When Sunday Comes Again

by Terry E. Hill

  “Excuse me. I am sorry to bother you, but are you not Gideon Truman, the reporter?”

  Gideon looked up as if he had been expecting her to approach him. “Yes, I am not Gideon Truman,” he said, flashing a dazzling smile.

  The woman looked puzzled. “I do not understand. Are you or are you not Gideon Truman?”

  Gideon’s smile broadened. “I’m sorry. It was just a joke. Yes, I’m Gideon Truman.”

  The happy tourist clapped her hands loudly in delight and shouted to her husband, “It is him. Come. Come.” Then she returned her admiring gaze to Gideon. “We are from Germany, but we have cable TV and watch you frequently. I am a big fan. May I please take a picture with you? Just one, please. It would make me very happy.”

  Gideon continued to smile as he turned off his BlackBerry and placed it in his pocket. “Of course. It would be my pleasure.”

  When Gideon stood, he towered over the woman. He placed his muscular arm around her as the husband approached with camera cocked and children and bags in tow. The little woman was enveloped under his arm and swooned into his heavily starched light blue button-down shirt. She could feel the finely woven raw silk of his dark blue trousers brush against her exposed calf. He smelled of sweet jasmine, or maybe it was sandalwood soap.

  “Lächeln Sie,” the husband said, pointing the camera in their direction.

  “That means ‘smile’ in German,” the woman said to Gideon through a beaming smile.

  “Ich weiß. Ich spreche Deutsch,” Gideon responded. The woman looked up in surprise as the camera flashed. “Are you German as well?” she asked.

  “No. I worked in Berlin for two years. It’s one of my favorite cities in the world.”

  The family retreated happily, carrying the prized souvenir, an image of Gideon Truman digitally etched in their camera.

  Gideon returned to his comfortable seat and contemplated his next move. Cynthia Pryce had handed him the explosive twist of Danny St. John. He was now faced with the question of whether he should pursue the alleged homosexual affair, and inevitably sully the name and reputation of a much-cherished icon, or simply do what he had originally set out to do, report on the investigation into Hezekiah’s murder.

  He now held a piece of information that, if true, had the potential of toppling one of the most influential dynasties in the country and tarnishing the memory of one of the most renowned ministers of the twenty-first century.

  Gideon was already famous, so the pursuit of acclaim would not factor heavily into his decision. He was potentially the only living reporter in the country that knew of Danny St. John. If he broke the story, it would serve to silence his many critics that claimed he was merely eye candy and not a serious journalist. Whenever he read the cutting critiques of his work, a chill would race up his spine. He had worked harder than his contemporaries but was never taken as seriously because his smile and dashing good looks always landed him on the cover and in the bowels of tabloid magazines. The question was, “Who is Gideon Truman dating now?” rather than “How did he find the nerve to ask the secretary of state that question?” The media coverage of his work usually read, “Gideon Truman looked devilishly handsome in a black Armani tuxedo at the inauguration ball,” instead of “Gideon Truman asked the new president hard-hitting questions that were undoubtedly on the minds of every American.”

  A story this big would surely establish him as a serious journalist, worthy of the respect he so desperately desired. But at what cost would this be? New Testament Cathedral would likely be destroyed. Thousands, maybe millions, of people around the world would question their faith. One more high-profile black man would be subjected to a modern-day lynching and, in this case, would be unable to defend himself.

  But the public has a right to know, Gideon thought. Hezekiah Cleaveland had set himself up as an icon. It was his decision to espouse a pious lifestyle that, if this is true, even he couldn’t live up to. It was his choice to cheat on his wife and his choice to have an affair with a man.

  It wouldn’t hurt to talk to St. John, he thought, continuing along this line of reasoning. I can’t believe there’s anything to this, anyway. I can decide whether or not to pursue it after I’ve spoken to him.

  Finding Danny’s telephone number was an easy task. A visit to the Los Angeles mission where Danny worked, flashing a smile at the receptionist, and signing an autograph on the back of the mission’s brochure yielded not only his cell phone number but also his home phone number, home address, and e-mail address, which he already had.

