Come Sunday Morning Page 22

  “You’re scaring her, Phillip,” Sandra chimed in. “Cynthia, I think Phillip is overestimating the public’s interest in Hezekiah. I personally think it will make a big splash in the headlines for a few weeks, and then some politician will get caught with a hooker and the public will lose interest in this. Plus, there is a strong possibility that the public will never find out who the source is.”

  “That is true, but she still needs to be prepared. You each know Hezekiah is loved by a lot of people. Cynthia, you will not be very popular with people who think Hezekiah walks on water. Can you handle that?”

  Sandra jumped in again. “Hezekiah is also hated by just as many, if not more, people. They will see you as a hero, a woman who exposed hypocrisy at the highest level of the church.”

  Cynthia listened intently as the two continued to present her with the pros and cons of her actions. However, none that were mentioned came close to her own reason for outing Hezekiah.

  As they talked, she saw images of her husband standing center stage at New Testament Cathedral and saying, “I am proud to be your new pastor.”

  She saw herself standing next him and smiling lovingly at him as cameras beamed their images to televisions all over the country. She could feel the buttery leather of the limousine caressing her body as she was being driven to luncheons, parties, and banquets in her honor. She could hear the roar of the Learjet engine as it whisked her and Percy off to the East Coast to meet with the president or some other very important person.

  “All right, you two,” she said. “I’ve heard enough. I refuse to back down because of fear. This isn’t about me. It’s about doing the right thing. Phillip, don’t worry. I’ll stand behind the story.”

  “Good. Then I’ll give it the green light,” Phillip said, clapping his hands together.

  “I’ve told you why I’m doing this. I’m curious, ladies, why are you so eager to out Hezekiah?”

  Cynthia spoke first. “This has been so difficult for me. I love Hezekiah and Samantha deeply. I would give my life for them. They’ve done so much for Percy and me. We wouldn’t be where we are today if it weren’t for them.”

  Both Phillip and Sandra looked skeptically at Cynthia as she continued. “I just can’t sit by and not expose such a horrible abomination. Hezekiah has sinned, and it must be brought to light. It’s for his own good. He has to repent before God and man and beg for forgiveness. I’m doing this to save his soul from eternal damnation.”

  “That is very Christian of you, Mrs. Pryce,” Phillip said with a smirk. “I suppose the fact that your husband is the heir apparent to the New Testament Cathedral dynasty has had no impact on your decision.”

  “That never crossed my mind. This is about exposing sin and—”

  Phillip interrupted, “So what about you, Sandra? Hezekiah got you your first job out of law school.”

  Sandra crossed her legs and said, “That’s simple. I’m doing it for Samantha. She deserves better. She’s too blinded by love to see how Hezekiah is destroying her life. She would never leave him. She would never do anything to hurt him, so I’m helping him leave her.”

  Phillip showed little interest in what he considered half-truths from the women. He could clearly see that whatever the true reasons for their betrayal, they were strong enough to ensure their full commitment to the story.

  “All right, then, ladies. It looks like we’re in business,” he said. “The story is scheduled to run in this Sunday’s paper. You had better brace yourselves because it’s going to be a hell of a ride.”

  23

  Sunday Morning

  It was 1:00 A.M. Hattie Williams lay awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling. A sheer curtain quivered gently from the breeze through the open window. She hadn’t slept well since viewing the images in her kitchen window days earlier. Concern for Pastor Cleaveland consumed her thoughts.

  If he were already dead, someone would have called her by now. She had called Etta the day before, and everything seemed normal. Hattie prayed that the pastor would make it through the night so she could see him at least one last time. She felt helpless because there was nothing she could do to prevent it.

  A tear trailed down her temple to her nightcap. “Jesus, you know what’s best for the pastor. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. But, Lord, let his passage be easy. Let him be surrounded by people who love him. Let him be in the place that he loves so much when you call him home.”

  Hezekiah’s legs jerked and his hands swatted at imaginary demons as he slept. The dream that caused his brow to sweat, and his body to toss and turn, was so vivid, it felt as if he were actually awake. Hezekiah tossed in his sleep as he wrestled within the grips of another nightmare.

  New Testament Cathedral is in a state of turmoil. The church grounds are filled with religious-right protesters waving placards, and gay activists demanding a full confession from Hezekiah. A squadron of broadcast news vans clogs the streets.

  Hezekiah is riding in the rear of the limousine. A swarm of men and women toting cameras, lights, and microphones rush toward the car as it approaches. Dino drives slowly, and police officers clear his path. Protesters shout louder as cameras deliver their images live to homes throughout the country. Hezekiah then sees an anchorwoman standing at the foot of the church steps.

  “This is Wendy Chung, with ABC News,” she says crisply into the camera. “We have interrupted your regularly scheduled programming to bring you live coverage of a dramatic story unfolding in the city of Los Angeles. Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland’s car has just arrived here at New Testament Cathedral. We will try to get a statement from him on a story that broke this morning, which claims that he has been involved in a long-standing homosexual affair, but as you can see, it’s a mob scene here this morning.

