The Last Sunday Page 5

  Percy closed his eyes tightly and thought, They wouldn’t be so impressed if they knew how much this place really cost.

  Chapter 4

  The television networks of the world were busily preparing themselves for the appearance of Pastor Samantha Cleaveland. It was 12:55 on Tuesday afternoon. Dozens of white, blue, and black vans, with their satellite antennas fully erect, their side doors open, and equipment lights blinking, were lined three deep in front of the steps of New Testament Cathedral. Technicians unfurled electrical cables and mounted cameras on tripods in spots that would give their audiences unobstructed views of the glass podium with twenty microphones attached. National and international news anchors scanned notepads and cleared their throats in preparation for the first press conference held by Samantha since the death of her husband. Throngs of photographers and reporters jockeyed for the best positions in the crowd to hear every word spoken and to capture images of the beautiful woman from every angle.

  The press release, sent only two days earlier to thousands of news outlets, had invited the world’s media to join Samantha on the steps as she announced the official completion of the new cathedral and media center.

  “We are live in Los Angeles, California,” said one anchor to her audience in the United Kingdom. “In just a few moments Pastor Samantha Cleaveland will come through those magnificently etched glass double doors and announce the official completion of what many are saying is one of the most beautiful churches in the world.”

  “Just three months earlier Pastor Samantha Cleaveland witnessed the assassination of her husband and the founder of New Testament Cathedral, Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland,” another reporter said to his camera, which sent the live feed to Australia. “Today this courageous woman is at the helm of one of the sixth wealthiest churches in America.”

  At exactly 1:00 p.m. two imposing men in black suits and sunglasses walked up the stairs to the main entrance and opened the twenty-foot-high glass double doors, revealing Samantha Cleaveland standing in the threshold. The crowd became frantic. A sea of Nikon, Canon, and Olympus cameras with telescopic lenses pointed in her direction and clicked frantically. Lights flashed, and voices from every direction called out, “Samantha, over here!” and “Pastor Cleaveland, could you turn this way please!”

  Samantha gave the ravenous cameras all they craved and more. She allowed them ample time to bask in her presence. Her stunning black Chanel silk skirt and jacket, which had gold twist trim, a V-shaped neckline, and sparkling gold buttons engraved with the iconic CC, caused both the men and the women of the media to gasp when she first appeared from behind the doors. The classic lines of the impeccably constructed suit accentuated her full breasts, her perfect hourglass figure, and her long, elegant legs, which were supported by four-inch, red-soled black Prada pumps.

  Samantha took measured, confident steps to the podium as the crowd continued to call for her to look in their direction.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” she finally said over the calls of her name. “Thank you all for joining us on this momentous occasion.” Her pearly smile dazzled the cameras, while her silky black hair danced gently in the summer breeze.

  “Today marks the official day of completion of the construction of New Testament Cathedral. What you see behind me is the culmination of five years of sweat, blood, and tears of thousands of workers, innumerable donors, and prayer partners from around the world. Many said it couldn’t be done. ‘Build a forty-five-million-dollar glass cathedral in downtown Los Angeles?’ some skeptics questioned. ‘It can’t be done.’ Well, I’m standing here before you today as proof that with God on your side, you can do anything.”

  The cameras continued to capture every millisecond of Samantha as she spoke. “Not only have we completed this twenty-five-thousand-seat sanctuary, but behind you is the one-hundred-thousand-square-foot media center, where we will be producing Christian television programming and feature-length movies,” she said. Raising her three-layer-deep diamond wrapped wrist, she added, “To your left, you see the campus of New Cathedral College, and to your right are the elementary, middle, and high schools, which will be franchised around the country.”

  Samantha went on to tell of the sacrifices she had had to make over the past five years as the crowd waited patiently for her to mention her dead husband.

  “I’ve spent many sleepless nights wondering if I got in over my head on this project. Had I misunderstood God’s plan for my life? Is this the best way to use the vast blessings God has given me? I’m proud to say this afternoon that no, I did not misunderstand God’s plan, and yes, I truly believe this is the best use of the blessings God has given me.”

  Still no mention of her grief. “This Sunday will be the first time the saints will gather in this building for our morning worship service, which will be broadcast live around the world. And, of course, you are all invited.”

  A collective confusion slowly began to creep through the crowd of reporters as they silently wondered, Wasn’t this whole thing Hezekiah Cleaveland’s idea? Others in the crowd thought, but dared not say out loud, What a bitch for taking credit for the work her husband did and not even mentioning the poor bastard.

  “This facility will serve as a beacon of light for wounded souls around the world,” Samantha continued. “The message of God’s love will be beamed from this complex twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and three hundred sixty-five days a year.”

  Samantha knew what they wanted to hear. She was aware they were all salivating in anticipation of her first tear, the first tremble in her voice, and the dramatic clutching of her breast as she relived the pain of her husband’s murder. But she had already decided there would be no dramatic display of emotion on this day.

