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

by Frank Peretti

  She screamed and dear God it burned my soul like acid.

  Faster. I had to move faster. I could not allow the IT to catch her, shred her, dismember her. . . .

  Tears wet my face. The white field disappeared. The trees that lined the perimeter of the farm faded from existence. Only Littlefoot existed. Littlefoot and the Beast.

  “Taaaaank!”

  Her first word to me was born out of terror. Her first word a cry for help. A plea. A first word that could be her last.

  I’ve never wanted to kill anything in my life, but I would rip the spine from the Creature, the IT, the Beast, the Demon, the Spawn of Hell. I would make sure it never chased a child again.

  My blood ran like lava through my veins; my heart was an airplane piston and my fury beyond description. My vision narrowed until I saw nothing but Littlefoot and the Predator. Something or someone was going to die tonight, and it wasn’t going to be Littlefoot.

  I pumped my legs and for the first time wished I was smaller and faster. I needed speed now more than bulk.

  Littlefoot fell. Facedown. In the snow. She rolled to one side, glanced at the Sprinting Death, then turned to me.

  She held out a hand, and I was still too far away.

  The Hound closed the distance. So did I. It leapt, its fierce gaze fixed on the little girl. It soared low, cruising toward the helpless child.

  She screamed.

  So did I.

  It opened its jaws and snapped them shut.

  On my hand.

  I didn’t care. The thought of her dying in this thing’s mouth brought me more pain than I could process—I could feel nothing else. A powerful, violent bite was nothing in comparison. There were greater pains to worry about.

  The Beast had my right hand in its jaws and was shaking his head as if trying to tear my hand from my arm. I found its throat with my left hand and squeezed. Harder. Harder until I felt its windpipe fold, until I felt my fingers press deep into its neck.

  The IT bit harder. I couldn’t feel the pain. I felt only fury—fury and fear for Littlefoot. Each second brought more anger, more hatred, more—

  I screamed again and closed my left hand like a vice. Another scream—

  I scrambled from my bed in Uncle Bart’s guest room. Sweat covered my body, and my muscles were more tense than I’d ever felt them. A sheen of tears covered my face. My tendons strained to hold constricting muscles in place. I took in air by the bushelful, my fists granite stones. My heart bounded in my chest like a caged ape trying to escape.

  The dark room was lit by moonlight reflecting off the snow one floor below. I wondered if anyone heard me. Were my screams just in my head? I hoped so. I prayed so. I strained my ears to listen for footsteps, voices, or a knock on the door. Nothing. The animal part of my brain listened for the Beast.

  “A dream. Thank God. Only a dream.”

  I was thankful. I didn’t want anyone checking on me. I wanted to be alone—needed to be alone. I trembled like a captured mouse. I dropped to my knees, leaned over the bed, and wept.

  It was an hour before I could pray.

  At 5:15 I noticed the smell of coffee. There would be no more sleep that night and, truth be told, I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to sleep again.

  I dressed, hit the hall bath, then walked quietly down the stairs. A light from the kitchen splashed on a figure in the dining room. The figure’s wide shoulders told me it was Uncle Bart. He sipped from a cup, set it down, and stared at the table. He hadn’t heard me. I didn’t want to startle him so I cleared my throat.

  “I heard you coming down the stairs, Tank. I ain’t young anymore, but my hearing is as good as ever.”

  “Sorry, Uncle Bart. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Wake me? No, I’ve been up for a little while. Can’t sleep.” He looked up. “What are you doing outta bed? I figured I’d have to drag you out around ten or so.”

  I faked a laugh. “I’ve never been good at sleeping in.” I moved to the table. “I used to do extra work in the gym before classes.”

  “Get yourself a cup o’ Joe, Tank. A man doesn’t like to drink alone, even if it’s coffee.”

  I did. I like coffee, and this smelled better than any I’d had. I assume that’s because it reminded me that all I had seen was just a dream. I found some dry creamer, doctored my coffee, then moved back to the dim dining room. I preferred it dim for now.

  Uncle Bart sighed like he was depressed or something.

  I took a guess. “Bad dream?”