  “Pastor Cleaveland,” she shouts as Hezekiah sees himself stepping from the car. “Would you comment on the allegations of a homosexual affair that was reported in this morning’s Los Angeles Chronicle?”

  Dino steps in front of the woman as Hezekiah walks to the stairs.

  “Sir, these are startling claims and the American people would like to hear your response.”

  The reporter’s pleas for attention are replaced by those of others.

  “Pastor Cleaveland, over here,” shouts a man in the crowd. “Is it true that you refurbished a live/work loft for Danny St. John using church funds?”

  Hezekiah proceeds up the stairs, but the questions continue.

  “Where is Mr. St. John this morning, sir? Has he gone into hiding?”

  “Are you going to divorce your wife, sir, and live openly as a same-sex couple?”

  “How is this revelation going to affect your plans for the new cathedral? Will you halt construction?”

  When Hezekiah reaches the top landing, the doors fling open, and Percy Pryce walks out.

  “The pastor has no comment at this time,” he says, reaching for Hezekiah’s arm. “He will make a full statement today, after this morning’s church service. Now, please, let him through.”

  Police officers block the doors to prevent the reporters from rushing into the building.

  Wendy Chung faces the camera again. “Well, you heard it. Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland has refused to comment, but his spokesperson states that he will make a statement later today.

  “As a result of this extramarital homosexual affair, some pundits are suggesting that Cleaveland should resign as pastor of one of the largest churches in the country. They say that his credibility as a spiritual leader has suffered irreparable damage. Believed by many to be one of the most powerful ministers in the United States, Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland has served as spiritual confidant to two presidents. His future now seems to be in ruins if these startling allegations prove to be true. Also, sources close to the family have informed us that Mrs. Cleaveland intends to file for divorce and possibly mount her own campaign to replace her husband as pastor of New Testament Cathedral. We will bring you live coverage of the press conferenc
e later today. Now back to your regularly scheduled programming.”

  Hezekiah’s body twisted and turned in bed. His legs and arms became tangled in the sheets as he fought to emerge from the dream. His mind raced forward at an alarming speed.

  Hezekiah is standing on the roof of the church above the stained-glass window, looking down on the throngs of protesters and reporters. In the distance he can see the construction site of the new cathedral. It is covered in a smoky gray haze, and steel beams are falling off and crashing to the ground, causing huge plumes of dust to envelop the crowd below.

  He then hears a booming voice from the clouds over his head. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of the press,” the voice says. “Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland has called this press conference to respond to the article that appeared in this morning’s edition of the Los Angeles Chronicle. He will first make a brief statement, after which we will have a few minutes for questions. Please hold your questions until he has finished.”

  Hezekiah steps forward to the edge of the roof. A bright light forms a halo around him.

  “Good morning,” Hezekiah says solemnly. His booming voice echoes like thunder in clouds. “I am here to address what I consider to be a very sad day for Los Angeles and for the country.

  “It is a tragic commentary on the state of American journalism when a member of the media is permitted to fabricate the news without benefit of facts, truth, or credible evidence. It is a crime against the American people when a once-trusted publication appoints itself judge, juror, and executioner in matters pertaining to the lives of private citizens of this country.

  “Let me say, in the most emphatic terms possible, that I have never had a sexual relationship with a man. I have never met Mr. Danny St. John in person, and I have never sent the collection of e-mail correspondence that has been falsely attributed to me. Yes, I have spoken to Mr. St. John on the telephone, but only as a citizen who is concerned about homeless people in this city. Mr. St. John has on numerous occasions responded to my requests to assist homeless people whom I encounter on a daily basis. The calls that Mr. Savage referred to were nothing more than my acting not only as a pastor but also as a citizen who is concerned about the plight of homeless women, men, and children.

  “Now, as for the e-mail messages, it pains me to say that yes, the e-mails were, in fact, generated from my home computer.”

  Hezekiah takes another step closer to the edge. “I am sad to report to you that all the messages were written by my wife, Samantha Cleaveland.”

  Gasps erupt from the crowd. Cameras flash throughout, and reporters grab for cell phones.

  Hezekiah continues his statement. “She wrote and sent the letters in an attempt to further her own ambitions. Mrs. Cleaveland conspired with Mr. Danny St. John, Lance Savage, and other unscrupulous individuals.”

  Reporters immediately begin shouting questions, but Hezekiah holds up his hand.

  “Please let me continue,” he says. “I wish Mr. Savage were here so that I could ask him why he wrote a story that is based solely on lies, innuendo, and unfounded rumors, but I do not see him among you today.

  “Finally let me say to the citizens of this great city that this entire ordeal has only served to make me a better and stronger pastor. I will work even harder to earn your trust and support of my efforts to build the church of the future. Thank you.”

  A jumble of questions fills the air and buzzes around Hezekiah’s head.

  “Pastor Cleaveland, how do you account for the fact that you were seen entering Mr. St. John’s apartment on numerous occasions by his upstairs neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Somner?”

  “I’m sure that the Somners are a very nice and well-intentioned couple, but I have no idea where they live, nor have I ever met them.”

  “Pastor Cleaveland,” calls out another reporter. “Why do you think Mrs. Cleaveland did this? What did she have to gain?”

