Invitation

by Frank Peretti

  The little girl watched as gawkers backed away. She made no attempt to flee. Instead, she stood on the blacktop as if she had grown roots. She seemed free from pain and the effects of the cold wind swirling down the street. She did, however, look concerned, eyeing everyone in her line of sight. Uncle Bart smiled at her. He was a man with a friendly face and nonthreatening manner. If anyone could gain her trust, he could.

  Or so I thought.

  He held out both hands, showing that he held nothing that could hurt her. He took a step forward and for a moment I thought she would scream. Uncle Bart stopped. “Okay, okay, little one.” He took a step back, then dropped to one knee. “Nobody is gonna hurt you. I’m your friend.” He pointed at his badge. “See, I’m a policeman. Children can trust policemen.” He spread his arms like a parent calling for a hug. The kid didn’t move.

  She stayed put, her gazed fixed on him. She raised one arm across her chest. At first I thought she was mimicking Uncle Bart’s movement when he pointed at his badge, then I noticed she was holding something. I couldn’t make it out. It reminded me of a scroll. A scroll of brown paper.

  “Maybe I should go around behind her.” It was Deputy Wad. He was moving in Uncle Bart’s direction.

  Uncle Bart smiled at the little girl, held up one finger, and turned to Wad. He spoke softly but his tone was as sharp as a razor blade. “I told you to get back.”

  Wad retreated, looking like a scolded dog.

  Uncle Bart turned back to the girl. “My name is Mr. Christensen. What’s your name?”

  Nothing.

  “I’m the sheriff here, sweetie. That means it’s my job to take care of people. Especially little girls like you.”

  No response.

  “Do you know where your mommy and daddy are?”

  Nothing doing. I was beginning to think that she might be one of those special kids—special needs kids, they call them. That thought broke my heart all the more. This little girl needed a friend.

  It was a standoff in the streets of Dicksonville, with the sheriff on one end of the street and a ten-year-old girl on the other. The girl was winning.

  A motion caught my attention. While we were watching the drama in the street unfold, Deputy Wad had worked around the crowd and pressed through the citizens until he was behind the youngster. His intention was clear: He was gonna rush the girl.

  Uncle Bart saw him about the same time I did. His eyes went wide for a moment, then his brow dropped like a guillotine.

  “Wad, I told you—”

  Wad charged for all he was worth, which isn’t much, but it would have been enough to hurt the girl had he caught her. He didn’t.

  She was gone.

  Then she was back, standing twenty feet in front of me. She glanced back at Wad, who had slipped on the ice and executed a perfect, five-star face-plant on the snow-covered pavement. I’m ashamed to admit this, but it was a good thing to see.

  The girl turned to face me. She looked into my eyes, and something hot, scorching, flooded my soul. I felt weak, confused, and a bit dizzy, the kind of dizzy I get when I crack helmets on the field. It kinda made my bones go soft.

  I cocked my head to the side. She did the same.

  Then she was in my arms.

  I don’t know how. Don’t ask. I didn’t see it coming. Didn’t see it happen. One moment we were staring at each other; the next she was in my arms, her tiny arms wrapped around my neck.

  It was the best hug I ever had.

  “Um, hi, little girl.”

  She remained silent.

  “People call me Tank. What should I call you?”

  She tightened her grip around my neck. I got the feeling she wasn’t afraid of me, she was just giving me another hug. She buried her face in my neck. I knew then and there, I’d move mountains for her.

  “That’s all right. You can tell me when you’re good and ready. Until then I’ll call you . . . what?” My mind jumped back to our conversation with Mr. Weldon when Uncle Bart was joking about Bigfoot. He said something like “More like Littlefoot.” I chuckled. “How ’bout I just call you Littlefoot because of all the tracks you left in the snow?”

  Another hug. I took that to be a yes.

  The next bit of business scared me the most. “I need to look at your feet. I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

  I did my best to examine her feet, best I could while holding her to my chest. I saw enough.

  Perfect.

