Where Dreams Begin Read online

  “A man named Felix Mendoza was murdered near here the other night, and it appears to have been a particularly vicious crime. He’d served time, most recently for pandering, and was carrying a bottle of Rohypnol.” When the name brought mystified stares from several in his audience, Luke offered more detail.

  “It’s known as the date-rape drug, or ‘roofies’. It’s not available in the United States as a sleeping pill, but it’s sold in a great many other countries, including Mexico. The drug not only renders a person unconscious, but also causes short-term memory loss, so when they awaken, they aren’t certain what’s happened to them, unless, of course, it’s painfully obvious that they’ve been raped.

  “Felix was last seen with two pretty girls, and it doesn’t take much in the way of imagination to guess he planned to take them home, slip the Rohypnol into their Cokes, and then slip them something else entirely.”

  He paused to allow everyone to paint an appropriately disgusting scene in their minds. “A few days with Felix would convince any girl she’d been born to be a whore.”

  That ugly prediction brought a gasp and deep blush from Alice, Betty and Rita Tubergen, while Joe gave more of a strangled gulp, but Luke had meant to shock them. “The teens who come to Lost Angel haven’t had pretty lives, folks, and the men they meet aren’t passing out milk and cookies. The Times article makes no mention of witnesses or suspects, but rather than raise the crime rate, I’d say Felix’s death has actually improved the quality of our neighborhood.”

  Rita raised her hand. “But, Dr. Starns, Luke, surely you don’t condone murder.”

  “You might be surprised by what I’ve learned to condone since taking over Lost Angel,” Luke replied drily, “but it’s nothing compared to what some of the kids have done to survive. Los Angeles has approximately 5,000 homeless teens, and only 200 beds available in shelters. You do the math. It wouldn’t hurt any of you to spend a few nights out on the street to gain a real appreciation of why our needs are so great.”

  Joe Tubergen shifted uneasily in his chair. “I think maybe we’ve made a mistake in coming here.”

  “Did you expect volunteering to be as enjoyable as coaching Little League?” Luke responded.

  “Well, yeah, maybe a little bit,” Joe admitted sheepishly. “At any rate, I didn’t think we’d have to step over dead pimps to reach the door.”

  “Felix died several blocks from here,” Luke corrected. “But that doesn’t mean you won’t trip over a corpse tomorrow, and it could be one of the kids. Every year we’ve lost a few to one type of violence or another.”

  He gave them a moment to consider that fact, then cleared his throat and continued in a more matter-of-fact manner. “Lost Angel is supported by private grants as well as public donations, and we track every penny. It’s time-consuming but well worth the effort to maintain our donors’ trust.

  “We furnish hot showers, clean clothes and nutritious meals. We also offer group and individual counseling, and provide referrals for medical and dental care. We do our damnedest to help kids find jobs and safe places to live. Until they have both, they can pick up their mail here, and that service means a lot to them. Runaways quickly discover that being on their own is no adventure, but if they’re too ashamed to call their parents and beg for money to return home, we’ll take the first step and contact their family.

  “I want to make it clear right now that we never make promises we can’t keep, nor do we allow volunteers to take any of the kids home, because none of us can care for them all, and it wouldn’t be fair to the ones left behind. Most of them support themselves panhandling, but if you come here with your pockets or purse bulging with dollar bills, you’ll probably be robbed before you can pass out more than one or two.”

  Catherine thought the others looked a mite green, but she was curious about a point Luke had not mentioned and raised her hand.

  Luke responded with an impatient nod. “Do you have a question, Mrs. Brooks?”

  “What about condoms, do you supply those?” she asked.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Rita cried. “We’re on church property, so surely that isn’t allowed.”

  Luke reached into his pants pocket for a handful of condoms and, with an easy toss, splattered them down the table. “We have no religious affiliation, Mrs. Tubergen, and not only do we allow it, it’s imperative. We’re fighting to keep these kids alive and well, and we can’t ignore the spread of HIV.”

