The Last Sunday (14 page)

Samantha smiled slightly when she recalled how she dramatically broke free from a security guard who was trying to protect her. She ran up the steps to her husband. Some members of the choir dashed from the stand, while others crouched, weeping, behind seats. The organist sat frozen in fear on the bench as several people ran screaming out the double doors.

Samantha dropped and cradled Hezekiah's head on the arm of her suit. Her bracelet sparkled from the light in the church's stained glass. She screamed hysterically. “Hezekiah, baby! Hezekiah, don't die! I need you.” She resisted the urge to lay her head on his chest, for fear of getting blood on the collar she had so carefully selected. “Hezekiah! Please, God, don't take him from me!”

After a respectable moment had passed, Reverend Willie Mitchell and Reverend Percy Pryce gently separated Samantha from Hezekiah's body and briskly escorted her, crying and thrashing, out the side door. Hezekiah's lifeless body lay at the top of the steps, clutching the microphone, while the security guard tried unsuccessfully to resuscitate him.

By two o'clock the church grounds were filled with police cars and news vans. Satellite dishes pointed to the heavens, and high heels stumbled over electrical cords crisscrossing the parking lot. The police had emptied the sanctuary of parishioners, and the double doors had been cordoned off with yellow tape. Members were now milling in the halls and outside the church, giving and receiving comfort. The final word had already spread that the pastor was dead.

From her window in the church Samantha could see reporters, with microphones and cameras in tow, cornering members for their reaction to the tragedy for the local and national news networks. Television programming around the country had been interrupted to report on the assassination of Pastor Hezekiah T. Cleaveland. The hats, the fresh haircuts, and the pain at New Testament Cathedral were beamed live that day to televisions throughout the world.

Samantha fondly remembered seeing the covered body of her husband being removed from the church. Cameramen scrambled to get a shot of the gurney as it was being lifted into the rear of the van. Crying women, children clinging to their thighs, provided a dramatic backdrop for the parting shots of the vehicle.

Samantha sobbed into a crumpled tissue on the sofa inside Hezekiah's office. The suit jacket Hezekiah had worn that morning was draped over her lap, and blood from his head had dried on her sleeve. Reverend Pryce and his wife, Cynthia, sat on either side of her.

Jasmine had not attended church again that morning. Samantha had instructed Etta to let her sleep in. She hadn't wanted Jasmine to witness her father's assassination. Samantha called home shortly after being taken to the church office. “Jasmine, honey,” she said. “This is Mommy. Something terrible has happened. Daddy has been shot. He's dead.”

Suddenly Samantha's office door swung open, and Jasmine appeared in the threshold. The whoosh of the door startled Samantha from the fond memory of that wonderful day two months earlier. She turned abruptly from the window, revealing the gun, her friend.

“Jasmine, you startled me,” she said with uncharacteristic surprise. “Why didn't you knock?” As she spoke, she slowly put the gun into a desk drawer.

“I didn't know you were in here. I came in to get one of your cigarettes,” Jasmine said, watching the gun as it disappeared into the desk.

“I've told you I don't like you smoking. It's a filthy habit.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“Because, honey, your mother is under a lot of pressure and—”

“How much longer are you going to pretend I didn't see that gun you just put in your desk?” Jasmine asked suspiciously.

“I'm not pretending. I know you saw it.”

“Then would you mind telling me why you have a gun? I thought you and Daddy hated guns. Are you planning on using that on someone?” she asked sarcastically.

“Don't be ridiculous. I have it for protection.”

“Protection from what?” Jasmine scoffed. “This place is crawling with armed guards. Sometimes I feel like I live in a prison. I don't believe you. What is the gun for?” she asked insistently.

The two women locked eyes. There was silence in the room. Throughout Jasmine's life she had never felt she knew fully what damage her mother was capable of doing to those she considered a threat or an enemy. She had seen Samantha send employees running from rooms in tears. She had had a front row seat in the theater that was their life. For years she had seen how Samantha manipulated her father. She had sometimes sat in disbelief after witnessing how abusive her mother could be to the house staff and security.

Now seeing her mother standing there with a gun, she realized there was yet another level of cruelty she was capable of. The picture did not surprise or shock her. The image of her mother standing at the window, the blue sky enveloping her in an ethereal glow, actually filled in a missing piece in her view of her mother, the woman with the French-tipped fingernails holding a gun.

“Have you ever used it?” Jasmine asked without any hint of doubt.

“Of course I haven't.”

“I don't believe you.”

“What are you talking about?” Samantha replied.

“I think you know,” Jasmine said coolly.