  “Yeah, something like that.” He took another sip. “You?”

  “Yep. A doozy.”

  “Wanna talk about it?” He was trying to be a good uncle, but I could tell he didn’t want to hear it.

  “Nah. I’d rather forget the whole thing. You wanna talk about yours?”

  He chortled. “Not in the least.”

  There was a catch in his voice and, dim as the light was, I could see his eyes were tinged with red. I assumed mine were, too. “Littlefoot?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  “Yeah.”

  It was all we needed to say. We’d talk it about someday, but not now, not before the sun was up and we had been well lubricated with hot coffee.

  We were on our third cup before we spoke again. It was a simple conversation.

  “You hungry, Tank?”

  I worked up a good smile. “I don’t know what it’s like not to be hungry.”

  After two three-egg omelets and more bacon than I should admit to, we both felt better. Auntie June helped herself to the leftovers, glad she didn’t have to fix breakfast on a Monday morning.

  Thirty minutes later I was showered, shaved, and dressed for the day. I almost felt human again, and the sharp edges of the dream had dulled some. I found Uncle Bart in uniform and strapping on his Sam Browne service belt. “Gotta hit the mean streets of Dicksonville, Tank. You wanna go or stay here and help June clean house?”

  “Let me get my coat.”

  Where yesterday had been gray and stuffed with snow, today was bright and sunny. I imagined much of the white stuff would melt by the end of the day, except in the foothills where we saw Littlefoot’s tracks. That snow would probably hang around for a couple of days, maybe a week. Still, it was a good thing we retraced her steps yesterday. It gave us an opportunity to talk to some of the other ranchers, not that it did any good. They knew nothing of the girl and saw nothing.

  Uncle Bart pulled onto Main Street, drove about a mile, slowed and began swearing. I followed his gaze. In the middle of the street, at about the same place as yesterday, stood Littlefoot, still barefoot, still in the same clothes. The sun was up, but the air was still cold.

  “I don’t believe this.” Uncle Bart slapped the steering wheel. “I’m gonna have someone’s head.”

  A car pulled around the little girl and slowed. I could see the driver’s side window lower and a head poke out. Someone was checking on her. Uncle Bart turned on his emergency lights and the other driver saw it, waved, and slowly pulled away.

  Uncle Bart had a little more rant left in him. “There’s no way the girl could have walked back here. The CPS home is over thirty miles away.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a problem for her.”

  “That’s too weird, Tank. I know what we saw yesterday, but thirty miles? Really?”

  “Weird is the new normal, Uncle Bart. Stop here. We don’t want to scare her.”

  I glanced at him. Despite his outburst I could see that he was glad to see that she was safe. I know I was.

  I exited the car and gave the girl a little wave and big smile.

  No response. Just as before. I walked toward her. She looked up at me. Never had I seen a sweeter face. Her gaze was almost enough to erase what I saw in my dream. Well, almost.

  I held out my arms and she reached for me. “Let’s you and me go somewhere it’s warm. I’ll bet you’re hungry. Do you like eggs?” Of course, there was no answer. Sometimes I can touch sick or injured people and
they get well. I wish I could tell you it works all the time, but it doesn’t. I don’t know why. If it worked all the time, I’d spend my days walking through hospitals. Maybe that’s why it doesn’t. Maybe that’s not my purpose. My hope was that my gift might work on Littlefoot and fix the reason she didn’t talk. Maybe she didn’t need fixing. I just didn’t know.

  It was only a two-block walk to the sheriff’s station, but in those two blocks I came to realize two things. First, I grew more depressed with each step. I don’t get depressed too often and never for long, but I was feeling it today. There was a weight on my heart, like a car being dropped on a soda can. Maybe it was the dream. Maybe it was the shock of seeing Littlefoot back here, impossible as it was. I had no idea why I felt this way, but I started wishing the ground would open and swallow me. Take me away from all the misery in the world—

  I shook off the idea. I had the little girl in my arms. That was my second concern. I didn’t notice at first, probably because I was so glad to see her, but she was different. Littlefoot was smaller. She didn’t seem smaller, she was smaller. I carried her yesterday. I spent hours with her. She was different today: tinier and lighter.

