
“This one,” I rasped through the constricting knot in my throat. I placed my finger below the third picture. I couldn’t even touch the image of him.

             
“You’re sure?” she encouraged.

             
“Absolutely,” I breathed, and restrained the whimper that fought for control of my voice. I focused on breathing normally. Deep breath through the nose. Exhale, slow, calm.

             
“That’s great, Emari. We don’t have a current address for him, but it shouldn’t take long to find him.” Officer Molly gathered the pictures and stood to go. “Thanks for your help. I’ll call you if we need you.”

             
I knew better. I knew it would be ‘when’, not ‘if’, they would need me. My blood turned to ice in my veins. The waking nightmare of this was far from over. There would be a trial, and I would have to testify, stand in front of this vile man and relive that day in grisly detail.

             
I followed her to the door. “Sure. Whatever you need,” I choked out.

             
Molly handed me a business card. “This is for that group I told you about. My personal cell is on the back. Please call me if you need anything. All right?”

             
“Sure. Thanks.” I felt like I should hug her or something but it didn’t seem appropriate. “See ya,” I said instead.

             
“You bet. See ya. And Emari, you really are looking a lot better.” Molly reached out and squeezed one of my hands before she tromped down the front steps and the sidewalk to her patrol car. I waved good-bye, reset the alarm and gathered my stunner to my chest. The thought of my zombie sheep receiving a jolt amused me.
Poor zapped lamb.

             
The house popped and settled quietly after she left. Its peaceful protestations reminded me of my friends who continued to struggle with all of this. The friends I forced outside my own personal walls. I sighed and shuffled to the kitchen to make myself some tea, scooping up my cell phone along the way. Despite my own continued private turmoil, it was time to return a few phone calls. My friends needed my reassurances, my help to cope with the kind of violence that had never touched any of our lives before. Though that haunted look in Jesse’s eyes made me wonder at a past he seldom discussed.

             
I checked in with everyone, reassured both Ivy and Jesse that I was okay and I didn’t need them to baby-sit me. I promised I would come into town soon for a visit. I told them about Officer Molly’s visit and the guy I’d identified. Ivy offered to go to the support group with me, if I decided to go.

              I sat, huddled in a blanket on the couch, dreading my final call. Adrian and Celeste would be the most difficult to talk to. They worried so, and I didn’t have the strength for the usual argument. But it had to be done—for their sanity. When I finally got the nerve to call, relief warmed me when their voicemail picked up.
What a wuss.

             
“Hey, you guys. It’s Emari. Um…I’m sorry I haven’t called before now…and that you found out from the local news. I just wasn’t up to conversation. I am sorry I worried you. I’m okay, though. I promise. I just need to be alone for a while to get my head on straight. Um, I identified a guy today. The cops’ll go pick him up once they get a new address on him. So, that’s all good.” I tried to sound slightly cheery, not too much; they would never believe it anyway. “Okay. So, please, try not to worry. Honest, Celeste, I really am okay. I’ll call you soon. I promise. Kiss the kids for me, ‘kay? I love you guys.”

             
Adrian knew about the stalking calls, made me swear to call him if things escalated. I knew he worried like a dad. And Barbie doll Celeste fretted more. I hoped Emma and Peter remained clueless to any of this vileness.

             
Feeling completely drained, I made myself another cup of herbal tea and retreated to the couch. Swathed in my fleece blanket, I cuddled my cup like a teddy bear. The tendrils of steam licked across my cheeks. The tea’s fragrance tickled my memory, but I couldn’t quite remember its name or where it came from. “Tea” was the only label on the retro brown metal tea canister on my kitchen counter. Whatever it was, its calming effect distracted me, and I soon forgot why it was even relevant.

             
I slumped over on the couch as sleep surged and swaddled me in its warm embrace. Like the press of the ocean, it washed over me, kneading the wreckage of my soul.

Chapter 7
Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog

              They say everyone dreams, every night—whoever
they
are. I typically never remembered dreaming, even as a child, unless I had a nightmare, but even then the images faded quickly. Sometimes, I woke up with the memory of having had a dream, but unable to remember more than hazy, disjointed bits and pieces, if anything. Even those fractions eroded away, drowned out by the day’s thoughts.

             
I didn’t remember dreaming that night. Hazy waves of blessed quiescence rolled over me, lulled me deeper than I’d been in uncountable nights. I woke up with a feeling that was—almost happy, at least content. I dressed for the first time in several days in something other than fuzzy jammies—jeans and a grungy Gonzaga sweatshirt. A little makeup enlivened my face, not that any amount of Covergirl could hide the remnants of bruises; it was still obvious I’d taken a beating. I hid my unruly hair and the sutures under a black stocking cap adorned with white laughing skulls.
Well, that’s optimistic.
Spikes jutted out in wild disarray, and I tugged them into place strategically, across my left forehead, eye and cheek, trying to hide some of the damage. Finally, I gathered my purse and keys, bundled up in my winter coat and boots, and headed for the door. The doorknob was ominous and rattled in my hand.
I can do this.