For the first time Jasmine saw a third dimension to her mother, and it frightened her. She knew all too well the cardboard cutout of the pastor's wife and the loving mother that had always repulsed her. She knew the cruel woman who seemed oblivious to the feelings of others. But now she saw the dangerous woman who, without question, had it in her to kill. In that light, at that window, and with that gun, her mother could not hide her true self.

“I don't want to talk about this anymore,” Samantha said, closing the desk drawer. “You should leave.”

“You killed him, didn't you?”

Samantha froze for a millisecond. “Killed who, darling?” she said, as if indulging the furtive imagination of a precocious child.

“Daddy,” Jasmine said, looking her directly in the eye. The original intent of the question was simply to irritate her mother, but as the words floated between them, they took on a distinct air of possibility and even truth.

“Why would you say a horrible thing like that?” Samantha replied incredulously. “Are you on drugs again?”

“No, I'm not on drugs. I haven't used drugs since I came back from Arizona. Now answer my question,” Jasmine said firmly. “Did you kill Daddy?”

“Honey, you know perfectly well I was sitting in the audience when your father was killed.”

“Is that the gun he was killed with? Did you pay someone to do it?”

“I want you to stop this nonsense right now.” Her tone shifted from that of an indulgent caregiver to that of an accused killer. “I don't want to ever hear those words come out of your mouth again. Do you understand me?”

“For the first time I feel I really do understand you. You had him killed. Why?” Jasmine said, taking a step closer to Samantha. “Did you want to be pastor that bad? Did you finally realize you didn't need him anymore? That you could do it all on your own.”

Samantha took a step toward her, narrowing the space between them to only a few feet. Her shoulders stiff and her hands at her sides, as if squaring off with an equally worthy opponent, she said, “I loved your father. I could never do anything to hurt him.”

Jasmine laughed slightly. “You hated him. He hated you, and I hate you too.”

As the last word escaped her lips, Jasmine felt the sharp sting of Samantha's open palm on her cheek.

“You will not speak to me in that way,” Samantha said as Jasmine recoiled from the blow. “I'm your mother, and don't you ever forget it.”

“Or what?” Jasmine said, holding her burning cheek. “You'll kill me too?”

Samantha immediately raised her hand and, in a flash, leveled another blow with even greater force. “If you insist on speaking to me like a grown woman, then I will treat you like one. You don't seem to realize how much I indulged you and your behavior only because your father protected you from me. Now that he's gone, there's nothing standing between us. You don't know what I'm fully capable of, and trust me, you don't want to know.”

“I think I know now,” Jasmine said defiantly. “I know you're capable of murdering the only person in the world I ever loved.”

“I'll attribute your ranting to your drug-addled brain. But trust me, if you ever say that to me again, or to anyone else, you will see for the first time exactly who you're dealing with.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Yes, it is.”

Percy Pryce made every effort to perform his duties as assistant pastor to the best of his now limited abilities. Conducting marriage ceremonies for young, starry-eyed couples. Officiating over funerals and comforting the families of the dearly departed. Today's tasks included counseling a parishioner who was contemplating suicide after losing his home to foreclosure and, shortly after that, his wife.

The man, whose name Percy could hardly remember, sat across from him in his office at New Testament Cathedral and poured the troubled contents of his heart onto the desk between them.

“The day after I received the foreclosure notice, she just got up, packed a bag, and left. Her mother was waiting in the car out front. The bitch didn't even say good-bye. I'm sorry, Reverend, but this has got me so upset.”

“That's all right . . . umm, Brother. I understand,” Percy said on auto pilot. “Go on.”

Percy could not stop his mind from wandering as the man spoke. The troubled parishioner's words soon turned into a bothersome buzz in his ears. Even though Percy looked at him with sympathetic eyes, he could see only the faint blur of a brown suit and a head with glasses.

Percy's mind drifted to the first day he had heard the name Danny St. John and to the events that followed.

“Hello, Catherine. Sorry I'm late,” he had said on that afternoon, when he entered the office of Catherine Birdsong, the church's then chief operating officer.

Percy remembered Catherine's troubled face when he saw her that day.

“You look terrible. Is there something wrong? Have you been crying?” he had asked, approaching her with an outstretched hand. “What has Samantha done to you now?”

The comment was initially said in jest, but as he walked closer, he detected the faint remnant of a tear in the corner of her eye.

Catherine extended her hand and allowed it to be enveloped by Percy's hearty grip. “I'm fine, Reverend Pryce,” she said, pointing to the chair in front of her desk, inviting him to sit. “What did you want to see me about?”

“Catherine, you can't fool me. I know something is wrong. We've known each other a long time. I think of you as a friend, and I hope you feel the same about me. Has Samantha done something to upset you?”

Catherine looked away, avoiding his sympathetic gaze. There was silence for a moment, and then she spoke. “Percy, something terrible has happened, and I don't know what to do about it.”