  Joe and Rita exchanged a frantic glance and, after an uncomfortably long pause, Joe rose to help his wife from her seat. “Maybe it was the angel name that confused us, but we just don’t belong here. Will you excuse us, please?”

  “Of course.” Luke waited until the Tubergens had passed through the door, then pulled Rita’s chair around to the front of the table and sat. “If anyone else is squeamish about remaining, please speak up now so we don’t waste any more of my valuable time or yours.”

  Ron just shrugged, and the women across from him shook their heads. Catherine nodded to encourage him to continue. He leaned back in his chair, but despite his relaxed pose, he punched out every word.

  “Our goal isn’t to become a homeless shelter, but to provide a safe environment as a drop-in center, as much comfort as possible, and the constant reassurance that somebody cares. For some kids, that’s more than they’ve ever had.”

  As Luke continued to define Lost Angel’s mission, Catherine refrained from asking how he kept from being overwhelmed by the enormity of the problems the center addressed, but clearly something drove him, and she doubted it was mere altruism. There was a real pride in his voice as he described several kids who had succeeded in getting off the streets, but his sorrow was just as keen when he cited more than one tragic failure.

  Catherine swiftly realized she’d made a tactical error in taking the chair at the far end of the table, for it placed her directly opposite Luke. Seated along the side, she could have more easily avoided his often piercing gaze. She’d never met anyone with such a challenging nature and wondered what had possessed him to go into psychology, where he must surely be misplaced.

  His dark brown hair was laced with gray, and he’d obviously been too busy the past weekend to get a haircut, but now that she’d seen him a second time, she had to admit his hair was no longer than many men wore theirs. Had she not had a stinging sample of his prickly personality, she would have considered him attractive, but she found it difficult to imagine him showing a woman any tenderness or relaxing long enough to make love.

  “Mrs. Brooks?” Luke called.

  Catherine feared her expression must have betrayed the wildly inappropriate directions of her thoughts. She promptly forced a pleasant smile. “Yes?”

  “You were frowning slightly, and I wondered if perhaps you had an objection to our strict drug-free policy?”

  “Why, no, absolutely none,” Catherine assured him.

  “Good, because I won’t compromise on it.”

  “Nor should you,” Ron Flanders concurred.

  Catherine didn’t draw a deep breath until Luke resumed his lecture on the center, but it took awhile longer for her incriminating blush to subside. When they finally left the room to tour the rest of the facility, she moved to the back of the small group to again stay as far away from Luke as possible. He actually laughed a time or two as he showed them the rooms heaped with donated clothing, but there was no real mirth in the sound.

  When they reached the kitchen, Luke introduced Mabel Shultz, the full-time cook, and stepped back to allow her to describe the type of volunteers she required. Alice Waggoner and Betty Murray immediately asked if they could stay to help with the lunch preparations.

  “Of course, you may,” Luke assured them. “Just come by the office before you go home and set up your schedule with Pam.”

  He led the way out of the kitchen and through the church hall. Long tables filled the room, and perhaps two dozen teens were clustered about in small groups playing board games while several othe
rs sat by themselves reading dog-eared paperbacks.

  Beverly Snodgrass wore a cloying perfume that made Catherine sneeze, and as they entered the sanctuary, she moved to avoid the annoying scent. Purposely lagging behind, she paused to study a remarkably beautiful stained glass window.

  The pews had been removed from the large rectangular room, and Luke walked to the center before turning to face the new volunteers. “I hate to disappoint you, Mrs. Brooks, but the windows aren’t on today’s agenda. Before you leave, ask Pam for a pamphlet detailing their history and subject matter. You’re sure to find it fascinating.”

  Embarrassed by his continual scolding, Catherine hurriedly caught up with the others. Then she had to stifle another sneeze. “I’m sorry. Did I miss something important?”

  “Not yet. As I explained earlier, Lost Angel has no religious affiliation, but we’ve found the kids are far more comfortable using the hall where we serve meals for filling out job applications, playing cards and board games. So we’ve reserved this space for counseling. Perhaps it’s merely the high ceiling and stained glass windows, but I’ve found even the most defensive kids are remarkably candid when we meet in here.”