  Danny St. John’s name and telephone number appeared on the screen of the BlackBerry. After a brief hesitation he pressed TALK. The phone rang three times and then, “Hello. This is Danny. I can’t take your call right now so . . . Well, you know the routine. Ciao.”

  Gideon smiled when he heard the message. He also felt a warm flow rise from his belly as he listened to the deep, gentle timbre of the voice, which caused him to pause again.

  “Hello, Mr. St. John. My name is Gideon Truman. I work for CNN. I’m covering the investigation into the death of Hezekiah Cleaveland. I was told that you may have known him. I was wondering if I might be able to speak with you briefly about this. I won’t take much of your time, and I really would appreciate it. When you get this message, please give me a call on my cell at three-one-oh, five-five-five, four-four-five-five.”

  Hattie bent over in her garden to pluck another red tomato from a vine that slumped under the weight of a season’s bounty. She stood on the rich soil between perfectly carved rows of greens, yellows, whites, and reds. The collard greens stood tall in the gentle breeze. They always reminded her of baby elephant ears when they flapped in the wind. Bushes of yellow zucchini shielded their precious fruits from the sun, and climbing green beans twisted and tangled themselves on elaborately constructed trellises made of wire and wood and set in a row.

  The garden was her pride and refuge. It occupied the entire width of her backyard and one half of the length. A meticulous six-foot pink brick fence that her husband had built when the children were young served as the backdrop to the summer harvest. After each season, as soon as the last vegetable was plucked, Hattie would begin preparing the soil for the next round of crops. There was always something delicious growing in Hattie’s backyard: carrots, onions, bell peppers, mustard greens and collard greens, broccoli, and cabbages. Always something to share with her neighbors, children, and friends.

  The lower half of her body was covered by a faded yellow apron, tied securely around her waist, with oversize deep pockets that bulged from all the tomatoes she had picked. Moist dirt encased the soles of her sturdy black rubber shoes, and the wide-brimmed straw hat she wore caused a grid of light and shadows to form on her forehead.

  Even with the warmth of the sun on her shoulders and the mud squishing under her feet, Hattie could not escape the memory of the dream she had had two nights earlier. Who was the other person, the one she could not see in the dream? Why didn’t they show themselves to her? Why were they hiding from her? Was it a man or a woman? she pondered. Whoever it was, they clearly loved Pastor Cleaveland very deeply. Certainly more than Samantha had loved him.

  Hattie shoed away a bee that buzzed near her ear, and another ripe tomato found its way into the apron’s deep pocket. One of the many red and black dotted ladybugs in the yard landed on her shoulder. She did not brush it away. “Lord knows I can always use some good luck,” she said, looking down at the ladybug.

  Throughout her life, Hattie had always known what was going to happen to people around her long before it happened. She had cradled each of her four grandchildren in her dreams and had stroked their curly locks years before they were born. The vision of her mother’s death at the hands of “sugar” had startled her from sleep many nights as early as seven years before the old woman succumbed to diabetes. The premonition of the man with the surprisingly dark skin sitting behind the desk in the Oval Office, just staring out the window, had come to her late one nig
ht two years before it actually became a reality.

  She had learned to live with these foresights, whether they were good or bad. “Only you can change the course of a man’s life,” she often reaffirmed in her prayers to God and to herself. “And I ain’t you, Lord, so let your will be done on earth just as it is in heaven.” Hattie lived by these words. Don’t interfere with the paths men have chosen for themselves. It just ain’t my place. If they want to change it, that’s between them and their God.

  But today even her firm conviction left her wondering if she had done the right thing by keeping silent. She had seen Hezekiah falling in the sanctuary days before he was killed that horrible Sunday morning. She had known well in advance that someone close to him was trying to destroy him. Should she have warned him?

  “Pastor Cleaveland, you know I ain’t one to meddle in other people’s business, but I feel I just got to tell you. Something just ain’t right around here,” the conversation would have gone. “Now, I know you love your wife, and so you should. But that woman is just pure evil. She don’t mean you no good, Pastor. One day that woman’s gonna do something terrible to somebody. Maybe even you. I know she is. I can feel it in my spirit.”

