Invitation: The Call, The Haunted, The Sentinels, The Girl

by Frank Peretti

  Staring at the global map with its heavy spattering of dots, I felt an odd tightening at the base of my skull. For some reason—or maybe a host of reasons—Earth’s animals were perishing, and it seemed logical to assume humans would be affected next. Like the canaries coal miners kept below ground to signal a dangerous rise in toxic gases, certain species were dying because something was wrong with our environment. But what? And why had animals begun to die all over the planet?

  I moused over the United States, then zoomed in to separate the dots that blanketed the map. The dots separated, so I enlarged the selection until the map of the United States filled my laptop screen.

  Then I saw it: The gentle curve and swirl of the golden ratio. Phi, the formula said to govern the cosmos. The arrangement found everywhere in nature and purported to be the very definition of beauty.

  I leaned back and closed my eyes, struggling to understand what I was seeing. How could these be natural events if caused by climate change? Was I seeing proof of chaos theory, or was a higher law at work? In either case, if the pattern continued, it would keep spiraling until every place was affected, until every animal species suffered. Each creature had its place in the food chain, and you couldn’t eradicate one without affecting the entire ecosystem. . . .

  My thoughts shifted as the professor entered the living room and dropped into Sabba’s favorite chair. “Something I ate,” he said, pounding his chest with his fist, “didn’t agree with me. I just had the strangest nightmare, and I rarely dream in my power naps.”

  My pulse quickened. “What’d you see?”

  “That kid—remember? Sridhar, the lucid dreamer from the Institute. He was calling to me, trying to say something. I couldn’t understand him, but I had the distinct feeling that he was trying to warn me about something.”

  “That doesn’t sound very nightmarish.”

  “You didn’t see what I saw.” He shuddered. “The kid had no eyes.”

  The professor went on, trying to imitate whatever sounds the dream Sridhar had been making, but my thoughts turned to Brenda and Tank. When we’d met Sridhar, he’d explained that the Institute had trained him to influence other people’s dreams. . . . Was he trying to send a message to the professor? Was he also sending messages to me?

  I lowered my hand and found Abby’s head—she was on the floor at my side. She used to stretch out by my desk chair and take long naps, but now she lay with her head erect, her ears pointed forward, her eyes watchful.

  I scratched her forehead, expecting her to close her eyes and groan in gratitude, but after only a second or two, she leapt to her feet, walked through the kitchen, and sat at the sliding glass doors, her attention fixed on something outside.

  Even the professor noticed. “I thought Labs were mellow, but your dog seems unusually high-strung.”

  “She’s not, usually.” I got up and went to see what Abby was watching. Looking through the wide panes of glass, I saw nothing unusual—the sea oats, swaying in the breeze, the gentle surf, a bearded guy with a metal detector walking over the sand.

  A low growl rumbled in Abby’s throat.

  “It’s just a metal detector,” I told her. “We see those all the time.”

  She continued to growl. When the bearded guy moved out of our view, I expected Abby to relax, but she stood, hair rising at the back of her neck. She barked in the deep, hoarse tone she used as a warning, but though I kept my eyes on the beach, I saw nothing that should have alarmed her.

  But her apprehension was contagious. The dreams . . . Sridhar . . . the dead animals. Something was out of kilter in the universe, and, judging by Abby’s reaction, the danger loomed right outside our door. The professor and I seemed to be in the middle of a verifiable mystery, and if we were, we needed the others.

  “Professor?” I called over my shoulder. “Could you understand anything Sridhar was trying to tell you?”

  I heard the soft sound of his loafers on the tiled floor behind me. “If I had to guess,” he said, “he might have been saying ‘prepare the eight.’”

  I turned. “The eight? Eight what?”

  He shrugged. “I have never been one to place much stock in dreams, let alone dream languages.”

  “Eight.” I ran through the multiples. “Sixteen, twenty-four, thirty-two, forty, forty-eight—”

  “Then again,” the professor interrupted, “he might have said ‘beware the rate.’”

