Invitation

by Frank Peretti

  “Why did you come?” Tank asked quietly. “And don’t tell me you came because you wanted a few days in Florida for vacation. I know better.”

  Brenda glared at him a minute, then looked at Daniel. “Don’t matter why I came, and what happened yesterday don’t matter, either. All that matters now is that we get Daniel back to—well, get him back for some help. This trip has stressed him out, and they’re not gonna let me see him again if I don’t take him back so he can get better.”

  “Wait.” I looked around the table, frustrated that the others appeared to be giving up. “Aren’t we going to investigate this further? We didn’t solve anything. The animals—the planet—is still in danger.”

  Brenda set her coffee cup down. “Nothin’ I can do about that. Like I said, I have to earn a livin’.”

  “I’m done here, too.” The professor pushed back from the table. “My brain can only tolerate so much madness.”

  I waved my hand, about to suggest that talk some more, but a blur of movement outside the window distracted me. People on the beach were running toward something in the water.

  My stomach tightened for no rational reason. Leaving the others at the table, I went to the sliding doors and stepped out, then ran down the stairs. From there I could see something tumbling in the wavewash, something dark, with straight legs like a table. Something brown, like chocolate . . .

  I broke into a run.

  By the time I heard someone shout, “It’s a dog!” I was already approaching the water’s edge. I splashed into the shallows and gripped Abby’s collar, then pulled her onto the sand. Rigor mortis had already set in. Her legs were splayed straight out, as if she’d died in a standing position. Her brown eyes were missing, the empty sockets encrusted with sea salt.

  I fell to my knees and balled my hands into tight fists, struggling against the sobs that welled in my chest. Soft murmurs from bystanders wrapped around me, and a moment later I heard the pounding feet of Daniel, Brenda, Tank, and the professor. They stood silently, watching me weep in the tide, then Daniel knelt beside me, too, bending to press his forehead to Abby’s.

  “Why did this happen to her?” I asked, glancing up at Tank. “You know who did it—I heard her scream. They are evil, and they did this because they hate. I never understood hate until this minute, but I understand it now. They hate us, so they hurt and destroy and inflict pain on the ones we love. . . .”

  In a flash, I remembered how my grandparents spoke of the Nazis, and the people they knew who had lost mothers, fathers, siblings, and families in the Holocaust. Hatred—pure and simple and evil—had gripped Hitler and spurred him to blind his people with hostility and contempt. Whoever had tortured and killed Abby would do the same thing to a child, a family, anyone. That kind of hatred was elemental; it did not discriminate, but it loved to destroy innocence.

  I lowered my head, too, and dared to place my hand on Daniel’s shoulder. I needed to touch him, and in that moment I think he needed to be touched.

  The bystanders peeled away, probably uncomfortable with our open grief. When we were finally alone, Tank knelt across from me and Daniel. I thought he was going to help me carry Abby’s body up to the house, but instead he placed one hand on Abby’s side and the other over her ravaged face.

  A rush of gratitude flooded my heart. He was silently telling me that he understood, and he was sparing me the sight of her awful wounds.

  I placed my hand on Abby’s belly, next to Tank’s. “It’s okay,” I whispered, my voice as ragged as my emotions. “If you’ll help me carry her, we can find a spot to—”

  I stopped, suddenly aware that the fur next to Tank’s hand felt warm. His hand had reddened, and Abby’s body seemed to grow warmer with every second. Tank’s eyes remained closed, but I could feel energy flowing from his hands, over the dog, even tingling my fingertips—

  Abby whined. I righted myself so suddenly that I fell on my butt in the wet sand. Daniel laughed as he buried his fingers in Abby’s soggy fur, and Tank finally opened his eyes. He lifted his hands, releasing the dog, and Abby bounded up, then turned and shook herself off, her brown eyes sparkling above an enthusiastic grin.

  I looked at the professor, who was speechless, probably for the first time in his life.

  “Cowboy”—Brenda began, turning wide eyes upon Tank—“when did you become a superhero?”

  Tank stood and brushed sand from his hands. “I dunno. Doesn’t always work. But I figured that God wouldn’t want the other to have the final word here, so I gave it a try.”

