Come Sunday Morning (16 page)

“What does your ambition have to do with outing Hezekiah?”

“Come on. You can figure it out, can't you? What do you think will happen to my husband, Percy, if this comes out?”

“I don't know. What?” Lance asked.

“You're really going to make me say it, aren't you?” Cynthia paused in an agonizing plea for clemency, but there was no response.

She continued. “Hezekiah and Samantha are publicly humiliated and vanish into obscurity. My husband is second in command. He'll be called on to hold the church together through a devastating and embarrassing scandal, and then…”

The cloud lifted and all became suddenly clear. Lance snapped his fingers and said, “And then you and your husband take over New Testament Cathedral.”

“Exactly.”

“You must really hate them to do something like this.”

“This isn't about hate or love—it's about power and doing God's work.”

“Why did you pick me to do your dirty work? Any reporter in the city would have jumped at the chance to investigate a story this hot.”

“I didn't pick you, Lance.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that someone else selected you for the story.”

“But I thought—”

Cynthia cut him off. “I know what you thought, but I didn't just call you out of the blue.”

Sweat began to accumulate in the palm of Lance's hands. “Then who decided I would be the lucky guy?”

“Phillip Thornton selected you personally. He said you were the only one at his paper who had the balls to take on Hezekiah.”

Lance stood up and nervously brushed the hair from his face. “Phillip Thornton knew about this? He has nothing to do with the day-to-day running of this paper. I've never even met him.”

“I had no idea you were so naive.”

Lance calculated his next move as she spoke.

“Cynthia,” he said with an exaggerated twang of ambivalence, “I'm suddenly not sure if I can go through with this. I don't like the idea of being a pawn in your little game.”

Cynthia stood and began to pace the room. “Don't fuck with me, Lance. Just run the story and this will all be over.”

Lance leaned on his desk and lowered his voice. “Now, now,” he said teasingly, “let's not rush things. I think I'd like to see you in person before sending this to my editor.”

“See me for what?”

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe you could be more persuasive in person. You're such a beautiful woman, Mrs. Pryce. Maybe seeing you would give me the extra push I need.”

Cynthia writhed helplessly in the vulnerable position she now found herself: the woman possessing the final bargaining tool necessary to close a deal. She stepped back into her shoes while silently cursing her misguided candor.

“Where are you?” she asked. “Maybe a face-to-face meeting would be a good idea.”

“I'm in my office.”

“Meet me in front of the building. I'll pick you up in fifteen minutes,” she instructed, and hung up the phone.

Cynthia left the condominium unnoticed and retrieved her car in the building's subterranean parking structure.

A loathing for Lance Savage, and what she was about to do, crept through her body as she drove toward the
Los Angeles Chronicle
's building.

The sun had set, and the swarm of commuters had mercifully left the city virtually empty. She saw homeless men bedding down for the night in front of train entrances and at bus shelters as she drove. Steam rose from street grates at each intersection as she searched the sidewalks for Lance Savage.

Then she saw him. He paced at the entrance of the brick building, clutching a laptop computer case and waving to her as she approached.

“That was quick,” he said, climbing breathlessly into the passenger seat. “Thanks for agreeing to meet me.”

“I didn't know I had a choice,” Cynthia said, restraining the anger she felt toward the unkempt man. “So why did you want to see me?”

Lance patted the computer carrier he held in his lap. “I've got the story right here, but I didn't want to send it until I had a few minutes alone with you.”

Lance found it hard to resist the woman sitting next to him. She was more beautiful than he had imagined. A beauty most men found irresistible. Her hair seemed to glow in the moonlight. The silk of her stockings bristled as she manipulated the pedals of the car. In that moment her scent was enough to cause his sharp mind to drift in a haze of lust and desire.

Almost involuntarily Lance reached over and caressed her knee as she drove.

“I think you can guess what will…let's just say, inspire me to send this to my editor.” The words surprised and embarrassed him as they escaped his lips.

Cynthia pushed the accelerator hard as they raced through downtown.

