The Last Sunday (4 page)

“All right. It will soon be public information, anyway. Your pastor has been involved with a Mr. Danny St. John for the last year. They see each other no less than twice a week. Usually, they meet at Danny's apartment in the West Adams District, but they also have lunch together on occasion at various restaurants around the city. Danny is a social worker in downtown Los Angeles. He's twenty-nine, and quite a looker, I might add. Is there anything else you‘d like to know?” Lance replied smugly.

“Yes,” Percy said. “Everything you've just told us sounds relatively innocent. It doesn't prove the relationship was sexual.”

“I agree,” Kenneth said, chiming in. “There's no moral law against Hezekiah having a male friend. He's been to my home dozens of times, and we often dine together. That doesn't make us lovers.”

Lance stood up and walked to a desk under a window overlooking the canals.

At that moment Percy recalled the sounds he had heard from a flock of ducks just outside the bungalow window. The story played on in Percy's mind as he stood at his office window, looking out at the church grounds.

Lance opened a drawer and retrieved a stack of papers held together by a metal clasp. He thumbed through the stack, pulled a sheet out, and handed it to Percy.

Percy read the e-mail silently.

Percy handed the e-mail to Kenneth, who in turn proceeded to read it silently.

“Would you like to see more?” Lance asked. “That's one of the tamer ones. There's a few in there that give you the size of each of their dicks and one in particular that goes into great detail about how much Danny likes it when Hezekiah sticks his finger up his ass when he's about to—”

Percy quickly held up his hand and said, “No, that won't be necessary.”

“One thing I can assure you of is none of the more graphic details of their relationship will be in the article. I don't think the public is ready to hear how much Hezekiah loves to have his dick sucked in the shower,” Lance said with a sly smile.

“This is so unseemly,” Percy said in disgust. “I can't believe the
Los Angeles Chronicle
would stoop to gutter journalism like this. It's no better than the supermarket tabloids.”

“Pathetic, isn't it?” Lance said sarcastically. “But it's a new day in journalism. The public craves shit like this, and if we want to stay in business, we've got to keep up with the times. No pun intended.”

“I'm glad you think this is funny,” Kenneth said angrily. “You don't seem to realize how many people will be hurt if this story is released. Hezekiah will be ruined. His wife and daughter will be devastated. The future of New Testament Cathedral will be placed in extreme jeopardy. Millions of people all over the country will lose faith in a man they deeply love, and many will possibly lose their faith in God as well.”

“I'm sorry, gentlemen, but Hezekiah should have thought of all that before he got involved with a man,” Lance said as he sat back down. “I'm a reporter, and I report the news. And this is definitely news.”

Kenneth proceeded diplomatically. “You are obviously aware that the story would cause immeasurable damage to Hezekiah and New Testament Cathedral.”

“I am,” was Percy's recollection of the smug little reporter's response.

“Is there any way we can appeal to your conscience?” Kenneth asked passionately. “Surely you must feel some moral obligation to your fellow man. Hezekiah made a mistake, but who among us hasn't? I'm sure you've done things that you're not proud of. How would you like it if they were splashed all over the front pages?”

“I would hate that, but you fail to recognize a few significant differences between Hezekiah and myself. I don't claim any sort of moral authority. I'm not married. I'm not the head of a multimillion-dollar empire, and even more important, I am not on television twenty-four hours a day around the world, preaching about the evils of sin. Nobody gives a shit about who I'm fucking.”

“Point taken,” Kenneth conceded. “Then let's approach this from a different angle. Obviously, we want to put this entire ugly situation behind us as soon and as quietly as possible. To that end, we are prepared to pay you one hundred seventy-five thousand dollars to forget you ever heard the name Danny St. John.”

It was at that point that Kenneth retrieved the briefcase from the floor and placed it on the coffee table. He opened it to reveal stacks of hundred-dollar bills bound by white paper strips.

Lance sat erect. “You've got to be kidding me,” he said, laughing. “You think saving your boy's ass is worth only a hundred seventy-five thousand dollars?”

“That's all we are able to come up with,” Kenneth replied.

Lance stood up and walked toward the door. “You and I both know that's not true. New Testament Cathedral brings in more than that just from the interest you earn on the money collected in the Sunday morning offering plate,” he said. “Gentlemen, I think you've wasted enough of my time. I would appreciate it if you'd leave my home. I've got a story to finish.”

Percy jumped from the sofa. “You parasite,” he said, pointing his finger. “Now it's clear to me what this is all about. You're trying to get rich off the back of Hezekiah and New Testament Cathedral. That whole speech about ‘the news' was a bunch of bullshit. You don't care about the news,” he said angrily. “It's all about money.”

“That's some strong language for a man of God,” Lance said. “I'm impressed.”

“Screw you,” Percy continued. “If you have half a brain, you'll take the money and forget about this whole thing.”

“It'll take a lot more than that for me to forget Danny St. John. Try half a million, and then maybe we can talk.”

“You're out of your mind,” Percy said, “if you think we're going to give you half a million dollars.”