  He extended one of his healing hands toward me and helped me up, then gestured toward the house. “Guess we’d better go give that dog a bath.”

  Abby had not only been restored to me, but she seemed to have the energy and spunk of a pup. Tank and I knelt by Safta’s huge bathtub as my girl splashed and alternated between trying to eat the soap bubbles and kissing our chins. I was exhausted by the time Tank hauled her out of the tub and toweled her dry.

  I watched, amazed, as my rejuvenated Abby ran through the house, then sat prettily and offered her paw to everyone, even the professor.

  Not once did she go to the window. Not once did I hear her growl.

  We were in the living room when I finally gathered the courage to ask Daniel the question uppermost in my mind. “Abby saw the evil, too, didn’t she?”

  The boy slowly turned and met my gaze, then he nodded.

  My heart thumped at the confirmation.

  “And that evil—is it still out there?”

  One corner of Daniel’s mouth lifted in a small smile, then he shook his head.

  I felt my shoulders relax. I could leave now, knowing that Abby would be safe with Safta and Sabba.

  “So what did we accomplish here?” Brenda asked, looking from me to the professor. “This wasn’t much of a vacation.”

  “You got to see a dolphin show,” Tank offered.

  The professor snorted.

  “I think”—I paused to gather my thoughts—“I don’t think we did anything to that thing out there, but I think it did something to us.”

  Brenda made a face. “Speak for yourself. I’m fine.”

  “Not like that. I think it did something in us. We saw something horrible, and then we saw a miracle. The yin and yang, good and evil. And for now at least, the evil’s gone and we’re all here. Together.”

  The professor pressed his lips together, displaying his disagreement, but what could he say? He’d seen everything we’d seen, and he had no explanations for any of it.

  “I’m done with that kind of crazy stuff. For now, anyway.” Brenda stood and gestured to Daniel. “Let’s go get your bag packed, okay? It’s time to go home.”

  After Daniel stood and followed her, so did the professor and Tank.

  I sighed and did the same.

  Epilogue

  Sabba and Safta arrived as we were packing. I gave my grandparents a hug, thanked them for their hospitality, and promised that I’d check in after I got back to my apartment.

  “Did you have a good time with your friends?” Safta wanted to know.

  “I don’t think the word good really does it justice,” I told her.

  Before I left, I gave Abby a good brushing and thanked her for being so vigilant in her protection of us. “I see what you were doing,” I whispered in her ear, “and I love you for it. Take good care of the folks, okay?”

  We were lined up outside the house, waiting for the car Sabba had hired to take us to the airport, when a kid on a bike rode up and handed an envelope to Brenda. “For you,” he said, then he grinned and rode off.

  “Secret admirer?” Tank asked, winking at her.

  Brenda snorted. “I’m not likely to find one in this neighborhood. This is probably a citation for trampin’ through somebody’s sea oats.”

  She took out the paper, read it, and frowned.

  “What’s it say?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “This makes no sense to me, but maybe yo
u guys can figure it out.”

  She handed me the paper, which I read aloud: “‘Likewise you, human being—I have appointed you as watchman. Yechizk’el.’”

  I glanced at the back of the paper to see if I could find any clues as to who had sent it, but the page was blank.

  “Forget it,” the professor said, turning to search the road for any signs of our cab. “Someone’s idea of a joke.”

  But it wasn’t. With everything in me, I knew it was another piece of the puzzle.

  Contents

  1. Snow

  2. “This Ain’t Right”

  3. Found and Lost

  4. I Almost Failed French

  5. A Burger and a Shake

  6. Back to the Tracks

  7. The IT

  8. Reunion

  9. It’s All Greek to Me

  10. A Knife to the Soul

  11. Hospital Rounds

  12. A Spark of an Idea

  13. Thirteen O’clock

  Epilogue

  CHAPTER

  1

  Snow

  JANUARY 1, 7:10 A.M.

  You’re gonna love being a cop, Tank. Yes sir, you’ll fit into the sheriff’s department just fine.”

