Come Sunday Morning

by Terry E. Hill

  A Los Angeles Homeless-Outreach Team employee is quoted as saying, “We all thought it was strange that Hezekiah Cleaveland would call personally. He never said why he was looking for him, but just to tell him to call back as soon as he got the message.”

  A total of 173 e-mail messages have been legally obtained by the Los Angeles Chronicle. The majority attests to both a physical and emotional bond between the two men. One such correspondence reads as follows:

  “Dear Danny, Thank you for being in my life. You have given me more joy than I ever thought I deserved. My wife loves me, but I don’t think she ever actually knew who I really am, or even wants to. If only she had taken the time to look a little deeper, she would have seen that I’m just a guy. A guy that wants to be loved and cared for, just like everybody else in this lonely world.

  “I love you because I didn’t have to tell you this. Somehow you already knew. My biggest dream is that someday you and I will live together. I often think of what it will be like to wake up every morning with you in my arms. One day, Danny. One day soon. Love you with all that I am, Hezekiah.”

  St. John has denied knowing or ever meeting Cleaveland.

  The telephone rang as he typed the final line. “Lance, I’ve been trying to reach you all week,” Cynthia Pryce said, sitting on her bed and removing her shoes. “What happened in the interview with Hezekiah?”

  “It went as expected. He denied the affair.” Lance pressed the save button on his computer and continued speaking. “I talked to Danny St. John today.”

  “What did he have to say for himself?”

  “He denied it all as well. Said he never met Hezekiah Cleaveland. It was obvious he was lying, but it doesn’t matter. The e-mail messages are enough to nail them both.”

  “So what’s next? When does the story run?”

  “I just finished the revisions. Now I have to get my editor’s approval, and that’s it. It should be on the stands this Sunday morning.” Lance paused for a moment and then said, “I just have one more question for you, Cynthia.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why are you doing this to Hezekiah and Samantha?”

  “I’ve already told you. Someone has to hold the Cleavelands accountable for his actions.”

  “That is certainly understandable, but I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me. It’s making me nervous about the whole story.”

  “Nervous?” Cynthia countered. “This is the biggest story of your career. How can you even think about passing it up?”

  “This isn’t just about my career, Mrs. Pryce,” he said curtly. “It’s about New Testament Cathedral, Hezekiah and Samantha Cleaveland, and Danny St John. It’s about causing a lot of suffering for people in that church and around the country. It’s about hurting a seemingly nice young guy who just got involved with the wrong person.”

  “You don’t have to tell me what’s at stake.”

  “That’s what’s confusing me. I get the feeling that you will actually gain more than anyone else if this story comes out.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Cynthia said nervously. “What could I possibly gain from having my pastor exposed as a homosexual?”

  “That’s the exact question I need answered. And I think until I get that answer, I’m going to have to put the story on hold.”

  It was risky, but Lance felt it was necessary to ensure the information Cynthia had provided was legitimate.

  Cynthia felt trapped by the reporter who, until then, had gobbled hungrily every morsel she had laid before him.

  “All right, Lance. I’ll be honest with you. I do have ambitions of my own.”

  “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 m
en 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:

  PASTOR HEZEKIAH T. CLEAVELAND

  INVOLVED IN SECRET GAY AFFAIR

  “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?”

  18

  Friday

  Richard 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.”
<
br />   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.