Living Stones

Living Stones
by Lloyd Johnson

© Copyright 2013 by Lloyd Johnson

ISBN 9781938467578

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means - electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other - except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Published by

5 Penn Plaza, 23rd floor
c/o Morgan James Publishing
New York, NY 10001
212-574-7939
www.koehlerbooks.com

Publisher
John Köehler

Executive Editor
Joe Coccaro

Dedication

To my soulmate in life and in telling this story,
my best friend whose heart also yearns for peace
with justice in the Holy Land,
my beloved wife, Marianne.

“ . . . If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same.”

Kipling captured the calm through the ups and downs of life. Friends encourage when there’s more disaster than triumph—whether in life or writing a story. Providing resources of knowledge, contacts and wonderful discussions around the tumult in the Holy Land, Sandra and Brad Gerrish stand out. I appreciate Bart Shorack for his counsel. Suzie Pham as a young adult, and Leonard Rodgers of Middle East fame inspired me too.

Friends in the Holy Land gave us insights as we visited them. Among many, Usama Nicola, Marwan Farajeh, Sami and Bishara Awad. Our hearts remain with all of them in their suffering. Knowing them, we’ve begun to understand and love our brothers and sisters there.

Through colleagues in the Northwest Christian Writers Association I’m acquiring the craft of writing a story, with much yet to learn. Particular thanks go to my faithful critique partners, Kathleen Freeman, Kim Vandel and Karen Higgins, whose suggestions have ushered me from drab stoicism to heights of emotion—something difficult for a platonic Swede.

For his patience and guidance, I thank my literary agent, Les Stobbe, whose experience and counsel have proved invaluable. Working with John Koehler, publisher, and his colleagues, Joe Coccaro, editor, Terry Whalin and Margo Toulouse, I’ve been pleased with their expertise and prompt skills in taking a story and producing a quality book.

And most of all, I appreciate my wife, Marianne, for her invaluable input sharing her heart, her perspectives and her faith. As in our own adventures in the Middle East, we’ve done this one together.

LLOYD JOHNSON

He has showed you, O man, what is good.
And what does the Lord require of you?
To act justly and to love mercy
And to walk humbly with your God.

Micah 6:8

Ashley Wells crumpled on the sidewalk as the synagogue behind her collapsed in a cascade of debris and dust spraying in a thousand directions. The shock wave leveled everything in its path, including Ashley and her fellow graduate student, Najid Haddad, who had been standing on the sidewalk chatting on a sunny Friday afternoon. Ashley had noticed a young Caucasian man across the street in a hoodie staring at them, but she didn’t think much of it. Other pedestrians had slowed to admire the magnificent stone Jewish house of prayer.

After their eyes briefly met, the man in the hoodie wheeled around and walked away. Ashley turned back to Najid. Suddenly a roar overwhelmed her and in the same second she was slammed to the ground. Next came agonizing pain, then blackness.

Najid stood unharmed except for minor lacerations on his arms. Ashley’s body had protected him. He turned her onto her back. “Ashley, can you hear me? Ashley! Ashley!” Blood pooled on the sidewalk. She moaned. He felt a rapid pulse at her wrist. He waved
his arms. “Help! Help!” His voice was just another in a chorus of screams as people scurried to the crowd gathered in the street. Then everything blurred as sirens screeched and police and Medic One ambulances appeared. Najid stepped aside, shaking his head, wide–eyed. He trembled. “Oh God, help Ashley! Make her live!”

Emergency personnel swarmed around her, quickly pouring in IV fluids. They moved her onto a stretcher and into a Medic One van, which then sped away with siren blaring and red lights flashing. Police, guns drawn, with helmets and flak jackets, rushed into the debris of the synagogue searching for other victims.

Najid gazed at the bloody sidewalk, shaking his head. His mind whirled and echoed with the explosion, unable to focus. It seemed unreal. He had fled violence in the Middle East for a peaceful education in Seattle. In a daze, he began walking slowly past large maple trees and older homes with wooden porches. Tears welled in his eyes. The prayer kept coming, “Oh God, please help Ashley. Don’t let her die.”

Still dazed, he heard staccato footsteps behind him and someone yelling. Suddenly a policeman yanked Najid from behind, clamped handcuffs on his wrists, and pushed him into a car with blue lights blazing. Najid shuddered.
This happens in America too?

Robert Bentley, face flushed, stormed out of his father’s dark-paneled home office, with Conrad Bentley close behind.

“Your life has been pretty easy. We’ve given you everything you could want. Half a million dollars in trust funds.” The older man raised his hands palms up, shaking his head. “What more could you want?”

“I’m out of here, Dad. All you think about is money! You really could care less about me! Tell Mom goodbye when she comes home, if she still wants to live with you! Don’t come looking for me. I won’t be back!”

Conrad Bentley shouted back, “Don’t act so indignant, son. If you’re so high-and-mighty then why have you dabbled in drugs with Mark instead of studying at Cornell?!”

Robert raced across the mansion’s patio and vaulted over the door of his red Corvette, which glimmered with its top down. Gunning the engine, the twenty-one-year-old jerked the car into gear. The tires screeched as he roared around the circular driveway, slowing only enough for the automatic gate to open. Knuckles white on
the steering wheel, he flew down the street, suddenly swerving to miss a child on a bicycle.

He slowed, glancing in the rearview mirror for any police. The elegant Long Island community had proven generous with traffic tickets.

Robert seethed, gritted his teeth, and shook his head, fingers raking his dark hair. His dad had no clue! Of medium height and slender frame, shorter than his father, he scowled and hunched his shoulders over the steering wheel.

Robert heaved a deep breath and sighed, telling himself to
calm down
as he headed toward Mark’s modest house. Talking to Mark might make him feel better.