  I blinked.

  “Or ‘look there your fate.’ Or ‘aware the bait.’”

  I groaned. He was toying with me now, making fun of my affinity for numbers and patterns.

  “Thanks for your help,” I told him, my tone frosty. “I’ll take it from here.”

  He chuckled and went back to the living room, where he’d probably pick up his book or take another nap. And while he tried to take his mind off the bizarre occurrences that we’d encountered, I would think about Brenda, Tank, and Daniel. . . .

  We had left Port Avalon feeling that we might not ever see each other again, but now I was beginning to believe we were meant to be together. But how was that possible? Brenda lived in California, and Tank—I couldn’t remember exactly where he was living, but I knew he was playing football in the Northwest. Daniel was a resident at the Norquist Center for Behavioral Health. How was it even possible for us to come together again?

  The impossible, Sabba always said, began with a single step toward the possible.

  I bit my lower lip, then made a decision. Sabba had a jet, and he’d do anything for me. Even if it meant going to the ends of the earth to fetch my friends.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Brenda?” I tried to keep my voice light, not wanting to frighten her with my theory of looming disaster. “Hey, it’s Andi. Listen, something’s come up, and I think the group needs to get together right away. I’m in Florida at my grandparents’ beach house, and my grandfather is willing to send his plane for you—”

  “I’d love to help you out”—I heard the crack of her gum—“but I have a tat scheduled for tomorrow. It’s a five-hour gig, maybe more. I gotta pay the bills, you know?”

  My heart sank. Until that instant, I hadn’t realized how much I was counting on her. “Well—”

  “Hang on a sec.”

  I waited, barely daring to breathe, and after a minute Brenda spoke again. “You’re not gonna believe this,” she said, a wry note in her voice, “but my client just texted me. He’s canceling because his girlfriend threw a fit about the tat, but he’s going to pay me anyway.” She snorted. “So yeah, I guess I’m good to go wherever. Did you mention a private plane?”

  “Yes.” I sighed in relief. “I’ll call Tank, too. And I have a feeling we need Daniel with us. I have no idea how to make that happen—”

  “Leave it to me,” Brenda said. “I took Daniel back to the hospital after our last little reunion, so those people know me. I’ll pick him up.”

  I wasn’t sure how she would get Daniel out of the hospital, but I had a feeling Brenda could manage almost anything.

  “Okay. I’ll give my grandfather your number so he can make the arrangements.”

  After hanging up with her, I dialed Tank’s phone and was surprised when he answered right away. “’Lo?”

  “Tank, it’s Andi. I know you’re probably in the middle of football and everything, but—”

  “I’m not,” Tank said. “Broke my toe last week. I’m benched.”

  “Wow.” I paused to catch my breath. “Sorry about that.”

  “’Sokay. I’m third string, so it’s not like the team’s depending on me. Coach says I can use the rest of the season to lift weights and workout. And, you know, go to school.”

  “Can you walk?”

  He laughed. “Sure. Just not very fast. And not very, you know, smoothly.”

  “Well . . .” I hesitated. “I hate to ask, with you being wounded and all, but I think the group needs to get together. Can you join us tomorrow?”

  “
Man, I hate to say this, but I promised the lady downstairs that I’d take her to the doctor tomorrow. She’s old, so she doesn’t drive. When I found out she couldn’t get to the doctor, well—” he chuckled. “You know.”

  “Yeah.” I tried to keep my disappointment out of my voice. “Brenda’s coming, and she’s bringing Daniel. And the professor’s already here. So all we need is you.”

  “Sorry about that. I really am.”

  I waited, unable to accept that Tank wouldn’t be joining us. The idea was inconceivable, like imagining yin without yang, warp without weft . . .

  I heard noise in the background—an increasingly shrill siren. “Where are you, Tank? Sounds like you’re in the middle of a traffic accident.”