  Beverly glanced toward the high exposed beams. “Yeah, it is kinda creepy.”

  Ron nudged Catherine with his elbow, but she couldn’t believe Beverly had misunderstood Luke’s meaning. “I imagine the stillness and subdued light naturally inspire trust,” she offered for Beverly’s benefit.

  “Precisely,” Luke agreed. “Now let’s go out front, and we’ll return to the office that way.”

  As they moved through the heavy double doors and stepped out into the sun, the kids lounging on the steps turned to look up at them. Catherine instantly recognized the girl with the cat and decided the poor animal looked no better fed than when she’d last seen him. There were several boys in the baggy shorts, over-sized hockey shirts and baseball caps worn backward that were popular everywhere. One such kid was out on the walk practicing stunts on a skateboard. That someone so young would even try to live on his own broke her heart.

  “I like your boots,” a girl called out. Her long blonde hair was covered by a denim hat with a rolled brim. She was wearing purple high-topped basketball shoes with her faded print dress and hugged a backpack stuffed with her belongings.

  “I like your shoes too,” Catherine replied.

  “Want to trade?” the girl asked.

  Catherine laughed and shook her head. “Sorry, this is my favorite pair.”

  Catherine threaded her way between the kids seated on the steps with the same graceful ease she strolled through her garden, while Beverly Snodgrass and Ron Flanders moved to the far right to walk where the way was clear.

  “Hey, Luke.” The boy with the skateboard came walking toward them. “You think we’d get a reward if we found out who killed Felix Mendoza?”

  “I doubt anyone has offered one, Nick. It’s only when someone the community admires is killed that the family, or his friends, put up a reward.”

  “Damn,” Nick swore, and he dropped his skateboard, hopped on and spun around in an agile turn.

  “Do you know something?” Luke pressed. “If you do, come inside with me now, and we’ll call the police.”

  The teenagers gathered on the steps responded with a chorus of howls. “He won’t have to give his name,” Luke admonished the noisy crowd, “but it’s important to provide clues.”

  “Why?” Tina Stassy asked. “We all know what Felix was after, and it’s about time he got what was coming to him.”

  “I won’t argue with you,” Luke admitted, “but if any of you saw or heard anything significant, please let me know. I’ll pass it along to the police.”

  Luke gestured for his volunteers to follow him, and they made their way around the hall and past what had once been a wide, green lawn. Dave Curtis was out working on the sprinklers, and he waved to them before turning them on to produce a varied mixture of sputtering sprays and one immense geyser.

  “Do you think we could call this mess dancing waters and sell tickets?” Dave called to them.

  “No way. Shut it off,” Luke ordered.

  “He just needs a couple of new sprinkler heads,” Ron offered. “Do you mind if I give him a hand?”

  “Not at all. The yard’s too small for a real soccer game, but it would be great if the kids had a lawn were they could kick a ball around.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Ron replied, and he broke into a slow, loping jog to join Dave.

  Now accompanied by only Beverly and Catherine, Luke returned to the office. “Whether you can volunteer a couple of hours a month or a couple of days a week, you need to set up a schedule and let us know whenever you’re unable to come in on your regular day. Pam will help you with that. Thanks for coming in today, and I hope to see you both often.”

  Luke’s handshake was firm but brief. When he quickly broke eye contact, Catherine felt certain he’d made the same parting comment to all the volunteers, but Beverly positively beamed as though his words had been meant for her alone.

  When Luke entered his office and closed the door, Beverly hurriedly checked her watch. “I’ve got a nail appointment, so I can’t stay today, but what about Friday afternoon? Would that be a good time to come in?” she asked.

  Pam checked the master schedule posted on the wall by the door. “Friday is actually pretty light, so the afternoon would be fine.”

  “Good. I’ll see you then. Catherine, was it? Maybe I’ll see you then too.”