  No injuries. No cuts. No damage from the snow. Her feet looked like they had never touched anything more harsh than a plush carpet. There was great joy in that.

  Uncle Bart approached but kept some distance between so as not to spook the girl. “I’m not sure what I just saw.”

  “Me neither.” I gave the girl a little squeeze. “This is my Uncle Bart. He’s a real good guy. I trust him, and I hope you’ll trust him too.”

  She turned her head so she could see him.

  Uncle Bart removed his uniform hat and bowed, bending deep at the waist like he was bowing to the queen.

  “Uncle Bart, this is Littlefoot. At least for now.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Your Highness.”

  Then a real miracle happened.

  Littlefoot smiled. It might be my imagination, but when she did the sun came out and a spring breeze rolled down the street.

  CHAPTER

  4

  I Almost Failed French

  8:45 A.M.

  We returned to the sheriff’s substation, me walking with the little girl in my arms, and Uncle Bart driving. It wasn’t a long walk, and I found it easy to carry her. After the heavy weight of worry I had been living with since I first saw her bare footprints in the snow, she seemed light as a feather. She hung on me for all she was worth and kept her face buried in my neck. I could feel the rolled-up paper rub against my skin. I wondered about it, but it was a wondering that could wait.

  The paramedics followed Uncle Bart to the station. I know it would have made more sense to examine Littlefoot for injuries in the ambulance, but she made it clear—real clear—she wanted nothing to do with it. I suggested the station because it would be warmer there and out of view of the rubberneckers who seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere.

  Millie was waiting for us, holding down her spot at the dispatch radio.

  The station was larger than most expected for such a small town. There were four jail cells in the back. Uncle Bart told me people don’t stay there long; they were just holding cells. The front office had several desks, the largest ones near the middle of the room where a deputy was assigned to deal with walk-ins. Uncle Bart had a private office in the back. There was a small kitchen tucked away out of sight, and a small lunchroom. Of course, there were a couple of bathrooms. The walls were covered with dark-wood paneling, something my uncle called “early ’70s crap.”

  Deputy Wad showed up a few moments after we entered the station. He had a decent-sized scrape on his right cheek and his nose looked a tad swollen. One paramedic, a woman named Beth, took a look at him, examining his cheekbone to see if he busted it up. I know that had to hurt, but he gave no sign of it. If I was into gambling, I’d put money on the fact that if the paramedic had been a guy, Wad would have been swearing like nobody’s business. In football, I’ve taken a few shots to the head and can’t say I liked it.

  The second paramedic, a middle-aged man Uncle Bart called Jim, examined Littlefoot, or least tried to examine her. She pulled away every time he tried to touch her. The female paramedic gave it a try, which I think should have been the way to start the whole thing, but she had the same bad luck.

  “Let’s try this,” I said. Littlefoot was sitting on my lap. I gave her a little hug and a big smile. She blinked a few times, and I felt her body relax some. As gently as I could, I took hold of her right ankle and lifted her foot. The paramedics stared at it, shining a beam from a small flashlight on the skin. We did the same thing with her left foot.

  “No cuts and no signs
of frostbite.” Jim shook his head. “Skin is not even red. You sure she’s been hiking through the snow?”

  “Several miles,” Uncle Bart said. “Tank and I followed the trail for over a mile before . . . before returning to the car to check the roads.”

  I wouldn’t have mentioned the strange way the tracks disappeared myself.

  “Her feet are fine,” Jim said. “I need to take her temperature, Tank. Any ideas how I do that?”

  I had an idea. “Take mine first.”

  Jim nodded as if he thought it was a good idea. He removed one of those new thermometers they rub on your forehead. I was glad to see that. I gave Littlefoot’s shoulder a little squeeze and leaned forward. Jim ran the device over my skin, then showed the readout to the girl. “A little low, Tank, but considering you’ve been tromping through the snow, I’d expect your skin to be a little cool.”

  He handed the device to me and looked at Littlefoot. She studied it for a moment, looked at my forehead, cocked her head again, then seemed to come to some understanding. She tilted her head back and let me run the digital thermometer across her forehead. I handed it back to Jim.