  Impossible. But what about Littlefoot hasn’t been impossible?

  My feet grew heavier. My heart slowed. Strength poured from me as if there were an open faucet in my ankles. I was bleeding energy.

  When I reached the sheriff’s station, Uncle Bart held the door open. The girl buried her face in my neck as I heard a growl behind me . . . a familiar growl. I spun on my heel, ready to cover Littlefoot’s body with my own. From the corner of my eye, I saw Uncle Bart reach for his weapon. He left it holstered and I saw nothing. No Predator. I shuffled in, made my way to one of the chairs where Littlefoot sat yesterday, and set her down.

  “You okay, boy? You look spent.”

  I bent and rested my hands on my knees as if I had just finished a set of wind sprints. “I’m okay. Must be your cooking.”

  He took me by the arm and sat me near Littlefoot. “You rest there. If you’re not better in five minutes, I’m calling the doctor.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  I saw Uncle Bart look at Littlefoot. “I’m gonna call CPS and find out who let a ten-year-old . . .” He stared at her for a moment. “Um, Tank—”

  “I know. She’s shrinkin’.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  Reunion

  9:03 A.M.

  I was sitting in one of the holding cells in the back of the building. All of them were empty, they usually were, so I thought it might be a quieter, less frightening place for Littlefoot. Because she had changed since yesterday, I was tempted to call her “Littler-foot,” but it was too hard to say and it might just confuse her. It was quiet back there. We were away from deputies and citizens coming and going.

  The cell also had a bed and I was hoping my little friend would take a rest. She didn’t look sleepy and I wondered, in light of all I had seen so far, if she even needed to sleep. I scolded myself. Of course she did. She had a body, right? She ate food, didn’t she? Why wouldn’t she need sleep?

  I picked up the paper plates that had, moments earlier, held our breakfast. Yes, my second breakfast for the day. I wasn’t the least bit hungry, but I feared that Littlefoot wouldn’t eat unless I did the same. I introduced her to scrambled eggs, rye toast with jelly (she really liked that), and bacon. She avoided the plastic fork and used her hands to shovel the food from plate to mouth. To my surprise she ate everything and not once did she do the dog-peanut-butter thing with her tongue.

  Uncle Bart had placed a call to social services to advise them that one of their charges was missing. He used colorful language and spoke loudly enough that the phone was probably unnecessary. That’s when it occurred to me that things might be better back here in the cells.

  “Tank.” It was Uncle Bart. “You got visitors.”

  He stepped to the side, and the tall, gentlemanly figure of Dr. McKinney entered. “I knew you would come to no good, my boy.” He said it with a smile. It took me a second to get the joke.

  “Dr. McKinney!” I was on my feet and out of the cell. He raised both hands as if he could stop my approach. He wasn’t much for hugs. I didn’t care. I wrapped my arms around him and lifted him off the ground for a moment.

  “Careful, Tank, he’s old and frail.” That voice sent electricity through me. Andi stood a step or two back from the professor. Her face was just as gorgeous as it had been a couple of months ago in Florida when I last saw her. Her red hair was still as bright and still defying gravity. I set the professor aside and gave Andi a big hug. I may have held the hug a little too long. She started to pull away. I don’t know how to judge such things. I could see joy and humor in her eyes.

  “Oh, sure, the white girl gets a hug.”

  I looked over Andi’s big hair and saw Brenda’s face. One corner of her mouth ticked up. It was the closest thing to a smile I had seen from her. Brenda was tough, streetwise, and at times, a little scary. She was quick with a cut and was a great tattoo artist. I have some of her work on my arm, although I don’t remember much about getting it. I took her in my arms. She hugged back. She could pretend to be as hard as nails, but I knew about her softer side.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here, Miss Brenda,” I said.

  “Yeah, and don’t think I’m not put out by that, Cowboy.”

  Something touched my leg. A small person stood by my right leg. “Daniel!” I scooped the kid up like a bundle of laundry. Daniel doesn’t like to be touched, but he lets me get away with it. I set him down. “Secret handshake.” I held out my hand and we went through a series of slaps and bumps. It takes about fifteen seconds, but the kid enjoys it. Me too.