             
After surveying the area for lurking shadows and footprints in the snow, I stepped out from under the carport to take in the view. The sun filtered through a wispy layer of clouds and ignited the twenty-five acres of untouched snow surrounding me. The trees drooped under heavy mantles of sparkling white. It was a safe pristine world around me, dazzling with scattered shimmering crystals. The artistry of nature was breath-taking.

             
Mount Spokane rose in the eastern skyline, buried in fine powder the skiers would love. The sound of heavy traffic rumbled from behind the house on SR 206, Mt. Spokane Road. Skiers ready to face the mountain.

             
As I turned to go to my car, I noticed something—unexpected. Someone had plowed my driveway and the road to the highway. That was strange. Maybe some neighbor took pity on me, knew I was living alone. No neighbors lived within nearly a half mile, but they had all known my parents, had been my parent’s neighbors as well, until…
Well, that was nice. I guess
.               The highway glistened between jagged lines of de-icer as I drove the five miles into Spokane to a garden/pet store on the north side of town. Their sign read, “Gifts for pets! Pets for gifts!” I liked this pet store. It was a locally owned business, not one of those big snobby franchise stores, more personal and friendly. On my way toward the back of the store to the pet department, I stopped to scratch the store cat, Wallace, a quiet little Scottish Folds, on the head. He purred gratefully, then hopped down off his shelf and sauntered away.

             
I ambled to the kitten cages and found six cute, fuzzy kittens, all mewing for my attention or batting little paws at me through the bars. I poked my fingers into the cage, wiggled them in play, until one tiny tuxedo kitten sank its needle-sharp claw into my flesh. I walked away, squeezing the wounded digit to stop the bleeding.

             
The birds made me nervous, so I kept my distance. We’d had a parakeet when I was a kid. We named it Polly. It would sit on Mom’s shoulder and drink tea from her cup. My dad talked and whistled to it, trying to teach it. Personally, I would have loved to play with it, hold it on my finger and sing to it, but Polly had no affection for me whatsoever, and made no bones about conveying this message loud and clear. It bit me. Hard. Message received.

             
The huge aquariums of fish were beautiful to watch. The glowing blue and neon yellow fish darted in the currents. But the tanks made me feel cold, inside and out. The lizards and snakes were pretty cool, but hardly cuddle-worthy. The tarantulas and scorpions just made my skin crawl. I couldn’t even look at them. Ivy called it the heeby jeebies.

             
The quiet yips and playful growls of puppies spilled from a low-walled enclosure. I crept quietly closer, trying not to disrupt their play, and discovered four tri-colored beagle puppies inside. Three of the pups toppled over one another, bit each other’s ears, legs and tails. The fourth pup sat quietly to the side, and watched his siblings play. His little mouth curled up at the corners like a peaceful smile. He nodded his approval at his littermates until one of his sisters toddled over to him, reared up and boxed his ears. She dropped into a play bow, growled her dare for him to join the fun. He continued to sit stark still, regarded her thoughtfully—then pounced. They tumbled over and over with mock-fierce snarls and growls. So ferocious.

             
I put my hand into the enclosure, tapped on the wall and called to the puppies. The first three ignored me, but that fourth little guy pattered over to my hand and chewed on it playfully, his little puppy teeth pricked my skin.

             
“Ouch!” I scolded. With a look of regret he started licking my hand, trying to make it all better. I scooped him up and held his warm, soft puppy body to my chest, his velveteen head nestled up under my chin. A contented smile grew on my lips as I breathed in his straw-and-puppy scent, and rubbed my cheek on his soft fur. Definitely love at first sight.

             
The guy at the sales counter leaned on his elbows reading a newspaper, looking bored out of his mind. His crazy, curly brown hair stuck up all over his head. The hair bobbled independently of his head when he moved. I smiled but suppressed the giggle that threatened to leap out. At first, a look of annoyance darkened his eyes as he looked up at me holding the pup. The signs did say not to pick up the puppies without an assistant. He started to speak, and then scanned my face, assessed the damage. His brow furrowed then smoothed out. “Guard dog?” he murmured.