“I think that's a fair amount, Reverend Pryce, especially considering it was your wife who got you into this sordid mess,” Lance replied as he opened the front door. “Now, if you don't mind.”

Standing at the window of his office, Percy felt a stabbing sensation in his gut as he remembered the stunning revelation from the reporter. How could Cynthia have done this? he thought.

The scene played on in his mind. Stunned, Percy looked at Lance and then slammed the door shut. “What are you saying? My wife isn't involved in this.”

Lance walked away from the door to a nearby telephone. “Are you trying to tell me you didn't know she is the one who leaked the story?”

Percy bolted across the room and grabbed Lance by the shoulders. “Cynthia had nothing to do with this. You're lying! Kenneth, don't listen to him. He's trying to get more money out of us,” he shouted.

Kenneth bounded to his feet and said, “Let him go, Percy. At this point it doesn't matter who leaked the story.” He then looked at Lance and said, “Half a million dollars is a lot of money. It'll take us some time to come up with it, but—”

“It matters to me,” Percy interrupted. He then pushed the now shaking reporter against the wall, causing a picture to crash to the floor. “I'm not going to let this asshole extort that kind of money out of us.”

“Reverend Pryce, you would be surprised at just what your wife was willing to do to ensure that you become the next pastor of New Testament Cathedral. But trust me, she knows her way around the backseat of a car.”

Lance began to walk away, but Percy grabbed his neck. The two men struggled.

“Percy, stop it!” Kenneth said, grabbing Percy by the shoulders. “Let him go. Let's go.”

But the scuffle only intensified. A lamp fell from a table. Stereo equipment and CDs lurched from shelves from the impact of slamming bodies. Lance struggled to get out of Percy's grip as Percy pushed him to the floor.

His head banged against the coffee table when he fell, causing the briefcase and all its contents to topple onto the floor. The reporter lay motionless with bundles of money strewn around his body.

“Oh God!” Kenneth said, kneeling next to Lance's body. “What have you done? He's not breathing.”

Kenneth tried to revive Lance, while Percy panted over his shoulder.

“Wake up,” Percy said through anguished breaths. “He tripped. Make him get up, Kenneth.”

Kenneth shook Lance's shoulders, causing his head to flop from side to side. His arms hung limp and unresponsive, despite the additional abuse at the hands of such a large man.

“He's dead,” Kenneth finally said. “You killed him.”

“I barely touched him. You saw it. He tripped. Oh God. I don't believe this is happening. What are we going to do?”

Without responding, Kenneth carelessly dropped the mass of flesh and immediately began gathering the fallen money, throwing it into the briefcase.

“Quick,” he finally said. “Get all the money. We have to get out of here.”

“We can't just leave him here. We have to call the police.”

“Are you crazy? You just killed a man! Let's just get out of here. Hopefully, no one saw us come in. They'll think he was killed by a burglar. Now, pull yourself together and help me pick up this money.”

Kenneth surveyed the scene once the briefcase was filled. Much of the room's contents lay scattered on the floor along with the crumpled body. To his satisfaction, it looked like the classic robbery scene he had seen so often on prime-time crime shows.

“If we pass anyone on the street, don't make eye contact with them and try to look natural,” Kenneth ordered.

Percy looked again at the devastation his hands had caused, and cried, “I don't believe this is happening.”

Kenneth ran to the kitchen at the rear of the house and retrieved a dishtowel from the sink. He wrapped his hand in the towel and smashed a pane of glass in the back door. With his hand still covered, he swung the door open and then stuffed the towel into his pocket.

The two men exited the apartment through the door they had entered. Cars raced down the busy street at speeds that permitted no more than cursory glances. No pedestrians were in sight as they drove away.

“This never happened, Percy,” Kenneth said, looking directly ahead. “Do you understand? This never happened.”

Percy was in shock and did not respond.

“You have to put this out of your head. We were never there.”

“What if a neighbor saw us?”

“No one saw us,” Kenneth replied impatiently. “We were never in Venice. Don't ever mention this to anyone. Understand?”

“I won't mention it. I understand. But I can't get his face out of my head. Why did he make me do it? I just snapped. I don't know what happened. He shouldn't have said those lies about Cynthia. She would never do anything so cruel. She loves Hezekiah and Samantha. This would have never happened if he had just taken the money.”

Kenneth deposited his shaken passenger at the main entrance of the church. It was 5:10 p.m., and a tide of fleeing employees was streaming from the building.

“Are you going to be all right?” Kenneth asked as Percy exited the car. “Go directly to your office, get your things, and go home. And for God's sake, don't talk to anyone.”

“I won't,” Percy saidr. “But what about the story? If the editor doesn't hear from Lance, they'll run it.”

“It's too late to worry about that now. It's out of our hands. We'll just have to brace ourselves for the worst.”

Percy's brow was now damp as he stood at the window, recalling that fateful day. His hands shook nervously in his pockets. Now the throng of sightseers and the scurrying groundskeepers were a source of irritation for him.

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

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.”