“Then tell me about it. Maybe we can figure it out together.”

“It's about Hezekiah, but he told me to not discuss it with anyone.”

Percy threw his head back and laughed aloud. “How many times have we both heard that over the years? But we each know that sometimes it's necessary to discuss our concerns with others we trust to make sure our perspectives are clear and unclouded by fear. Now tell me. What's going on? Maybe it's not as bad as you think.”

Catherine proceeded to recount the antagonistic meeting with Lance Savage. She told him how the reporter had confronted Hezekiah with the information he had on his affair with Danny St. John.

Percy listened attentively, shifting several times in his seat and occasionally interrupting to ask questions, such as “What did Hezekiah say?” and “When is the story supposed to run?”

Catherine concluded her tale with, “I've never been this worried about anything in my life.”

Percy's last question was, “Who else knows about this?”

“I made the mistake of telling Kenneth. He's threatened to call Lance and sue the
Chronicle.
”

“Don't worry. I'll talk to Kenneth.” Percy then flashed a comforting smile and said, “Catherine, it doesn't sound all that bad. You know these crazies come out of the woodwork every few years. This St. John person is probably some nut who's obsessed with Hezekiah. I'll bet if I put a little scare into him, he'll stop spreading these lies.”

“That's just it, Percy. I'm not convinced it's a lie. Hezekiah never denied it and swore me to secrecy. Why would he do that if it wasn't true?”

“What kind of mood was Hezekiah in this afternoon?”

“I have no idea,” she said fretfully. “He canceled all his appointments. I haven't seen or heard from him all day.”

“That's not like him. I'll see if I can reach him on his cell later this evening.”

“Please don't tell him you spoke to me,” Catherine pleaded. “Tell him you ran into Lance in the hall and he told you.”

“Don't worry about that. I won't even mention your name. In the meantime we should meet first thing in the morning with Kenneth and see if we can come up with a plan for damage control, just in case the story does eventually run. Will you set that up?”

“Are you sure he can be trusted?” she asked. “How do we know he didn't leak the story in the first place?”

“Why would he do something as stupid as that? If Hezekiah goes down over this, we'll all be out of a job.”

“I know, but I just don't trust anyone,” Catherine said. “How's eight thirty tomorrow morning for you, in the conference room?”

“I'll be here.”

The two walked toward the door and embraced.

“Oh my God,” Catherine said. “You wanted to talk to me about something. I'm sorry, Percy. This has got me so distracted.”

“Don't worry about that. We can talk about it later. This is much more important.”

The next day Catherine, Kenneth, and Percy met in the conference room. Percy took the seat of power at the head of the conference room table.

Catherine broke the silence at the table and asked, “Where is Hezekiah? Shouldn't he be here to talk about this?”

“I thought the whole discussion might make him uncomfortable,” Percy replied. “He doesn't know we're meeting.”

“I think that was a mistake,” Kenneth said nervously. “If he finds out we discussed this behind his back, he'll be furious.” As he spoke, he picked up his cell phone from the table and said, “I don't want any part of this.”

Reverend Pryce leaned forward. “Wait a minute, Kenneth. There's no reason for him to find out. I just wanted us to put our heads together and come up with a plan. This meeting never took place as far as anyone outside this room is concerned.”

Kenneth looked at Catherine for signs of agreement. She signified yes by nodding.

“All right. I'll stay. But if he finds out about this meeting, I'll deny I was ever here.”

“Good then,” Percy said with slight relief. “I spoke with Hezekiah, and it's not alleged. He confirmed the whole story. There is in fact a Danny St. John, and they are involved in a sexual relationship.”

“How long has it been going on?” Kenneth asked.

“He said for about a year. If that story is printed, all hell is going to break loose.”

“We're all aware of that, Percy. But there just might be some way to convince Lance Savage to kill the story.” Kenneth looked at Catherine. “You know Lance better than we do. What do you think? Can he be bribed, frightened off?”

Catherine shook her head. “I don't think there's any way he's going to let this slide. I've seen him in action. He's relentless once he gets his hands on anything sensational. He stands to build a national reputation on this.”

“Come on, there's got to be some way,” Percy interjected. “Every man has a price. We just have to find out what his is.”

“The construction budget has one million dollars in discretionary funds,” Kenneth said to no one in particular. “I think we should offer to buy his silence. That's the only way.”

Catherine sat silently while the two debated the plan's merits. The conversation progressed more rapidly than she had wished. She finally spoke. “I think we're getting ahead of ourselves here. What I'd like to know is, who leaked the story in the first place? That's what's most important.”

Percy looked at her impatiently and said, “That's irrelevant. It's out, and now we have to deal with the consequences.”