  Of course, Pastor Cleaveland would have looked at her as the kindly old lady that she in fact was, reached for her weathered hand, and responded something along the lines of, “Now, Mother Williams, I know your premonitions have always been accurate in the past, but this time I think you may have gotten your spiritual wires crossed. Samantha loves me. You know that. She would never do anything to hurt me.”

  It was not until the most recent dream that Hattie learned who was behind the assassination of her pastor. The horror of the revelation had made sleep almost impossible the last few nights. Every time she thought about the coldness that passed from Samantha when she touched her shoulder in the dream, the same chill crept up her spine again. The light pouring from the evil woman’s smile that enveloped her caused her vision to blur momentarily. Hezekiah gazing up from the pool of blood with that vacant look in his eyes made her stomach ache from pains of sorrow.

  The figure she could not see still haunted her. “Who was it?” she questioned as she stood transfixed in the garden. “I hope that poor soul is not next.”

  Chapter 6

  Gideon Truman drove the rented silver SUV to the entrance of the Cleaveland estate. He had finally been summoned by Samantha Cleaveland.

  The call had come to his cell the day before. “Good afternoon. May I speak with Mr. Gideon Truman please?” the polite voice had asked with a slow, deliberate, and somewhat artificially sweet tone that hinted of Southern roots.

  “This is Gideon Truman. How can I help you?”

  “My name is Chantal Maxwell, Mr. Truman. I am Pastor Samantha Cleaveland’s scheduling secretary. How are you today, sir?”

  “Well, well. Finally, someone from New Testament Cathedral calls me back. I was beginning to take the snubs personally.”

  “Oh no, sir. Please don’t take it personally, and thank you for your patience. I must deeply apologize for the delay in returning your calls, but as I’m sure you must understand, this has been a very difficult time for everyone at New Testament Cathedral, and especially for Pastor Cleaveland. You are not the only reporter we’ve had to put on hold over the last three weeks, but you should know you are one of the first we have contacted.”

  “I’m honored,” Gideon said, barely concealing the excited tone in his voice.

  “Mr. Truman, Pastor Cleaveland would like to invite you for lunch at the Cleaveland estate in Bel Air tomorrow at one o’clock. Would that be convenient for you, sir?”

  “I’ll be there,” he replied quickly, forgetting to keep his excitement in check.

  “Wonderful, sir. Would you like me to send a car for you?” The more she talked, the thicker her accent became and the slower the pace.

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Do you have any dietary constraints that you would like the chef to be made aware of?”

  Gideon was surprised that no attempt was being made to conceal the conspicuous wealth of the Cleavelands: drivers, private chefs, Bel Air estate. I guess the days of being embarrassed for getting rich in the name of the Lord ended with Jim Baker, he thought.

  “Thank you for asking, but I’ll eat anything.”

  “Very well then, Mr. Truman. Also, Pastor Cleaveland has asked, will there be a film crew accompanying you? And if so, will they require any special accommodations? The estate is equipped with a state-of-the-art studio and media center.”

  Gideon paused, almost dumbfounded. “What was your name again, darling?”

  “Chantal, Mr. Truman, Chantal Maxwell.”

  “Chantal, please tell Pastor Cleaveland that I’m hoping this will be the first of many conversations between her and myself. So, no, I won’t be bringing a film crew with me this time.”

  “Yes Mr. Truman, I will pass that message on to Pastor Cleaveland. I look forward to meeting you tomorrow. I’ve taken the liberty of texting you a confirmation, the address and directions.”

  As she spoke the familiar beep on his BlackBerry sounded and the Cleaveland estate address and a Google Maps link appeared on the screen.

  Chantal continued, “Now, if there is anything else I can do for you prior to your visit, please do not hesitate to contact me. May you have a blessed day, and remember, God loves you and so do we.”