  “Possibly,” Catherine replied.

  Pam waited until Beverly had closed the door on her way out, and then whispered, “What happened to the others? Luke always manages to discourage a couple, but this is the first time he’s begun a training session with seven volunteers and ended with only two.”

  Catherine quickly reassured Pam that only the Tubergens had dropped out, and that the others were still at work on the premises. “I’d like to stay a while longer today if I may. There’s a mountain of clothes to sort. Could I ask some of the kids to help me?”

  Pam shook her head. “We’ve tried that, but they tend to work just long enough to find whatever it is they need and then leave, so not much progress is made.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully, then broke into a delighted smile. “I’m way behind on the mail.” She reached behind her desk to pick up a cardboard banker’s box and carried it over to the second desk.

  “When the mail arrives, I sort it into bills we have to pay and stuff addressed to kids, because we want them to be able to follow up quickly on job applications, but the other letters just land in here until someone has time to sort them and post the flyers in the hall. Use this desk and see what you find. Some parents send out dozens of flyers, and we try and post the new ones every week.

  “Stop whenever you get tired, or take a break for lunch and come back if you like. We’re real flexible here.” Pam lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “At least I am, but don’t you dare tell Luke I said that.”

  Catherine doubted she and Luke would ever exchange any such teasing confidences. “Don’t worry, I won’t,” she promised.

  She slid into the chair at the desk, reached for the first letter and used a pair of scissors from the desk drawer to slit it open. Just as Pam had predicted, it contained a flyer of a teenage boy described as a runaway, and she set it aside to post. She’d noticed the bank of colorful flyers in the hall where the meals were served but hadn’t been close enough to recognize what they were.

  “Do many kids find themselves on a flyer and call home?” she asked.

  “I haven’t kept track, but every once in a while someone does. It’s not nearly often enough, though.”

  “How long have you worked here?”

  “Not quite two years. I was Luke’s secretary at UCLA, and when he left the Psychology Department to come here, I came with him.”

  Catherine slit open another flyer and found a smiling girl with braces on her teeth. “He
left UCLA for Lost Angel? Wasn’t that an unlikely career move?”

  “I’ll say.” Pam checked Luke’s door and again lowered her voice. “It was more of a mission. Luke’s sixteen-year-old daughter committed suicide. The day after Marcy was buried, he walked off the UCLA campus and never went back.”

  That awful news hit Catherine with the force of a tightly clenched fist, and the envelope she’d been about to open fluttered to the floor. She’d found Luke short-tempered and rude, but now she understood why his anger ran so deep. Ashamed for having misjudged him, she brushed away a tear and bent to retrieve the letter.

  “I can’t think of anything worse than losing a child,” she murmured.

  “It was a terrible shame. Marcy was such a terrific kid, but her boyfriend broke up with her just before the prom, and she took a handful of her mother’s sleeping pills. Maybe she just meant to scare her boyfriend, but she didn’t wake up. That was the end of Luke’s marriage too.”

  Pam turned back to the figures she’d been entering into her computer. “How did we ever get on such a distressing subject?”

  Catherine felt sick. She’d had no idea that Luke had suffered such a tragic loss, and she now felt a kinship she hadn’t even dreamed they might share. Her curiosity numbed, she kept opening letters and stacking up flyers until Pam left for lunch. Then she went to Luke’s door and knocked lightly. Once he’d invited her inside, she rushed through a clumsy apology.

  “The other day, I made some stupid remark about your playing martyr, and I’m sincerely sorry.”

  Luke gestured toward the chair opposite his desk and waited for her to sit. “That wasn’t one of my best days, either, so let’s just say we’ve exchanged apologies and forget it. Now, tell me the truth. Was I too rough on the Tubergens?”

  His charming grin caught Catherine completely off guard, and she could scarcely believe she was talking with the same man. The silver tint to his hair made him appear older, but now that he wore a relaxed smile, she doubted he was forty. Thoroughly distracted, she tried to recall what he’d asked, then wasn’t certain how to reply.