“I disagree,” Catherine protested. “Let's say we are able to silence Lance. Whoever the source is could easily find another reporter to pick it up. Eventually, we'll have to buy off every reporter in the city.”

Kenneth leaned back in his chair and said, “She's right. Whoever this person is, they are obviously very close to Hezekiah and have something to gain by him not being the pastor. Any ideas?”

“It could be anyone,” Catherine said. “Even one of us.”

Catherine's last words unleashed a flurry of retorts. Kenneth bolted to his feet. “If you're suggesting I'm responsible, you're crazy. I'll be out of a job if this ever gets out.”

Percy raised his voice. “I take personal offense at your accusations, Catherine. I've devoted the past five years of my life to this church, and I deserve better than that.”

Kenneth held up his hands in an appeal for calm. “Hold on, everybody. Let's not accuse each other. Who else could have gotten that close to Hezekiah to know about this?”

“How about Dino, his driver?” Catherine asked. “He must know about it, but I think he would rather take a bullet in the head than see any harm come to Hezekiah.”

Everyone nodded in consensus. Puzzled expressions formed on their faces as they pondered who the Judas might be.

Catherine, with great caution, broke the silence. “I know this might sound crazy, but I'm going to say it, anyway. What about Samantha?”

The puzzled looks quickly changed to shock and horror.

“Catherine, how could you even think something that horrible?” Kenneth said. “Samantha worships the ground Hezekiah walks on. She would rather die than see him publicly humiliated.”

Catherine recoiled in her chair. “I know. You're right. I just wanted to put it out there.”

“Well, please don't ever say anything like that again,” Percy said in a fatherly tone. “She's going to be hurt enough when she learns about the affair. I'd hate to see her hurt even more if a rumor like that started circulating.”

Having been chastised, Catherine said, “I'm sorry. I'm not suggesting she did it, but we have to look at all possibilities.”

“Look, this idle speculation isn't getting us anywhere,” Kenneth said with his hands clasped in front of his face. “We could be here all day trying to figure out who did this. I say we go back to our original plan and offer Lance money. If the story resurfaces again later, then maybe we'll have more time to flush out the source. But not now. We don't have the time.”

“Kenneth is right,” said Percy. “If we're going to act, we have to do it quickly.”

“Are we all in agreement, then?” Kenneth asked.

Percy said yes, but Catherine simply stared out the window.

“Catherine, what about you? Do you agree or not?” Percy asked.

“I don't think it's going to work, but if that's our only option, then yes, I agree.”

Kenneth clapped his hands and said, “All right, then. I'll meet with Lance this afternoon and make the offer and hopefully—”

“Wait a minute, Kenneth,” Percy said, “I want to come with you. I'd like to have a few words with him myself.”

“You don't want to upset Lance,” Catherine said. “He's in control. If you threaten him, he'll turn you down flat.”

“I won't threaten him. I just think we should hedge our bet with a little intimidation. Let him know that if he reneges on the agreement, there will be serious consequences.”

“It's risky, but it might help in the long run,” said Kenneth. “Okay, Percy. As soon as I set up a time for the meeting, I'll call you.” Kenneth stood and said, “Wish us luck, Catherine. We're going to need it.”

Percy now wished he had never heard the name Danny St. John. He regretted getting involved and taking the lead in trying to get the reporter to drop the story about Hezekiah.

I should have stayed out of it, he thought as the man across from him wrapped up his tale of financial and marital woe. I should have let the Cleavelands just deal with their own mess themselves.

Now his life would never be the same. A man had died at his hands. His own wife was the source of the e-mails that had launched the newspaper article. And in spite of the fact that she knew he had killed a man, she was more determined than ever for him to become pastor.

“Reverend Pryce . . . ,” said the parishioner sitting across from him at the desk in his office.

Percy did not hear him.

“Reverend Pryce . . .” the man said again. “So what do you think? Should I beg my wife to come back to me?”

The second call pulled Percy back to the counseling session. “Yes, I'm sorry, Brother. I . . . I . . . Yes, you should call her. She's just afraid and confused right now. Call her and tell her you forgive her, and let her know how much you love her. Tell her you two can work this out together.”

“Thank you, Reverend Pryce,” the man said, standing with Percy. “That's exactly what I needed to hear. Thank you.”

As the man exited the room, Percy sat down behind his desk. He knew the parting words of advice he had just given were more for himself than for the man whose problems he hadn't heard.

I do love her so much,
he thought warmly.
She's just afraid and confused.

 

 

The waters off the California coast between Catalina Island and Long Beach were calm and tranquil, the occasional wave causing the yacht to rock gently from bow to stern. The rear deck held a series of wooden chairs and chaise lounges with blue-striped cushions. A brown lacquered table with chrome pedestal legs held a vase filled with orchids, a bucket filled with champagne and ice, and two flutes.