Page 1 of Gideon

Chapter 1

The windshield wiperssmeared the spattering of rain across the glass, turning the road ahead into a shapeless mass.

Gideon tugged on the wiper lever. It whirred, but no water sprayed onto the windscreen. He’d checked everything in the old beat-up Chevy. Changed the oil, fixed the bearings, and added a new battery. Everything but fill the windshield fluid reservoir. Not high on his list of priorities with what he had on his mind. It hadn’t been his idea to make this trip. And while he wouldn’t go so far as to say he’d been forced, it sure felt like it. God hadn’t let him have a moment’s peace until he’d given in.

He rolled down his window, the wind whipping his hair into a frenzy as he looked out at the billowing storm clouds to the west, promising heavy rain. But he was headed east. The rain never came that way. It hadn’t for many years.

As he followed a wide curve in the road, the sunshifted directly into his path until the glare on the filthy windshield almost completely obscured his view. He pulled to the side of the road, grabbed a bottle of water from the seat beside him, then climbed out onto the dusty verge.

Over the rumble of the engine, he could hear the buzzing from the orchestra of insects that inhabited the meadow, then the sharp crackle of the cheap plastic container under his fingers as he dumped the last of its contents onto the window.

Before getting back in his truck, he inhaled the scent of earth and grain that the warm breeze carried in surges over the fields. The hint of green that still tinted the grasses would be gone in a few more miles. The drought had settled in and hadn’t relented. But that wasn’t Gideon’s problem. His issues had nothing to do with the climate or the price of gas. He’d made a promise to God that he’d see this through as long as it didn’t cost him everything.

Once he’d cleared the windshield and got the truck back up to speed, he rested his arm on the window frame and let his mind drain of any miserable thoughts over the next hour, focusing on the broken white line in the middle of the road until he reached a tree-edged section of land on the outskirts of town. It had been seven years since he’d last stepped foot in Asher. He’d thought at the time it had been his last. But even now, with the gold-tipped grasses ablaze in the sun, he knew he never would have come back if circumstances hadn’t pushed him to it.

A sign on the side of the road, dented and partiallyobscured by an abandoned market stall advertising corn, read:

Welcome to Asher, Iowa

Population 4200

If the statistic was to be believed—which he didn’t—the drought hadn’t impacted the population since he’d lived there as a boy.

He passed a small park at the edge of town. It was now full of tall weeds, and the playground was devoured by rust. As a kid, he and a few friends had kicked a ball around in a large grassy area nearby early in the summer evenings before getting into trouble once the sun went down.

Closing in on the center of town, he slowed. The windows of the old movie theatre on the corner had been boarded up, and a blank marquee was covered in graffiti.

He continued along the street, where most of the shop windows were dark. Growing up, this street would have been busy on a Saturday morning. The markets brought everyone into town. The sidewalks should have been full of pedestrians ducking in and out of the small shops before or after perusing the markets.

He squinted at a cardboard sign that had been taped to a light pole. It was faded but announced the markets would be held on Sunday. That would explain the lack of traffic, but it didn’t defuse the dreariness that the sunshine couldn’t compensate for.

Turning the corner onto Main Street, he slowedfurther when he saw three large totem poles had been erected in the middle of the square where a large pergola used to be. Several groups of people were setting up their stalls around them.

After driving a little closer, he pulled to the side of the road and stopped. The grotesque images depicted in the wood didn’t look like anything indigenous he’d ever seen and only increased his desire to keep driving until he came out the other side of town. As soon as he could, he would.

He started off again and, at the next intersection, turned the corner and continued another half a block before pulling over in front of a mechanic’s workshop. He let the engine idle while he surveyed the business.

It looked like most of the others in town. The roller door at the front was closed and the small windows were covered in grime. The large sign posting the opening hours suggested it should be welcoming customers for the day.

Gideon steadied himself before he turned off the ignition. This should be the hardest step, but with his dad, too often, things went from bad to worse. And if he’d been drinking, there was no telling how he would react to seeing his son back in town.

The squeal from the truck door as he pushed it open sent a shiver up his spine. Distracted, he slid to the ground, letting his right leg take too much of the impact. He grunted at the pain, then limped to the front door of the shop, rubbing his thigh as he crossed the sidewalk.

At the window, he circled his hands on the glass toget a better view of the inside. The shelves were almost empty. Only a few random tools remained and a couple of bottles of what he guessed were some type of oil. Bits of paper littered the floor, and dust had settled in a filthy blanket on an already filthy workshop. No one had been in there for years, long before his dad had had the stroke. It was what Gideon had been most worried about.

He hated that his heart thumped heavily in his chest. He wasn’t a child who had anything to fear from his dad, but what he carried was heavier. Guilt had seeped in between the crevasses of his anger, and it hurt. He shouldn’t have left the way he had seven years ago.

He looked back at his truck. Tempted. No one knew he was in town. They wouldn’t know if he left. But then, his eyes lifted to the sky. God would know. Better to get it over with and stop dragging out the inevitable. He’d come here with a purpose, and he’d see it through.

Moving to a nondescript door at the side of the shop, he tried the handle. Locked. Asher had never been the sort of town where people locked their doors, not even if they went away on vacation. His dad, in particular, would leave the door wide open on occasion, although that had more to do with a drunken stupor than a purposeful decision.

Gideon rang the doorbell and waited. When no one came, he rang it again. When there was still no response, he checked his watch. It was early, but not too early for his dad. He looked up the street and considered walking the two blocks. But that would mean he’d have to walkthe two blocks back, and he didn’t think his leg was up to it.

It took him a solid sixty seconds to get up the nerve to start the truck. The reason he’d timed his travel to arrive before noon was that he’d expected to find his dad at home, where he wouldn’t have witnesses if things went south.

Finally, he pulled onto the road. He’d likely never see any of these people again, so what harm could it do if he faced an explosive reaction? At least with witnesses, his dad wouldn’t take a swing at him. Hopefully.

Half the parking lot was full when he pulled in. In a town that looked like it was in the final throes of death, the one place you could always rely on for a solid customer base was the bar.

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