“I knew I couldn't trust you. This is extortion.”

“Now hold on, Mrs. Pryce,” he said playfully. “I wouldn't call it extortion. It's more like quid pro quo. You do something for me and…Well, I make you the first lady of New Testament Cathedral.”

Cynthia turned the car onto Third Street. She silently reasoned,
A few minutes with this cretin is a small price to pay to get Hezekiah and Samantha out of the way, permanently.

She looked Lance in the eye and said, “I'll do this on one condition.”

Lance looked at her guardedly and asked, “What's that?”

“That when we're done, you'll let me send the article.”

Lance laughed loudly. “Hell, when we're done, I'll probably be too tired to push the key myself. It's a deal.”

“Where can we go? I, of course, can't be seen in public with you.”

“We could go to my place. I live on the canals.”

“That's too far. I don't have much time,” she replied shortly.

Lance thought for a minute and then said, “The construction site is near here. We can park there and no one will disturb us. Turn left at the next light.”

In a few short blocks Cynthia could see large mounds of dirt piled next to the skeletal structure of New Testament Cathedral. Lance instructed her to drive behind the building and turn off the car. He placed the computer in the rear seat and said, “Kind of poetic, don't you think?”

He removed his jacket and loosened his tie; Cynthia watched his every move.

Without hesitation Lance leaned toward Cynthia and kissed her hard on the lips. His breathing became intense as he kissed her neck and caressed her breasts. “Mrs. Pryce,” he panted, “you are such a beautiful woman.”

Cynthia saw flashes of herself standing behind her husband, Pastor Percy Pryce, on the television screen while Lance fumbled awkwardly to unbutton her blouse.

The intoxication of possible fame and power slowly overrode her initial feelings of repulsion for the man stroking her partially naked body. Cynthia felt Lance's lips gently circling her exposed nipples as the vision faded. The sounds of cold wind whirring at the base of the building and the distant hum of the freeway could be heard through the car's darkly tinted windows.

Cynthia lifted Lance's head to hers and kissed him passionately. Her panting now matched his, breath for breath. She skillfully undid his belt buckle and pants and firmly gripped his erect member.

“Fuck me,” she moaned. “I want you to fuck me, Lance.”

Lance fumbled with levers and pushed buttons until he found the one to recline the driver's seat. Their writhing bodies descended in unison into the depths of the vehicle as the seat glided into a fully prone position.

Lance lifted Cynthia's skirt, slid her panties around her ankles, and lowered his trousers. He then climbed on top of her to explore her waiting mouth once again.

“Hurry,” she said in a whisper. “Fuck me and then we'll send it together.”

Lance moaned as he thrust his hips against hers. “I'm going to fuck you first, and then we'll both fuck the Cleavelands.”

Cynthia lifted her knees toward the roof of the car and in the process turned on the windshield wipers. Lance entered her with great force and pounded double time to the beat of the whooshing rubber blades. Cynthia held him tightly and raised her hips to meet each thrust. The two reveled in passion heightened by the euphoric prospect of the Cleavelands' demise. The car bounced uncontrollably until they reached a fevered climax, then lay spent and breathless in each other's arms.

Cynthia was the first to speak. “It's time. Get your computer.”

Lance rolled, exhausted, back to the passenger seat.

“Wow,” he panted. “You don't waste any time, do you?”

“That was the agreement, wasn't it? Are you planning to back out again?”

“No, no,” he protested. “I'm a man of my word.” With his trousers still around his ankles, Lance reached behind and retrieved the case. He turned on the computer and the glowing screen lit up the car. As he waited for the article to appear, he said, “You're quite a woman, Mrs. Pryce. New Testament is in for one hell of a ride.”

The headline flashed onto the screen:

“There it is,” Lance said. “This is what you've been waiting for.”

“That's exactly what I've been waiting for,” Cynthia said with a smile. “Now stop wasting time. Let's send it.”

“Okay, Mrs. Pryce. Just press
ENTER
and you'll be one step closer to being queen of the empire.”

Cynthia returned her seat to its upright position. She pressed the key without saying a word.