  “So again I want to thank you all for coming out on this beautiful day,” she said in conclusion, “and sharing in our joy and celebration of the completion of this magnificent complex. I encourage you all to explore the grounds. You have received press kits, which provide more information about the New Testament Cathedral ministry and a detailed description of the facilities. There are docents posted in the buildings who are there to answer any questions you have. God bless you all, and we’ll see you on Sunday morning.”

  “Pastor Cleaveland!” everyone in the crowd yelled almost in unison. This was followed by a flurry of shouted questions.

  “You lost your husband only three months ago. How have you been holding up since that day?”

  “Do you think the church will be able to raise as much money as it did when your husband was at the helm?” shouted a man in the rear.

  “Has there been any progress in the investigation of your husband’s murder?” yelled a reporter who was waving a small recorder in her direction.

  “Are you afraid for your own life?”

  “What do you say to those who feel you took on too much too soon after your husband’s death?”

  The questions came in rapid fire, but Samantha only smiled broadly and waved to the reporters and flashing cameras. She took a step back from the microphones and continued to wave briefly before turning her back to the ravenous mob and gliding through the same entrance from which she had come. The two suited men slowly closed the glass doors behind her, leaving the crowd panting for more in the afternoon sun.

  “Cynthia, are you home?” Percy called out as he entered the penthouse. “Baby, are you here?”

  Percy went from room to room, looking for Cynthia. The kitchen was empty and looked like a showroom display that had never been used for cooking. The dining room, though perfect in every way, showed no signs of warm family meals or festive holiday dining. The bathrooms were cold and sterile, and the bedroom was dark, with no sign of life.

  Finally, he opened the door to the den. Cynthia was sitting with her knees pressed to her chest, staring at the silent television screen. Don Lemon was reporting the latest breaking news. His lips were moving, but there was no sound.

  “Cynthia, didn’t you
hear me calling you?”

  She remained silent.

  “Honey . . .” Percy said, slowly approaching the sofa where she sat.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” she finally responded. “I was deep in thought.”

  Percy sat next to her on the sofa and asked cautiously, “What are you thinking about?”

  “About us. About New Testament Cathedral. About . . .”

  “Honey, I wish you would stop obsessing over this whole thing.”

  “I’m not obsessing. I just think the church would be in a much better position if you were pastor.” Cynthia looked him directly in the eye and continued. “You should have seen her at the press conference today. She never even mentioned Hezekiah’s name.”

  “I know,” Percy said with a sigh. “I was there.”

  “Doesn’t that tell you everything you need to know about her? Hezekiah poured his entire soul into that building. In a way, he even gave his life for it, and she didn’t even have the decency to mention his name. She’s a horrible woman, Percy.”

  “I think that’s a bit harsh, Cynthia. There was so much activity out there. Questions were coming at her from every direction. Cameras were flashing. She may have just gotten flustered and forgot.”

  Cynthia looked at him sharply and laughed. “Samantha flustered? You’ve known her for years. When have you ever seen her flustered? Why do you continually make excuses for her horrible behavior? She’s a monster, and you just won’t admit it.”

  “Cynthia—”

  “You know what I think, Percy?”

  “No. What do you think?” he asked sarcastically.

  “I think you make excuses for her and cover for her deplorable behavior because you are afraid to be pastor.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” he scoffed.

  “Is it? This is really about the fact that you are a coward. You’re hiding behind Samantha. If she weren’t there, you know you would most likely be pastor, and that scares you to death.”

  “You’re talking nonsense, and I don’t want to participate in this conversation with you.” Percy stood from the sofa and walked to the door. “I won’t have this conversation with you again,” he calmly said over his shoulder. “I’ll be in the bedroom.”

  “Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you.”

  “There’s nothing more to discuss.”

  “This isn’t over, Percy. I’m going to make you pastor even if it kills you.”

  Percy froze when he heard those words. “Don’t say that, Cynthia.”

  “I mean it, Percy. I’m going to be man enough for both of us. I am going to make you the pastor of New Testament Cathedral, and I don’t care who gets hurt in the process . . . even you.”

  Rage began to percolate from deep within Percy’s gut. He turned sharply to face her where she still sat on the sofa. “I’m warning you, Cynthia. Stop this nonsense right now. Enough people have been hurt by you already. Haven’t you done enough damage?”

  “You don’t know the half of what I’m capable of, Percy Pryce. But you will soon see.”

  With a sudden burst of anger, Percy charged toward the sofa. Cynthia did not flinch as the hulking man grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet.

  “What are you talking about? What are you planning, Cynthia?”

  “None of your business. Just prepare yourself for center stage. And while you’re at it, maybe . . . just maybe you could grow some balls.”

  Percy released his tight grip on her arm and unleashed a violent slap across Cynthia’s left cheek. The blow sent her flying headfirst into the leather sofa. Her burnt-caramel hair splashed over her face.

  Cynthia looked up at the panting man and calmly said, “What a big man. You can stand up to me, but you bend over and let her screw you.”

  The words caused Percy to lunge toward her crumpled body. He delivered another slap across her cheek. “Shut up. Shut up, or I’ll . . .” He stopped short of leveling another violent blow.