  The telephone disconnected before his quick mind could form a snappy reply.

  The next day Gideon found himself parked in front of the estate. “Good afternoon, Mr. Truman,” a deep male voice said from the gatehouse. “Welcome to the Cleaveland estate. Pastor Cleaveland is expecting you. Please drive in and follow the road to the main house.”

  The grounds were surrounded by an eight-foot white stucco wall that extended so far up the street beyond the entrance that he was not able to see where it ended. The electronic iron gates, emblazoned with the initials HC, glided open. As he drove through, he saw a camera pointed directly at him. It followed him as he passed through the gates.

  Within the confines of the stucco wall the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. A thick canopy of trees and lush greenery gave the grounds an almost enchanted feel. The road was lined with palm trees standing at attention, as if they were guarding a castle. Movement to his left demanded his attention. Gideon did a double take. Three large peacocks on the shimmering green lawn flared their iridescent turquoise tail feathers as he drove by. In the background he could hear the muffled roar of the Pacific Ocean.

  “If I start to hear harps playing, I’m leaving,” he mumbled. The grounds were immaculate. He could see men in green uniforms riding in what appeared to be a golf cart filled with gardening equipment on a path to his right. A tennis court with striking white lines was followed by a gazebo that looked out over the ocean. Then he saw what he assumed was a guesthouse tucked behind a grove of even more trees.

  Finally, he could see the main house looming ahead. As he drove closer, the dense cover of trees unfurled like curtains on a stage. The house was drenched in sunlight, which seemed to appear just as he approached.

  It was a magnificent glowing white Mediterranean villa flanked on each side by spectacular views of Los Angeles and the Pacific Ocean, and above by a strikingly blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds. Gideon never remembered seeing the sky such an amazing shade of azure before. Two massive stone double stairways curved around a fifteen-foot stone fountain pouring water into a pond filled with night-blooming water lilies and black, gold, and white koi fish, led up to a covered porch. The landing held four twenty-foot-high carved pillars, two to the left and two to the right of what were the largest and most intricately carved wooden doors he had ever seen.

  Before he could completely stop the car, a gentle tap on the side window startled him. A tall, well-built man who appeared to be of Italian decent, wearing a black suit and dark sunglasses, opened Gideon’s car door.

  “
Good afternoon, Mr. Truman. Welcome to the Cleaveland estate. Please leave your keys in the car. I assure you it will be well taken care of.”

  Gideon noticed a brown leather strap under his coat as the man gestured for him to exit the car. Armed security? Gideon thought. She must be terrified with the killer still on the loose.

  “Security’s pretty tight around here,” Gideon said, exiting the car.

  “Yes, sir. We do take every necessary precaution. You will be very safe during your time with Pastor Cleaveland. Enjoy your lunch, Mr. Truman.”

  With that, the armed man climbed into the SUV and drove around the side of the house.

  Gideon stood for a moment alone at the foot of the stairway. In every direction he looked, he could not see the perimeter of the property. The only sounds he could hear were the occasional high-pitched calls of the peacocks and the splash of the fountain.

  In his career Gideon had interviewed two presidents, a host of A-list celebrities, war heroes, and the Pope, but he had never been as nervous as he felt at that moment. Must be the peacocks, he thought as he began the ascent up the stairs. He checked his breast pocket to make sure he had his recorder, a pen, a pad, and his BlackBerry. As soon as he set a foot on the porch, the double doors swung open.

  A woman appeared in the center of the doorway. The first thing he noticed was that her skin was as smooth as alabaster. Her features were fine and worthy of her pale complexion. Shoulder-length hair, the most perfect shade of deep dark red, flowed in slow motion, as if blown by an unseen wind, as she walked toward him with an extended hand.

  I see Samantha Cleaveland likes to surround herself with lovely things, both animate and inanimate, he thought as he walked to the beautiful young woman.

  “Welcome to the Cleaveland estate, Mr. Truman,” the woman said, exposing a smile too perfect for even her flawless face. “I’m Chantal Maxwell. We spoke on the telephone yesterday.”