After a message appeared on the screen confirming that the article had been sent, Cynthia looked at Lance and firmly said, “Now, would you please pull your pants up and get the fuck out of my car?”

R
ichard Harrison, the editor of the
Los Angeles Chronicle,
stood behind his desk.

“Calm down, would you,” he said as Lance Savage paced the floor. “Phillip thought it better that you not know. He felt the fewer people who knew about the arrangement with Cynthia, the better. He just didn't want to take any unnecessary chances.”

“It's none of my business that he sold this paper's soul to Cynthia Pryce. It doesn't even bother me that you wasted six months of my life digging up information that you already had. What does piss me off is that you didn't trust me enough to tell me. I don't give a shit about Phillip Thornton or Hezekiah Cleaveland, but you, Richard. How could you have kept this from me?”

“I know, I know,” Richard said with arms raised. “I wanted to tell you, but Phillip—”

“Fuck Phillip. This is about you and me.”

“Whether you like it or not, Lance, Phillip owns this paper. He calls the shots.”

“Why did he pick me? He's never met me.”

“Because he knows your reputation. He knows that you are the only reporter on staff who's not impressed or intimidated by Hezekiah.”

“But that doesn't explain why he's stabbing Hezekiah in the back. They've been friends for years.”

“Don't be naive, Lance. Stories like this sell papers. We're facing layoffs, fighting off hostile takeovers. Papers all around the country are going under. This will save the
Chronicle.
”

Lance prepared to ask another question, when the intercom buzzed.

“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Harrison,” came the secretary's voice, “but Reverend Hezekiah Cleaveland is on the line for you. He said it's important. Would you like to take the call?”

Richard looked into Lance's eyes and said, “Yes, Carol, I'll take it. Put him through.”

Richard sat down at the desk and pushed the speaker button.

“Hello, Hezekiah. I was wondering when you were going to get around to calling me. How are you?”

The speakerphone made Hezekiah's voice sound as though he were calling from a barrel or a tunnel. “How do you think I am?” Hezekiah said bitterly. “Lance Savage has crossed the line with this one, Richard. I swear if—”

Richard cut him off. “Excuse me, Hezekiah. I think you should know that Lance is here with me now. You're on the speakerphone.”

“Hello, Pastor. This is Lance Savage. Nice to hear your voice again.”

Hezekiah's body shifted with each turn of the limousine. The city streets whizzed by as he spoke.

“Richard, if you believe him on this one, then that sad excuse for a reporter is going to cost you your paper.”

“So, Reverend Cleaveland, you're saying this is all fabricated?” asked Richard.

“You're damn right that's what I'm saying.”

“Then how do you explain the numerous e-mails between you and Mr. St. John that we now have in our possession?”

“How did you get those?” Hezekiah shouted. “That's invasion of my fucking privacy. I could have you both arrested for hacking into my computer.” Hezekiah's hands began to shake uncontrollably. “Why do you need to make me look like a fool, Richard? I got you that job.”

“It's about the news, and unfortunately for you, this is an incredibly important story. It's my responsibility to report relevant news that affects this city.”

“Don't give me that bullshit, Richard. Nobody gives a damn about tabloid crap like this. You know you could bury this right now, if you wanted to.”

Lance leaned anxiously forward in his chair to respond, but Richard held up his hand to silence him.

“You're right, I could,” Richard replied. “But why should I? Why would anyone in my position suppress the fact that one of the most influential pastors in the country is a closeted homosexual?”

“Because it's not true, goddamn it,” Hezekiah screeched. “I'm not gay!”

“Maybe that was a poor choice of words, Richard,” Lance said. “Reverend Cleaveland, would it be more accurate if he had said, ‘The pastor of New Testament Cathedral is on the down low'?”

Richard stifled a laugh. No response came from the speakerphone. “Reverend Cleaveland, would that be more accurate?” Richard asked cynically. “Hello, Hezekiah, are you still there?”

The last words Hezekiah could manage through his rage were “Fuck both of you assholes!” He then slammed his cell phone shut.

