FEET OF CLAY

This is the first of a series of linked Christian missionary novels. The setting is in America and the rain forests of Guatemala, Central America

PROLOGUE

It was snowing again, a soft snow that fell like a scene from a Christian card, but the couple in the Lincoln looked at it with dismay. They were on their way home after finishing some last minute Christmas shopping. This snow would make the short drive home more difficult, and they were tired and wanted to be there quickly.


Bill pulled his car out of the line of cars trying to get onto the freeway and headed for the small road for home. This way was a little shorter by miles but it was quicker to go by the freeway. However, this day the traffic on the freeway was standing still.

“Christmas traffic,” Bill swore under his breath. He didn’t swear very often, not since his daughter heard him once and wrote a poem about it. He saw his wife reach into one of the many bags that were at her feet. She pulled out a frame. It was one of Julie’s old school projects – a poem,– which she took to the picture framers. She looked at the words again, clearly written in a childish script. Little flowers outlined the poem.

Feet of Clay

I heard my Dad swear today,
He took God’s name in vain,
But seeing he has feet of clay
How could we him blame?

She smiled and put the poem in its frame back in its packet. She thought she might keep it herself, rather than give it away. Looking up, she saw that the car topped the little hill and she could see the prestigious housing development where their new home was located. As the car descended, the lights of the development were blocked from view. Darkness deepened. A shudder ran through Sandra’s body“Cold?” Bill asked.

"No,” Sandra replied. “Someone must’ve walked over my grave.” It was a silly statement brought over from her childhood. “As soon as we get home, I’ll make us a quick supper, and we can finish decorating the tree. I want it all finished for Julie when she gets home tomorrow.” Sandra gave a happy little laugh. Just thinking of her daughter gave her joy.

“I hope we can persuade her to stay in school. That Douglas! Talking her into such a silly idea. Backpacking! I must speak to him when he comes. Is he arriving tomorrow, also?”

“Not until Christmas Eve,” Sandra answered. “Oh, look,” she exclaimed, “Someone slid off the road. Should we stop to help?”

Bill was all ready slowing. A man stood in the road waving them down. Bill stopped the Lincoln and pressed a button for the window and it noiselessly descended. “Can we send you some help?” he asked.

“No,” the stranger replied. “Just give me a lift to a gas station.”

“There’s no station this way,” Bill protested. “It would be better to wait in your car. I’ll send you some help as soon as I reach home.”

The man, stomping his feet with the cold and impatient to be in the warmth of the car, reached in the open window and unlocked the back door. He slid in with easy grace.

Sudden fear rose in Sandra’s throat. Bill always took control of any situation, but this man horned his way into their car. She looked at Bill. He was busy driving down the steep hill, trying to keep the car from sliding. His mouth was tight. A muscle pulsated in his jaw. Sandra knew he was upset and concerned. Was it the condition of the road or the man in the back seat?

She heard the stranger moving around. A rustling sound and then a click followed by a muffled boom. Bill slumped over the steering wheel clutching his chest. Before Sandra could react, the stranger hit her on the temple with the butt of his gun, grabbed her purse from her lap, and picked Bill’s wallet from his pocket. He pulled the hand brake on, which put the car in a skid. It slithered on the icy bridge, hitting the railing. The man in the back flipped out the door as the car crashed through the railing. Within seconds, the car plunged through the thin ice of the creek and sank out of sight.

The man picked himself up from the road, brushed snow and dirt off his clothes, and walked to his car. He drove off into the darkness of the night without a backward glance.

Snowflakes kept gently falling. His tracks were soon covered

"FEET OF CLAY"

ISBN - 978-1-4327-4734-3 soft cover
ISBN - 978-1-4327-4734-3 kindle version