  I wanted to slap my forehead but I had too much respect for Uncle Bart. Instead, I kept my eyes directed out the passenger side window of the patrol car and took in the scenery.

  “You don’t even have to finish college, boy. Of course, that doesn’t hurt nuthin’, but I’m just sayin’.”

  That made me take my eyes off the snow-covered fields. “Momma wanted me to go to college, Uncle Bart. I gotta go. I wanna go. I like it.”

  “Hey, no problem, son. There’s no rush. I could use you up here with me. I might just be a small town sheriff, but that doesn’t make the work no less noble, does it?”

  “No, sir. I admire what you do. I just don’t know if I’m cut out to do it.”

  Uncle Bart—Sheriff Bard Christensen to everyone in Dicksonville, Oregon, and the other small towns that make up the county—directed the car around a bend. I could feel the tires slip some and heard snow crunch beneath the treads. The tail end of the patrol car did a little fishtail.

  Uncle Bart chuckled. “I love driving in this stuff. I wish we got more snow around here. Not enough to shovel, you know, just enough to keep life interesting.”

  I released my grip on the door handle. To tell the truth, I had enough “interesting” stuff happen to last me a lifetime, and I had a feeling more was coming.

  “I didn’t scare ya, did I, boy?”

  “No, sir. I was just makin’ sure the door didn’t open. It might get dented or somethin’.”

  Uncle Bart smiled big. “Sure ya were, son. Sure ya were.

  A few moments later, Uncle Bart turned serious. “I think that’s him up there.” He nodded to a man standing on the side of the road. He looked to be in his early seventies and wore a heavy wool coat over what I guessed was denim overalls. We pulled to the side and exited the car, then walked to the old guy. Yep, overalls.

  “Sheriff.” The man nodded. He had an accent. Maybe from the northeast. Maine?

  “Mr. Weldon.” Uncle Bart extended his hand.

  “You can flush all the ‘mister’ stuff, Sheriff. Just Chuck. That’s what everybody calls me. Chuck.”

  “Yes, sir.” Uncle Bart smiled. “Chuck, this is my nephew, Bjorn Christensen, but everyone calls him Tank.”

  “Ayuh, I can see why. You’re a biggun’, aren’t you, son?” He looked puzzled. “Wait, ain’t you the one who plays for the Huskies?”

  I didn’t know how to answer. Thankfully, he moved on.

  “Not much of a college football man, myself, but the sheriff here was telling everyone about you gettin’ that football scholarship. He’s real proud of you, he is. I hear that he’d lock up anybody who didn’t want to listen.” He followed the comment with a chuckle.

  Uncle Bart came to my aid. “You called about something strange on your property, Mr. W—, um, Chuck.”

  “Ayuh, that I did. Could be real important so if yer done yappin’ I’ll show it to you.”

  “If I’m . . . yes, sir. Of course. Lead the way.”

  “Follow me.” Chuck talked as he walked. “So, Tank, you gave up football to become a deputy?”

  “No, sir. I’m just visiting.” I was about a step and a half behind him. “Football is over for my team. We didn’t have our best year.”

  “We watch the Rose Bowl together most years.” Uncle Bart acted casual but I could tell he was scanning the ground. I knew why. When Mr. Weldon called he said there were some strange tracks Uncle Bart should see. “Probably just a three-legged rabbit,” he had said. That was Uncle Bart’s way. He made light of things. Everything.

  “It ain’t far, maybe another hundred yards or so. I was out this morning checking on my animals. I don’t have many no more. Too old to take care of them. Too much arthritis. My feet ain’t much good anymore. Sugar in the blood, don’t ya know.”

  “Diabetes?” I said.

  “Ayuh. I should’ve taken better care of myself, but I was always more concerned about the ranch. Ain’t always been in the condition it is now. We used have a good number of cattle and other livestock. . . .”

  A sadness seemed to trip him mid-sentence.

  “They give you pills for the diabetes?” It was none of my business, but I couldn’t help asking. Uncle Bart cut me a hard look. I shrugged.

  “Stuff’s expensive. The insulin is worse, and all I got these days for income is my Social Security check, and there ain’t much of that.”