  “I would imagine that some misguided person, possibly Sandra Kelly, convinced her that I was the only thing preventing her from being pastor of New Testament Cathedral. It is unfortunate. I loved, and still do love, my wife with all my heart and soul, and have dedicated my life to making her happy.”

  “So what’s next? Are you going to file for divorce?”

  “I would never divorce Samantha. She is obviously suffering through some sort of emotional crisis because that’s the only way she could have been convinced to do something this horrible. Even what she did is not enough to make me leave her. I will, instead, stand by her and make sure that she receives the best psychiatric care possible.”

  “Did you use church funds to renovate a loft for Mr. St. John?”

  “I won’t even dignify that with a response,” Hezekiah says sharply. “Next question, please.”

  “Sir, has this in any way changed your mind about building the new cathedral?”

  “As I said in my statement, it has only invigorated me. My commitment to serving the people of this city is stronger than ever.”

  Then Hezekiah sees a woman begin to levitate above the crowd. Her lips do not move, but he can hear her speak. “Pastor Cleaveland, Sandy Gingham, from the Los Angeles Chronicle,” she calls out. “The body of Mr. Danny St. John has been recovered from the ocean off Santa Monica. He apparently committed suicide by jumping from the Santa Monica Pier. Do you have any words of condolence for his family and friends?”

  The mob falls silent. Hezekiah stands motionless and stares into the flashing lights. Moments pass before the reporter speaks again.

  “Pastor Cleaveland, would you like to comment?”

  Hezekiah does not respond, still frozen in a wash of flashing lights. Instead, he takes another step closer to the ledge.

  Hezekiah puts his foot forward into the air and begins to fall. Pandemonium ensues. Reporters and cameramen begin to float up to Hezekiah and continue the line of questioning that caused him to step over the edge of the building.

  “Pastor Cleaveland, would you like to comment on the apparent suicide of Mr. St. John?”

  “Pastor Cleaveland, were you aware of his death prior to the press conference?”

  “Sir, do you suspect foul play in the death of Mr. St. John?”

  Will this fall never end? he thinks. Will God have mercy and release me from this torment? Can the earth stop spinning for one moment and allow me to leave this body, which is Hezekiah T. Cleaveland?

  Hezekiah’s plunge continues as familiar faces, dreaded confrontations, and painful events flash in rapid succession through his mind. This is it. His life condenses into the few seconds it takes to fall to the earth. It took a lifetime for Hezekiah to reach the heights of power and prestige, but only seconds to fall to the ground. When his body crashes onto the polished stone, the screaming stops and the glass birds stop flapping their wings.

  The impact caused Hezekiah to bolt upright in the bed. His chest heaved as he searched the room frantically to assure himself that it was only a dream.

  24

  Around the city merchants jostled sleeping men in doorways.

  “Wake up, you bum!” they said. “It’s time for me to open my shop.”

  The morning sun readied for its first appearance over the horizon as the city grudgingly came to life. Compact cars, with headlights piercing the remains of night, scurried through neighborhoods delivering bundles of information, while vans stopped on every corner, filling news receptacles with the Sunday paper.

  In the dim morning light the headline read: OUTSPOKEN NEWSMAN FOUND DEAD, SLAIN IN HOME.

  The paper landed with a thud on the front porch of Kenneth Davis’s home. Still in his bathrobe, he retrieved the paper and stood in his foyer in shock. He froze when he read the headline, and then quickly read the first paragraph:

  Lance Savage was found murdered late Saturday evening in his home in Venice, California. Police confirm that the cause of death was blunt trauma to the head.

  Kenneth dropped the paper to the floor and poured a glass of bourbon. His hands sho
ok as he swallowed, but the liquid offered no escape from the bold print that stared up from the carpet.

  A gentle tap on Cynthia’s bedroom door drew her from a fitful sleep. “Reverend and Mrs. Pryce, are you awake?”

  “Come in, Carmen. What is it?” Percy responded.

  A dark-haired housekeeper wearing a white apron entered. “I’ve brought your coffee and the morning paper,” she said with a Spanish accent.

  Cynthia sat up and probed the nightstand for her reading glasses. The words assaulted her eyes, causing them to blink in disbelief. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand as Percy read over her shoulder.

  “Oh my God,” he said, sitting upright.

  “I don’t believe this. It says they think he was killed by a burglar.” Cynthia continued reading:

  Savage was found by Richard Harrison, the editor of the Los Angeles Chronicle. According to Harrison, at the time of his death Savage was working on a very controversial story that many powerful people did not want to see printed. Harrison declined to give any details.

  “In these kinds of cases we look for possible motives, financial, family, or work related,” said Assistant Police Chief Michael Pincus. “We believe this was not a random killing. All indications at the crime scene are that he was targeted.”

  Percy got out of bed and began to pace the floor. “You see what you’ve done, Cynthia. If you hadn’t given him those e-mails, he would still be alive.”

  Cynthia slammed the paper onto the bed and said, “What are you talking about? This has nothing to do with me. The article says he was being robbed. Oh God, Percy. They must have killed him shortly after you spoke with him.”