Lance and Richard each flinched from the sound of the crash, followed by the dial tone. They sat breathless from the heated exchange.

“You did well, Lance,” Richard finally said. “Phillip was right about you.”

 

It was eleven o'clock when Danny locked his apartment door. A light fog met him on the porch and flowed between the cars and around the sycamore trees. He walked upstairs to his neighbor's front door, holding a note containing instructions for the care and feeding of Parker:

Danny slipped the folded paper under the Somners' front door and proceeded back down the steps toward his car.

As he walked, he could not see the lush green grounds of the park across the street from his home. He didn't hear dogs barking as their masters threw tennis balls into the distance. The joggers with bouncing ponytails and aching muscles were mere dashes of color in the corner of his eye. Formerly fond images of rolling lawns and trees gently quivering in the breeze now served only to remind him of the love and the city that had been snatched from his tenuous grasp.

There were four messages on his answering machine from Hezekiah that morning. The last came at 10:30
A.M
.: “Danny, baby, I'm so sorry,” the trembling voice said. “Since you haven't returned my calls, I assume Lance Savage has found you. I never wanted you to get hurt, and I did everything I could to protect you…to protect us, but…” There was a long pause. “I guess I failed. I know you're hurting right now. Believe me, this is eating me up inside too, but they've got me trapped. They're determined to destroy me over this. I think it best that we…” He stopped. An anguished sigh could be heard. “Danny, I don't want to do this in a telephone message. Please call me. I love you.”

Rush hour traffic had given way to a light stream of motorists attending to their midday errands. Danny drove along Santa Monica Boulevard toward the Pacific Ocean.

The homeless shelter, where he spent every Thursday afternoon giving out warm socks and medical referrals, went by without a glance from Danny. The Department of Motor Vehicles building, where he had recently paid fines for a collection of overdue parking tickets, passed without Danny's usual sneer of disdain.

There was no longer a reason to look at the city he loved. No reason to appreciate the rows of brightly painted Victorian houses with neatly manicured lawns. Two-story murals of brightly festooned Native Americans and stern faces of the city's founding fathers no longer held interest.

As Danny neared Ocean Park Boulevard, traffic began to slow. A toothless man sat on a white plastic bucket in the street's median. His left foot was wrapped in soiled gauze, while his other wiggled through a worn-out tennis shoe. Stains of dried blood dotted his ruddy cheeks, and his salty white hair whirled in the wind. He refused to make eye contact with drivers waiting at the red light. Instead, his tattered cardboard sign pleaded his case:

When the light turned green, Danny removed the last twenty-seven dollars from his wallet. Driving forward slowly, he handed the man the wrinkled bills through the car window.

The man looked suspicious at first but then eagerly accepted the generous gift.

“God bless you, sir,” he said with a toothless grin. “Thank you, sir. God bless you.”

Danny merged his small car into the next lane and began the slow ascent up the winding ramp to the Santa Monica Pier. The lush green shrubbery along the side of the road was littered with the remains of human inhabitants. To his right he could see a bundle of blue blankets, soggy from water and mud. An abandoned shopping cart rested on its side, with the few remaining contents of plastic bags and newspapers scattered about. A poorly concealed man stood urinating behind a tree, while another searched the muddy ground for cigarette butts and a stray pebble of crack cocaine.

The pain that Danny had once felt upon viewing such human despair was nowhere to be found. There was no outrage toward an uncaring society. No sorrow for the discarded lives wallowing in the mud and debris. The numbing realization that his life would never be the same again was all that remained. He crept forward as if guided by fate.

The world had crossed an invisible line and boldly stepped into the space he had so carefully protected. He could have no more secrets. No more private moments.

His life would soon be on the front page of every newspaper in town. The sorrow that welled in his heart would serve as fodder for gossip at restaurant tables and park benches in every part of the city.

How could he mourn the loss of Hezekiah with the media exploring every pore of his existence under the microscope of public opinion? It would be impossible to start again without Hezekiah. Impossible to heal while his life was being delivered daily to front porches and sold for seventy-five cents on every corner.