  The sadness that seized Mr. Weldon turned on me. I felt like I should say something but couldn’t put the right words together. Poor old guy had everything working against him: age, disease, and poverty.

  “I got three things to show ya. Here’s the first. I ain’t gonna tell you anything about it. I’ll let you jump to your own conclusions.”

  “Let me guess.” Uncle Bart was smiling again. Maybe he was trying to lighten the moment. “Bigfoot came to visit.”

  “If he had, he’d be lying dead in the snow. I’m old, but I can still shoot straight.” He slowed. “Now watch yer step.”

  I had noticed that he stayed close to the tracks he had made when he walked to the road.

  Mr. Weldon pointed. “As you can see, Sheriff, these ain’t Bigfoot tracks. If anything, they’re Littlefoot tracks. If you catch my drift.”

  I stayed close to Uncle Bart and looked at what Mr. Weldon was pointing at.

  A chill rose inside me. It didn’t come from the snow, or the stiff breeze coming off the nearby mountains. This cold started inside my bones and clawed its way to the surface. No heavy coat can keep out a chill that starts on the inside.

  Uncle Bart swore.

  “Yep. My sentiments exactly,” Mr. Weldon said. “You see now why I called so early?”

  I’m not one of those people who frightens easily, and Lord knows I’d seen some pretty chilling stuff over the last few months. During football season, I faced some pretty big guys. I’m big. Six-foot-three and a solid 275, but the guys I played against last season were bigger and meaner. There were several players on my University of Washington team who made me look small. Still, they don’t frighten me. I like to think my faith has something to do with that, but this—

  “Tell me what you see, Tank.” Uncle Bart was testing me. For a moment I thought about giving a dumb answer—people are used to that from me—but this seemed too important. Besides, I didn’t like the idea of trying to fool Uncle Bart. “Stop thinkin’, boy; give me your first impressions.”

  “It’s a footprint.” I raised a hand. “I know, that part is obvious.” It took me a moment to get the words to flow. “It’s no animal. It’s a human print. Small and—” The next part was difficult to say. “I can see toe prints.”

  “What does that mean to you, son?” Uncle Bart raised his gaze to me. Maybe it was my imagination, but he looked almost as white as the
snow on the ground.

  “They’re the footprints of a child. A child without shoes.” I inhaled a lungful of cold air. “Uncle Bart. The kid is going to freeze his feet off.”

  He turned to Mr. Weldon. “Give me a sec, then I want to see what else you have to show me.”

  Mr. Weldon answered with a nod.

  Uncle Bart raised the portable radio mic that hung from his shoulder to his lips, pressed the microphone key, and reported what we had found. “I want everyone on this, Millie. I also want the helo up in the air. You know who to call for that.”

  I’d met Millie several times. She’s a nice fifty-something-year-old woman who has been the lead dispatcher for as long as I can remember. She always took holiday duty. I felt sorry for her at first, but now I was glad she was on the job.

  “Chuck, how far did you follow the tracks?”

  I could see a set of larger footprints running side by side with the kid’s. The prints were not only larger but deeper, and I didn’t have to be a detective to see the sole prints of the walker’s boots. No doubt they belonged to Mr. Weldon.

  “About a quarter mile, I’d say. Like I said, my feet ain’t real good. I hate to admit it, but if I’d kept going I might be out there facedown in the snow. Thought it the better part of valor to call you.”

  “Yes, sir. You did the right thing.” Uncle Bart looked in the direction of the tracks. “Mr. Weldon—sorry, Chuck—I think me and Tank can move a little faster on our own. You’ve already been out in this stuff too long. If you don’t mind, we’ll go it alone.”

  “I had two other things to show you, but I appreciate it. Just follow the tracks. You’ll come to a fence. You’ll see what I saw. A little farther on you’ll come to a barn. Take a moment there.”

  “We will, Chuck. We’ll keep you posted.”

  Mr. Weldon started to go.

  “Hang on a sec, Mr. Weldon.” I stepped to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry you’re having a rough time. Maybe God will bless you for what you’ve done this morning.”