Gideon (Inspired By Judges #2)

Chapter 1

The windshield wipers smeared 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 sun shifted 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 partially obscured 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 slowed further 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 to get 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 walk the 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.

The garish lighting of the sign at the front door promised to intensify the headache that pressed at the back of his skull. He focused on the rutted pavement until he reached the door and pushed it open, only to be met by the sharp scent of stale booze and the moody chords of “Hotel California,” which mingled with the clink of glasses and muffled the conversation.

Gideon scanned the room, almost disregarding the hunched shoulders of a white-haired man hugging a drink at the bar. The wisps of white that stuck out at odd angles, some of it glued to the side of his face from sweat, was a shock.

Seven years ago, his dad had still had most of his thick dark hair. His brother had told him that the stroke had no lasting effects, but a lot had changed. Probably more than he’d feared.

He inhaled sharply and started forward. His dad didn’t move when he reached him, so he slid onto the bar stool beside the shrunken old man.

The bartender, a beefy guy with a pockmarked face and dark, bushy eyebrows, stepped up to him. His hands looked like mallets when he anchored them on either side of the counter. “What’ll you have?”

“Just a coke, thanks.”

A wheezy laugh came from beside him, followed by a hacking cough. The bartender slid a napkin to his dad. “Here you go, Joey.”

Joey nodded thanks and used it to wipe at the side of his face that hung loosely. Gideon looked at him out of the corner of his eye. His sagging lip exposed a stained tooth.

“You can buy a coke from the diner around the corner,” Joey slurred. “In here, we only serve men.” Then, he turned to face Gideon and one eye widened, while the other tried to mirror it but came up short.

“Hi, Dad,” Gideon said, making sure his voice held strong.

Joey shook his head and focused back on his beer. “I only have one son, and he’s in prison. I don’t know who you are.”

“After all these years, that’s your response?”

“Hey—” Joey turned to face him again, this time with surprising speed. “You walked out on me, remember? It’s what you wanted. ”

“What I wanted was for you to stop attacking me every time you had too much to drink.”

“You should be thanking me. It’s what made a man out of you. It’s probably what kept you alive. Everything you’ve done in the special forces is down to me.”

“Dad, that’s got nothing to do?—”

“Did I tell you about it, Charlie?” Joey motioned toward the bartender. “Did I tell you about Giddy in the special forces? Top of his class. Only thing that’s made him worth anything.”

“You sure did,” Charlie said, setting the coke in front of Gideon. “This one’s on the house. Thank you for your service.”

“That’s not necessary,” Gideon mumbled, pulling out a few bills and laying them on the counter.

“Too much of a coward to stick around here for long, though,” Joey continued, giving Gideon a sideways glance. “I don’t know how he can handle conflict with strangers but not with his own family. Hey, Giddy, why don’t you lift that shirt and show us your yellow belly?”

Gideon took one sip of his drink, then climbed off the stool. “This was a bad idea,” he said as he limped toward the door.

“What’s with the leg, ya gimp?”

Gideon stopped and closed his eyes. When he was sixteen, he’d taken a swing at his dad, knocking him to the floor. It was the first and last time. But it didn’t mean he didn’t have to control himself almost every time his dad opened his mouth.

He knew the offensive words were said in desperation to stop him from walking out the door. For better or worse, he took a deep breath, unraveling his fingers from their white-knuckled fist before turning. “I was injured.”

“Bullet wound? Bomb? Torture?” Joey said.

This wasn’t the time or place to come clean. Confessions could come later. “No. With one of the vehicles.”

“What’d you do? Get run over by a tank?”

Gideon shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, it’s confidential, is it?” Joey swore, then turned to the bartender. “There he goes again. Thinking he’s better than the rest of us. I used to be proud of my son being selected for the special forces. Had I known it would turn him into a pretentious jerk, I wouldn’t have gotten so excited.”

“I never said my injury was confidential.” Gideon sighed, knowing it was pointless to explain.

“Do us all a favor and?—”

Gideon didn’t wait around for him to finish his rude comment. He was out the door, already pulling out his phone to figure out which town he’d head for next. It had been a mistake coming here. He’d thought God had led him, but he’d been wrong. Somehow, he’d misunderstood or misheard.

He marched across the parking lot, his shoes crunching on the broken pavement until he heard a shout.

“Hold on!” Gideon turned as the bartender lumbered toward him. “Do you have a minute?”

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t leave a tip.” He reached for his wallet, but Charlie held his hand up to stop him.

“I told you, it was on the house, but that’s not why I came out here. It’s about Joey. ”

“What about him?”

“I’m sorry about what happened back there. Joey can be…difficult sometimes. He’s not very good at explaining himself.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. I’m his son, remember? I’m well versed in his moods. After all these years, I thought I could get through it, but I was wrong.”

“You sure?”

“If I go back in there, I can’t be certain I won’t do something I’ll regret.”

“What if you give him some time to sober up?”

“Is he ever sober?” Gideon shook his head and headed for his truck.

“Please. Give him another chance.”

“I probably would if I thought that’s what he wanted.”

“I’ve known Joey for a few years now,” Charlie said, “and I can tell you he needs another chance from you. He’s not well.”

“I know. I heard from my brother he had a stroke.”

“That, yeah, sure. But a guy like Joey gets through that stuff all right.”

“By drowning himself in alcohol?”

“He talks a lot about his boys. What he said in there isn’t what he really thinks of you. He’s had a rough couple of days, and he’s got a few drinks into him, so he’s not himself.”

“You may have known him for a few years, but I’ve known him my whole life. Let me assure you, he’s more himself when he drinks than when he doesn’t. What happened in there was not out of the ordinary. ”

“I know it’s none of my business, but I feel sorry for the guy. Underneath his…prickliness, I don’t think he wants you to give up on him yet. He just doesn’t know how to say it.”

Gideon squeezed his forehead. “While I appreciate your care for my dad—because he certainly has done nothing to deserve it—I don’t think me sticking around is going to help anything. You saw how he acted in there. I make things worse. I knew it coming here, but I hoped—I don’t know. He hasn’t changed. That’s clear. I knew what to expect. Or I should have known. If you say he’s getting along okay after the stroke, then I’ll take your word for it. He doesn’t need my help. I’m sorry.”

“Wait.” Charlie’s face puckered like he was being forced to say something he shouldn’t. “It’s not just his health.”

“I saw his business is closed down.”

“Things aren’t like they used to be around here.”

“I noticed that when I drove in. I can’t imagine the drought has been easy for anyone.”

“It’s worse than you think. Joey needs your help, but he’ll never ask for it. If you can ignore his bad attitude, just help him out. It would be worth it if you can stay long enough to make sure he’s got everything in order.”

“All right, look. All I can do is promise you I’ll think about it overnight. But from what I can see, there’s not a lot to sort out. His business is closed. There’s nothing but an empty workshop.”

“No, that’s not—” His eyes darted around the parking lot like he was worried someone would hear him. “There’s a lot against him right now. There’s a lot against all of us. If you can stick around long enough to see it…we could use your particular skill set.”

“I don’t understand.”

A car pulled into the driveway, and Charlie straightened. “Like I said, stick around, and you’ll see.”

He hurried back inside as three men got out of the sedan. Whoever they were, Charlie had been unsettled by their arrival—but this wasn’t his fight. The last thing he needed was to get in a brawl, especially with his leg the way it was. If Joey had gotten himself into some other sort of trouble, that wasn’t for Gideon to fix.