  “Maybe. I’m almost home, but there’s an ambulance at my building. Hang on a minute.”

  I waited, staring at the ceiling, and heard muffled voices, sounds of movement, and the heavy thunk of something like a car door. Then I heard the siren again, even louder this time.

  “Andi?”

  I blew out a breath. “I thought maybe you’d broken something else.”

  “No, no—that was my neighbor. She slipped in her kitchen and fell, but someone heard her shouting and called 9-1-1. She’s on her way to the hospital now.”

  Despite the worry in Tank’s voice, my spirits began to rise. “So . . . you don’t have to take her to the doctor tomorrow, do you?”

  Tank hesitated, then laughed. “I guess I don’t.”

  “So you can join us.”

  He hesitated again, then cleared his throat. “Gosh, Andi, I hate to be a bad sport, but I can’t afford a plane ticket to Florida. I just—”

  “My grandfather is sending his jet to get Brenda and Daniel, and they’ll get you, too. Just let us know the nearest airport, and we’ll have the pilot pick you up.”

  “Wow.” Tank’s pleased surprise rolled over the line. “Well shucks, how can I say no? I’ll be there. Let me figure out where the closest airport is, then I’ll call you back.”

  “Great. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  I clicked off the call, even more convinced that the five of us were meant to be together—and together here.

  CHAPTER

  4

  That night at dinner, Safta and Sabba listened in shocked silence as I described the dead, eyeless animals on the beach, then Safta shook her head. “Such a death shouldn’t happen to a tadpole,” she said. “All those birds and fishes. What could have done such a thing?”

  “Do you really want to know?” The professor rested his fingers on the table and drummed them as he looked from Safta to Sabba.

  Sabba lifted a bushy brow. “And you have the answer?”

  The professor nodded. “It’s no surprise—people have been talking about the situation for years now. Climate change is undoubtedly responsible for all the things we are seeing—the strange weather patterns, the animal deaths, the earthquakes. Mankind’s damage to our planet has reached a critical stage, and the sentinel species are being affected. Very simple.”

  I dropped my fork and stared at him. I’d been working for the professor for nearly a year, and I liked him despite his tendency to be stubborn. The man was brilliant, unswervingly logical, and fluent in mathematics, physics, and chemistry, but for the first time in months, I didn’t agree with him.

  “Professor”—I folded my hands—“this afternoon I studied a map of places where mass animal deaths have occurred. I found another map of nations who have contributed the most to climate change. I might find your theory more believable if the patterns matched, but they’re not even close. The animal deaths have occurred almost everywhere and there is no observable connection.”

  The professor looked at me a moment, thought narrowing his eyes, then he shook his head. “It’s apples and oranges, Andi. Climate change isn’t evidenced as strongly in the most polluting nations because it’s in the more agrarian nations where the effects of climate change will be felt. In places where people farm for a living, a lack of rainfall spells disaster. And droughts happen because of climate change.”

  I didn’t want to argue with him in front of my grandparents, but my gut told me I was right. I closed my eyes and saw both maps on the back of my eyelids—the map displaying countries with the most carbon dioxide emissions highlighted the United States, Russia, Australia, and Saudi Arabia. An accompanying map displaying countries most affected by climate change marked Saudi Arabia along with parts of Africa, South America, and the U.S. Neither map displayed any pattern resembling the golden ratio.

  The map of mass animal deaths did not correlate with the maps of climate change. The United States and England had experienced dozens of animal die-offs, along with areas of Australia, South America, and the Arabian peninsula. But the Near East—Thailand, Japan, North and South Korea—had experienced several mass animal deaths, and those countries weren’t featured on either of the climate change maps.

  “Man not only has the power to change human life,” the professor was telling my grandparents, “but for the first time in history we now have the power to change our planet. Unfortunately, most of our changes have been destructive because we haven’t realized the significance of our actions. In the future, however, mankind will make great strides to preserve the earth and improve our standard of living.”