  “Normal. Interesting. It’s right on the money.” He looked puzzled. “Well, that’s good.” He removed a small blood-pressure tester, the kind that fits on a person’s wrist. I held out my arm. He looked at my wrist. “Um, I hope this fits.”

  It did, but not by much. It ran its test giving my blood pressure and pulse rate. He handed it to me, and Littlefoot immediately held out her free hand but kept the one with the scroll close to her chest. That kinda trust can bring a tear to a man’s eye.

  Jim looked at the message while Beth jotted down the info. “Normal.” He grinned and tried to pat Littlefoot on the knee, but she pulled away. He jerked his hand back, then sighed. He rose, picked up his medical kit, and turned to Uncle Bart. “That’s about all I can do, Sheriff. She’s responsive, I see no injuries—”

  “Why doesn’t she talk?” Uncle Bart asked. The question carried unspoken companions with it.

  “I can’t say, Sheriff. She could have a learning disability, or she might be mute. She seems to track with our voices and other sounds, so I doubt she’s deaf. She looks well fed—not fat, but not starved. Skin tone is good. I don’t have answers. She needs to be tested in a hospital by doctors.”

  “I assume you’ll be calling child protective services,” Beth said.

  “Of course. Somebody somewhere is probably worried sick about her.”

  Millie broke her silence. “That’s the thing, Sheriff. No one has reported a missing child.”

  “It’s still early. Maybe her parents are sleeping off last night’s party.”

  “If that’s the case, CPS is going to raise a real stink.” Uncle Bart thanked the paramedics.

  “Glad to help.” Jim glanced at Littlefoot again. “I hope you get it all straightened out. She’s a cutie. Gotta love those blue eyes. I’m afraid, though, that someone may have abused the tyke. I don’t like saying that.”

  “It occurred to me,” Uncle Bart said. Unfortunately, it had occurred to me, too.

  The paramedics left the office, closing the door behind them.

  I was thankful for their help, but blue eyes? I looked into the face of the angel sitting on my lap. She looked back at me through her big brown eyes.

  Under Uncle Bart’s order, Millie called Child Protective Services. It was New Year’s Day so the process was moving slowly. I set Littlefoot in my seat and pulled up another straight-backed chair so I could face her. Her blond hair, big brown eyes, and round face made her appear angelic. I don’t know if I will ever have kids. I like the idea, but who knows what the future holds. If I do, I hope God will give me a little girl like the one staring at me.

  “My name is Tank,” I said and pointed to myself. Maybe I could get her to open up. I doubted she had a learning disability, although I’m certainly not qualified to say that. Call it a feeling if you want.

  I repeated myself and tapped my chest: “Tank.” I pointed at my uncle: “Uncle Bart.” I probably should have called him Sheriff Christensen, but that seemed like too much of a mouthful. Then I pointed at her. Nothing.

  I tried again and then another time. Nothing. No name. No words. Still, I felt certain she understood.

  Uncle Bart inched closer. “What about the paper, Tank? You think you could get that from her?”

  “I dunno. It seems real important to her, Uncle Bart.”

  “I noticed. She hangs on to that thing like your Aunt June hangs on to a dollar.”

  Wad cleared his throat. “You want me to just grab it from her, Sheriff? It would only take a moment.”

  Uncle Bart turned. “Deputy Waddle, I assume that comment came because of the injury to your head. If I were you, I wouldn’t argue with me about that.”

  “Yes, sir.” Wad didn’t sound all that genuine.

  I gazed at the paper, then motioned to it. To my surprise, she held it out to me. Uncle Bart stepped forward and tried to take it, and she pulled it back just as quick. When he backed away, she held it out again.

  I took it. “Thank you, little one.”

  The scroll was a single piece of brownish paper rolled into a tight tube. I opened it slowly and with great care. No telling what she would do if I tore the thing. The page was about the size of a legal pad. There were letters, or pictures, or picture-letters, I didn’t know what to call them.