  “Or you’ll what?” Cynthia demanded. “Kill me? Kill me like you killed Lance Savage?”

  Percy froze when he heard the words. Startled, he looked at the screaming woman beneath him.

  “Looks like I struck a nerve.” She laughed. “I thought you had something to do with his death, and now the stupid expression on your face confirms it. You killed him, didn’t you? And all to protect those ungrateful Cleavelands.”

  Percy rolled off Samantha and fell to the floor with a massive thud.

  “Admit it,” she said calmly, now looking down at him. “You killed him to stop the story about his disgusting affair from running.”

  Percy just sat there, silent and dazed. The leather, chrome, and glass room began to spin.

  “You killed that reporter for nothing. Hezekiah was dead the next day. If you hadn’t gotten involved, the story would have run. You ruined all my plans just because you were too afraid to be pastor.”

  Hearing the words caused Percy to weep. “Stop. Please stop.”

  “Your loyalty to those people caused you to take another man’s life. Don’t you see how insidious they are? How evil they are?”

  “Please, I’m begging you to stop talking,” he cried out, cradling his head in his hands.

  “They made you do it. Can’t you see that? If it wasn’t for them, Lance Savage would still be alive. It’s their fault, not yours.”

  Cynthia kneeled down next to the crumpled man. She pulled his head to her chest and lovingly stroked his hair while he cried uncontrollably into her bosom.

  “Shhh, baby,” she gently whispered into his ear. “It’s not your fault. It’s all right.”

  “I killed him,” Percy blubbered. “I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

  “I know that, baby, and God knows that too. You didn’t kill him. They killed him. With their greed and immoral behavior. The Cleavelands killed him. It’s not your fault. You just have to listen to me, baby, from now on. I know what’s best for you. I know what’s best for us. Trust me and everything will be just fine,” she whispered as Percy wilted into the comfort of her gentle arms.

  Chapter 5

  A wall of television monitors in Samantha’s office presented a steady stream of “triumphant widow” news feeds. She studied her images on the screens and each report intently.

  Her new office was situated high above the main entrance of the church. Sunlight turned into an aquamarine mist as it filtered through the intricately woven ten-foot-high glass panes that formed the walls that encased her lofty tomb. From this new perch Samantha could see her kingdom and all its inhabitants, sprawled at her feet, but they could not see her.

  Each national and international report covering the opening of New Testament Cathedral vied for Samantha’s attention from the wall of television monitors opposite her acrylic desk.

  She wore a black-and-white, cropped tweed Oscar de la Renta bolero jacket, a layered-front sheer blouse, and a printed sateen skirt. Shimmering black hair cascaded like water around her cheeks and framed the face that the world had come to love. Were the cameras rolling? Was there a room filled to capacity, the audience hanging on her every word? No, but Samantha Cleaveland was still perfect.

  “Only days to the grand opening of what many are saying is the most beautiful church in the world,” Diane Sawyer said while reporting on New Testament Cathedral during the news broadcast that had aired the evening before.

  “Not only is she beautiful, but Samantha Cleaveland is one of the most courageous women I have ever met,” gushed Don Lemon from another screen.

  The images continued in rapid succession, all funneled to her office by a legion of technical minions buried somewhere deep within the bowels of the new media center at the opposite end of the campus. From her desk, Samantha pointed the remote to select the feed she wanted to hear. She controlled their sound and their words with the simple wave of her manicured hand.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Pastor Cleaveland,” said a disembodied voice from the
phone on her desk. “David Shackelford is here to see you. I told him you didn’t want to be disturbed, but he said it’s urgent and you would want to speak with him.”

  Samantha slowly spun her white leather chair away from the wall of monitors to the window behind her desk. She gazed over the campus and thought, I’m going to have to do something about him.

  “Send him in,” she replied, making no attempt at hiding her exasperation. “And, Chantal, hold all my calls.”

  David Shackelford bolted into the room seconds later. His hulking frame and Ferragamo loafers hurled him across the expanse of the office toward Samantha, who was still seated behind the desk.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you for two days. Why haven’t you taken my calls?”

  Samantha did not move. “I’ve been very busy, David,” she responded coldly. “What is it that you want?”

  David paused when greeted with her coldness. “I . . . I want you, Samantha,” he stammered. “I need you. I’ve been going crazy without you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, David. I’ve told you, you belong with Scarlett, not me. I don’t have time for a relationship. Besides, how would it look for me to been seen with someone only months after Hezekiah died? He’s barely cold in his grave.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about what people think.” David rushed around the desk and lifted Samantha by her shoulders. “I love you, Samantha. I need you.”

  “I don’t like to be handled, David,” she said, pushing him away. “Please take your hands off me.”

  “Please don’t push me away, Samantha. I can’t live without you. I’ll do anything for you. You know that, don’t you?”

  The images of Samantha flashed on the television monitors as the two spoke. David tried again to reduce the distance between them.

  “Please, Samantha,” he whispered, nuzzling her neck. “Make love to me again. I love you.”