             
“Ha, yeah. Something like that,” I said softly, afraid he knew why my face was so battered and bruised; that he’d guessed I was the victim from the news reports. Thankfully, the police hadn’t released my name or picture; one of the benefits of still being, technically, a minor. I’d caught snippets of the story myself on the local news but shut it out in any way I could when I saw it. Too bad I couldn’t mute it for the rest of the world, too.

             
A little paperwork, some shopping and six hundred dollars later, and my new AKC registered Beagle puppy sat bundled in his crate on my passenger seat, headed home with me.

             
His markings were very distinct. The black part of him formed a vampire’s peak over his eyes, ran over the top of his head, and down his neck, then formed a saddle across his back. The black ended halfway up his tail, the rest of which was white, like a paintbrush dipped in a bucket of white paint. Brown and white spots spattered the rest of his body; his broad little chest was all white. A streak of white slashed across his right shoulder. His muzzle was all brown, except for a patch about the size of my thumb that was white on his left upper lip. His eyes were a deep blue-gray that I was sure would change as he got older.

             
He was so smart. Only eight weeks old and he already chased a ball and return it to me on a ‘come’ command. I would sit on the living room floor and toss the ball into the dining room or down the hall toward my bedroom, and he would scramble after it. His little claws scrabbled against the hardwood floors. By evening I’d dubbed him Eddyson, like Thomas Edison, because he was so smart. When he wasn’t sleeping, he followed me from room to room or curled up in my lap. By bedtime, I also nicknamed him my Velcro dog.

             
In the middle of the night, he whimpered from his crate. I thought he must have to go potty, so I scooped him up, and took him out into the yard. His little body shivered violently when we headed back inside. I knew I shouldn’t, but I bundled him up in his blanket, and curled up under my blanket with my body wrapped around him.
Aw, I’m spooning with a dog.
I laughed, a sound I hadn’t heard without derision in what felt like years, and nuzzled his little head, breathed in his sweet, dusty, puppy-scent.

             
I vaguely remembered him moving in the night. When I awoke, I found him flopped over the back couch cushion, limp as a rag doll and sound asleep. I had slept relatively soundly myself last night. I smiled and gently stroked his head with my finger. Trying not to disturb him, I gingerly got up, and went into the bathroom, showered and got dressed. When I was done, Eddyson was still sleeping, drooped on his side, every tiny muscle limp, a puddle of fur on the back of my couch.
Gees, you would think I’d worked him all night or something
.

              I went about my day and allowed the little guy to sleep. A lingering sense of defensiveness over my choice of a beagle nagged at me, as if I had argued with someone about getting a bigger dog, perhaps like a German shepherd. As if something inside me told me Dad would have preferred a more ‘vicious’ breed. But, I loved Eddyson. He was perfect for me. Just having this warm, loveable bundle of slobber around brought something back into my life that I was missing—life.

              Eddyson continued to be the most incredible, smart, loving, amazing little creature I had ever known. Each morning, I awoke with new commands for him to learn and he learned them immediately. It wasn’t long before he mastered ‘come’, ‘go get it’, ‘bring it here’, ‘drop it’, ‘leave it’ and ‘sit’. We were still working on commands to play dead and roll over.

             
Despite having Eddyson around though, my nights were still rough. I could occupy my mind during waking hours. There was always something to do around the house; emails to respond to, cleaning, minor repairs, snowy walks with the pup. He was so cute bounding over the eight inches of snow that came up to his shoulders. He loved the powdery drifts. And icicles. I broke off an icy shard and tossed it a few feet away into a snow bank. He chased it like a stick, buried his face in the frosty powder in a frenetic search to find it. He reappeared, icicle clenched victoriously in his teeth, a dusting of white on his little muzzle, eyes sparkling with delight and wagging his whole body.

             
However, when the nights enfolded my little house in the woods and my world grew still and quiet, my brain turned dicey. Even my vicious guard dog couldn’t protect me from sleep and its bitter companions. But I had to sleep sometime. It was inescapable. I hadn’t been brave enough to return to work yet, partly because of the dreams that still haunted my sleep. Sleep interrupted nightly by my own screams.

             
The wind ripped at my clothes and knifed through my skin, unleashed tremors of arctic dread. Flurries of snow raged around me, my enemy combatant. A burgundy luxury sedan, pressed through the wind and snow toward me down the four-lane freeway. The car skidded, smashed, flipped and burned; my mother screamed, the fire roared, the metal groaned as the gas tank exploded with fury…over and over and over again.

              My envisioned screams escaped into the real world. Eddyson scurried away and I clutched my head. My body curled in on itself, my breath ripped so forcefully in and out of my lungs that they ached.
Eventually, Eddyson’s cold, wet nose touched my arm and his little head nudged under my hand, bringing me reassurance and an anchor to reality.