  “Doesn’t look like anything I’ve ever seen.” Uncle Bart was looking over my shoulder. Wad came close, too. “What about you, Tank? Seen anything like it in those college classes you take?”

  “No, sir, but then again I almost failed French. I have enough trouble with English, let alone a foreign language.” I tapped the odd paper. “Especially something as weird as this.”

  Wad weighed in. “Maybe it’s an alien language.”

  “You mean like from Canada.” Uncle Bart was good with sarcasm.

  “Of course not, Sheriff. That’s ridiculous. I mean like from outer space. You know, like a UFO or something.”

  “Yeah, that makes much more sense that an alien is from Canada.” If Uncle Bart’s tone wasn’t so dark, I’d think he was having fun with Deputy Wad.

  “I bet Tank agrees with me, don’t ya?”

  I glanced at Wad and shrugged. “After this last year, I’ve stopped ruling things out.”

  Uncle Bart straightened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Long story, sir.” I looked back at the girl and smiled. She didn’t respond. I looked back at the weird paper with the odd markings. “I know who might be able to help. Several someones.”

  My cellphone chimed. A text:

  On our way. Will be there in the morning.

  It was from Andi. The sight of her name made my heart trip. I replied with a text of my own: How did you know?

  Another chime. I will explain when we get there.

  I assumed by all she meant Dr. McKinney, too. Before I could ask, another text appeared on my smartphone. We’re all coming. Daniel too.

  I was already pretty freaked out by the day’s events, but knowing my friends were coming without a clue as to why I needed them kinda shook me. Still, I couldn’t wait to see Andi—and the others.

  Uncle Bart was staring at me. “Judging by that befuddled look on your face, I assume that the message was unexpected.”

  “Yeah. Help is on the way, Uncle Bart.”

  Wad asked, “What kinda help? The Feds?”

  “I don’t know any Feds.” I put my phone away. “These guys are better than the Feds.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  A Burger and a Shake

  10:30 A.M.

  A priest?” Uncle Bart sounded stunned. “What’s a good Lutheran boy like you doin’ hanging with a priest?”

  “Well, he used to be a priest,” I explained. I reached for Littlefoot’s hand. She didn’t hesitate to take it. That made me feel good and so did the warmth of her touch. For the l
ife of me, I couldn’t figure out how she could have been walking through the snow and wind without feeling like a bag of ice water. “He gave that up.”

  “He left the priesthood?”

  I followed Uncle Bart into the small break room. “Yep. He gave up on God. Decided to be an atheist. He thinks that’s what smart people do.” I lifted Littlefoot into one of the chairs and pushed it close to the battered table. I guess the table is older than half the town.

  “You know me, Tank, I ain’t much on churchgoing, but I don’t think I’ve turned my back on God. I may not be as religious as you, boy, but I still got my beliefs.”

  I started to tell him that faith and religion weren’t the same thing, but it didn’t seem the time to have that conversation.

  “Who are these other people?” Uncle Bart took a chair at the end of the table. No matter what table he sat at, he sat at the head. I suppose it was a control issue. No one complained, but then it would have done no good to do so. Uncle Bart did whatever Uncle Bart wanted to do.

  “I’ll introduce you to them when they get here. They’re good people, but they’re a little—different.”

  “Different? How?”

  The best I could do was shrug. “I’m not sure I can explain it. I’m not sure I understand it all. I trust them. I’ve had to.”

  “Now, boy, you’re gonna have to explain that. There’s gotta be a story behind that statement.”

  A story? As old man Weldon would have said, “Ayuh.” Except I didn’t say it out loud. A story. How could I tell him about the unusual people I’m hangin’ out with these days? A professor, a tattoo artist, a kid who sees strange people, and a young lady with a mind that chews information like a computer.

  “Uncle Bart, have you ever seen anything you couldn’t explain?”

  He leaned back. “Well this thing with the girl qualifies, but I’ve seen a thing or two, yes.”

  “Do you tell people about it?”

  “Not really.”

  I nodded. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, but I just don’t know how, not in a way that you’d believe. Maybe the others can do a better job than me.”