  Uncle Bart cleared his throat. “You gonna play patty-cake all morning or are you going to introduce me?”

  “Oh, sorry, Uncle Bart. This is Brenda Barnick. She’s a tattoo artist and a good one. This little guy is Daniel Petrovski. He’s amazing in his own way. Brenda takes care of him some.”

  “Some?” Uncle Bart said.

  “I’m his aunt.”

  Uncle Bart looked at her black face then at Daniel’s white skin. “His mother know he’s here?”

  “He’s got no mother. I’m the only adult in his life—well, me and this crew.” She paused. “He lives in an institution most of the time, but me and the professor, here, we been pullin’ some social service strings gettin’ him to stay with me more and more. We go on trips and stuff when we can.”

  I could tell Uncle Bart had a million questions, but he kept them to himself, his way of trusting me.

  I took a step closer to Andi. “This is my good friend Andrea Goldstein.”

  “Please to meet you, Deputy.” She held out her hand.

  “It’s Sheriff, thank you.” At least he smiled when he said it. He took her hand, stared at her for a minute, then looked at me. I hate being transparent.

  “Sorry.” Andi looked amused.

  “And Uncle Bart, this is Professor James McKinney. We just call him Professor.”

  “Ah.” Uncle Bart held out his hand. “You the priest?”

  “No, I’m the used-to-be priest. I travel the country and lecture now. Andi is my assistant.”

  Uncle Bart eyed the professor like he was checking him for a hidden gun. “What do you lecture on?” I cringed at the question.

  “I help people get over the crippling belief in God and the supernatural.”

  My uncle’s face hardened. “The crippling belief.”

  “Yes, sir. You see—”

  I had to nip this in the bud. “How did you guys know I needed you? I was gonna call—”

  “Which you didn’t,” Brenda snapped. “We ain’t much of a team, Cowboy, if we don’t stay in contact.”

  “I know. Sorry. It’s been a strange few months. I still wanna know how you knew to come.”

  Brenda, who was wearing an old leather jacket two sizes too large, pulled a piece of paper fr
om an inside pocket and handed it to me. I unfolded it. The paper was thick and I guessed she had taken it from an artist’s pad. She had folded it three times, as if by doing so she could keep it safe and secret. Brenda was cautious. She didn’t trust anyone and asked no one to trust her—present company excluded, of course.

  I stared at the image. She had sketched it in pencil then traced it over in ink. I recognized myself. She had captured Littlefoot to a T, and—

  My knees went weak and my spine turned to Jell-O.

  “Blessed Jesus.”

  I swayed for a moment. No one spoke, but I did hear Andi gasp. A hand grabbed my right arm. The professor. Another hand seized my left arm. Uncle Bart.

  “You okay, son?” Uncle Bart sounded worried.

  “He’s scared.” It was Brenda. “I ain’t never seen him scared before. Ease up, Cowboy. You’re with friends.”

  I was going to lose my breakfast. Both of them. I’ve trembled before, but only after I’ve over-exerted my muscles during practice or a game. Never for any other reason. I couldn’t stop quivering.

  Something grabbed my leg. Correction. Someone grabbed my leg. It was Daniel, and he held my leg as if he could hold me upright.

  “Talk to me, boy.” Uncle Bart spoke in a steady tone, a lawman’s tone, but there were several gallons of fear hidden in his words.

  I straightened, took several deep breaths, then handed the paper to Uncle Bart. He looked at it, then said something that made me want to apologize to Andi and Brenda. Of course, I had heard Brenda use the term a few times myself.

  “This was in your dream?” Uncle Bart’s words were more than a question; they were a demand for information.

  “Yeah. You?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Again with the dreams,” the professor said. “What’s with this group and dreams?”

  Uncle Bart snapped his gaze to the professor. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s hard to explain, Sheriff, and I don’t believe in such things anyway.”

  “You don’t believe in anything,” Brenda snapped. “You’ve seen everything we have; you’re just too stubborn to believe your own eyes and experiences.”