  “I blame it all on the Republicans.” Sabba’s face flushed as he leaned across the table. “For years they have refused to believe climate change was taking place.”

  “And should the Democrats get off scot-free?” Safta waved her fork at Sabba. “For years Al Gore has declared that the North Pole was going to melt—and I just read that it’s getting bigger. The North Pole, melt?” She harrumphed. “Al Gore should live so long.”

  I slid lower in my chair and stirred my mashed potatoes, which were still hot from the KFC bag. Now that the conversation had turned political, my grandparents would argue with each other for another hour, forgetting all about me and our guest.

  I glanced at the professor and saw that he was busy cutting up his fried chicken. He wasn’t political, as far as I knew, but he could be as immoveable as Sabba and Safta. If he had his way, logic would rule the universe and chaos would be obliterated.

  Of course, lately the professor had learned that logic didn’t always win the day.

  Over by the sliding door that opened to the deck, Abby was still sitting and staring out the window. Occasionally she pawed at the glass, then went back to watching. I tried calling her to my side, but each time I said her name, she looked at me, whined as if begging me to understand, and went back to her vigil.

  Every whine pebbled my skin with gooseflesh.

  My heart twisted as memory carried me back to all the days I used to sit with her on the deck before I left for college. She’d been my best friend in those days. When no one in high school cared to befriend the geeky girl with explosive red hair, Abby had been my constant companion and very best friend. She had guarded my secrets and listened to my dreams. She had warmed my feet while I studied and licked up the cookie crumbs from my bedroom carpet. My heart ached for her when I went away to school, but she was always waiting when I came home. We picked up where we’d left off, and for years I half-believed that time stopped for Abby while I was away.

  Yesterday, however, Abby had given me an enthusiastic greeting, then gone straight to the sliding glass door to stare out at the beach.

  Just like she was doing now. Just like she’d done in my dream.

  I sank even lower in my chair and studied her, wondering what she knew that I didn’t.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Picking up dead birds wasn’t my idea of a good time, but I figured someone had to do it. Sabba had kept his promise and sent his private plane to pick up Brenda, Daniel, and Tank. Until they arrived, I had nothing to do but play Mah-Jongg with Safta and her friends, watch the professor read, or venture out to the beach.

  So I got up early, pulled a pair of shorts
and a T-shirt from my old dresser, and slipped into a battered pair of sneakers I found in the closet. I smeared sunblock on my nose (redheads tend to burn easily, even in October) and pulled one of Safta’s battered straw hats from a hook in the laundry room. I grabbed a couple of trash bags from a cabinet, then strode out across the deck and went down to the beach.

  I wasn’t alone. The beach was spotted with curious onlookers and social do-gooders. I smiled a “me too” smile at a girl dressed a lot like I was, then took a pair of rubber gloves from a table and read the sheet of instructions someone had posted:

  1. Don’t touch dead birds or fish with bare hands.

  No kidding.

  2. Don’t throw dead birds or fish back into the water.

  Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose?

  3. Place all dead birds and fish in a trash bag, then close securely. Leave bags by the lifeguard stand; someone from the Pinellas Fish and Game Department will pick them up later.

  Simple enough. I powered on my iPhone, put the earbuds in my ears, then slipped my hands into the flimsy gloves and set out for a section of beach still littered with dead animals. The music carried my thoughts away as I knelt to clear the area around me. The fish’s empty eye sockets seemed to accuse me—of what? If I’d known what killed them, I would have done something to help. Anyone would. Anyone who loved animals, that is.

  After a while I stopped picking up fish one by one and began to gather them by handfuls. How many yards, I wondered, did this carpet of dead fish extend? And the birds—the tide had pushed most of them farther up the beach, but their little bodies littered the dunes several yards beyond the water’s edge. If disease or climate conditions had caused their deaths, why had they fallen only here? Why hadn’t they landed in my grandparents’ front yard, or on the roadways? What had caused them to fall in this particular spot?

  And most important, what had happened to their eyes?