The crush of traffic eased as he approached the parking lot for the Santa Monica Pier. Danny maneuvered the car into the lot and parked in the nearest available space. A cool sea breeze raced past him as he walked along the creaking wharf. Weathered wooden girders jutted from the side railing partially blocking the view of the turbulent waters below. Couples strolled by, hand in hand, and a massive Ferris wheel clanked and churned to the delight of a few small children as their parents waved from the dock below.

Once at the tip of the pier, Danny stood and stared out into the ocean. Waves crashed into the pylons below, causing sprays of mist to dampen his face and mingle with the tear that rolled down his cheek. Danny could hear the sea calling his name. He thought frantically for a reason not to respond.

Sympathetic tourists avoided eye contact with the seemingly distraught young man as he inched closer to the railing. Danny looked out and could see the sprawling mountains of Malibu, the high-rise condominiums along Pacific Coast Highway, and the hills of Santa Monica. Without hesitation he hoisted his body onto the railing and dangled his legs over the edge. At that point the few pedestrians walking nearby began to watch him more attentively.

“Don't jump!” he heard a woman yell.

“Oh my God! Hey, wait, buddy, it can't be that bad!” came a husky, concerned cry.

“Go for it, guy! Fuck this place!” another man exclaimed.

Then Danny heard a little girl crying behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw a little brown girl wearing a pink polka-dot bathing suit and holding a melting red snow cone. Danny climbed down and knelt beside her and asked, “Are you okay? Why are you crying?”

She looked up through her sobs and replied, “I can't find my mommy. She left me here. I want my mommy.”

“Don't cry,” Danny said, brushing a tear from her cheek. “I'm sure your mommy didn't leave you. Come on, let's go and find her together.”

With that, Danny stood up and took the little girl by her sticky little hand and together they walked away from the edge of the pier to find the ones who could stop their tears from falling.

 

Hezekiah sat at his desk with pen in hand, suspended above the closing line of a form thank-you letter:

A stack of white papers adorned with the embossed seal of the New Testament Cathedral lay before him. All were waiting for the ink from his pen to breathe life into the hollow words each contained.

Hezekiah didn't know the content of the official correspondence. Perhaps they were thank-you notes for $50,000 contributions toward the construction of the new cathedral or complimentary VIP tickets to the next big political fund-raiser. Their purpose and the protocol that dictated each line were of no interest to him.

He had dialed Danny's number four times that morning, but the only reply was the generic greeting on the answering machine.

Hezekiah had instinctively known when Danny was troubled throughout their year together. Days would pass without a word between them, when suddenly a “feeling” would come over him that something was wrong with the man he loved. Hezekiah would then call Danny, and inevitably he would be right. On one occasion Danny's mother had suffered a heart attack and died. Another time Danny's landlord had threatened to evict him.

Hezekiah was now having one such haunting premonition. As the pen, without prompting, glided across the first letter in the stack, a jolt suddenly kicked inside his stomach. He grabbed his belly and buckled from the pain. It was unbearable—what he imagined a heart attack must feel like. Droplets of perspiration formed on his brow, and the room began to spin around him. Then came another strike followed by yet another.

Hezekiah braced himself and stood with agonizing effort. He staggered toward the private bathroom at the rear of the office. Nausea overtook him as he stumbled across the floor. He gagged violently, clamping his lips shut to contain the bile that threatened to spew onto the freshly shampooed carpet.

An intangible yet familiar force was being yanked from the depths of his body. Hezekiah fought to maintain his grasp on the elusive energy that now thrashed violently for release. Without turning on the lights in the little bathroom, Hezekiah dropped to his knees and positioned his gaping mouth over the porcelain toilet. Vomit gushed out with each brutal contraction of his stomach. Troubling thoughts raced through his mind as his kneeling body heaved.
Something is happening to
…The thoughts stopped to accommodate yet another convulsion. Then again they came.
Danny. Where is Danny? Please don't do this. I won't leave you.