Danny St. John stood beneath the freeway overpass, next to a pile of clothes, soiled blankets, and soggy newspapers. He was one block from the sprawling construction site of New Testament Cathedral. The smell of urine and human waste assaulted his nose.
Sounds from cars speeding overhead filled the air. Remains of a campfire burned in the distance, and a mother with two small children gathered a large stuffed plastic bag and dashed from the area before he could approach. As Danny walked toward two men sitting next to a cement pillar, which vibrated from the traffic above, the mud squished beneath his feet. Their foggy eyes became alert as he approached. One man struggled to his feet and tried to walk away.
“Wait a minute, guys,” Danny called out. “I’m not the police. My name is Danny. I’m an outreach worker.”
The two men seemed to relax and turn themselves over once again to their alcohol-induced haze.
“Hey, man,” one said, “you got any vitamins? I got a cold that I ain’t been able to shake for weeks.”
They each wore blue jeans covered with mud. One was a Native American, and the other’s thick drawl told of his deep Southern roots. Their shirts were torn and missing several buttons. Hair that had once been their crowns was matted and covered with unidentifiable white flecks. Danny rustled through his backpack and found two small bottles of vitamin C. “Here you go, guys,” he said, handing them the bottles. “I’ve also got clean socks if you need them.”
The Indian’s words were slurred from three days of nonstop drinking. “Man, I been trying to get an affordable apartment for three years now, but they always tell me there ain’t none available.”
“They told me I had to be sober before I could get an apartment,” the Southerner chimed in. “What kinda shit is that? If I could get sober by myself, I wouldn’t need their motherfucking charity.”
Both men laughed in unison and leaned toward each other in a gesture of camaraderie. Danny had heard the story many times before.
“I know it’s tough, guys, but if you come to my office, I can make a few calls for you and maybe get you in somewhere.”
The two men seemed startled by Danny’s proposal.
“Man, I got an appointment at the welfare office this afternoon. Can I come in some other time?” came the response from the Southerner.
The Native American held up his hand, signifying his rejection of the offer.
Danny handed them his business card.
“My office hours are on the back. You can come in anytime. If I don’t hear from you by next week, I’ll check back here, if that’s okay.”
“You guys oughta build more affordable housing,” said the Indian. “Somebody should tell the fucking pastor of that church over there that instead of building that fucking forty-five-million-dollar piece of shit, he oughta be building housing for poor people.”
As Danny walked to his car, he made a mental note of the conversation with the two men and the squalor in which they lived. He wanted to recount it to Hezekiah the next time he saw him.
Something was not quite right at New Testament Cathedral. Staff members speculated about the strange behavior of those closest to the pastor. Why had Hezekiah canceled all his afternoon appointments?
Why had Catherine barricaded herself in her office? “Hold all my calls” was the only instruction to the baffled secretary.
Why had Naomi suddenly dropped a wall of silence via an “urgent” e-mail sent to all department heads? It read:
Until further notice, all communications with members of the press are to be cleared by me first. Violation of this directive will result in disciplinary actions by the pastor’s office.
“I heard the pastor collapsed last night and had to be rushed to the hospital” was the rumor whirling through the carpeted cubicles of the finance office.
“Naomi finally stood up for herself and told the pastor to get off her back” emerged as the top theory with the maintenance crew.
“Hezekiah caught Percy Pryce in bed with Samantha. They had a fight and Percy punched Hezekiah in the jaw. Didn’t you see the scar on his face this morning?” The scintillation of this rumor made it the top choice for staff in the cafeteria.
New Testament Cathedral still looked the same. The grand main staircase continued to sweep elegantly to the main entrance. Sculpted white cherubs still dangled perilously from balconies. Mail room staff, on their usual morning rounds, delivered stacks of envelopes stuffed with cash and checks. This morning, however, the air was thick with a tension that caused conversations to halt suddenly when unfamiliar faces entered a room, or when a member of the pastor’s inner circle walked by.
“Good morning, Naomi,” a brave staff member said as Naomi passed her in the hall. “Is everything all right with Pastor Cleaveland?”
Naomi recognized the woman’s face but couldn’t remember her name. “Why? What have you heard?” Naomi asked, slowing her pace only slightly.
“Someone said that he looked sick.”
Naomi turned her head to the woman, but her feet continued to move forward. “I just saw the pastor this morning. He looked fine to me. Only idiots believe the gossip they hear around here. What’s your name?”
“Sarah,” said the startled woman.
“Sarah,” Naomi said, as if making a mental note. “I’ll mention what you said to the pastor the next time I see him. I’m sure he’ll want to know who said it.”
“I didn’t mean…It was just something I heard from someone,” the panicked woman said to Naomi’s back. “I would never gossip about the pastor.”
Naomi said over her shoulder, “Have a nice day, Sarah.”
Hattie Williams squirmed in her favorite chair as she dozed. An old gospel hymn crackled on the radio. She intermittently thrashed her head from side to side. “No, don’t do it,” she mumbled in her sleep. “Look out, Pastor. Don’t listen to them.”
The dream was so vivid, Hattie thought she was awake.
The church floor ripples to the rhythm of Hezekiah’s beating heart as he falls in the sanctuary. From the top to the bottom, each pew ebbs and flows, mimicking the motion of an ocean wave.
Frightened people on the billowing pews ride the waves in horror as Hezekiah’s body spirals downward. Women, wearing clothing inappropriate for such a turbulent sea, lose their footing as they look upward at the flying pastor. They tumble to the floor. Some hit the solid ground with a thud, while others scurry on hands and knees to avoid being crushed.
Chords of music screech from the pipe organ. The chandeliers flicker and shrieks of horror can be heard from every corner of the room. Suddenly the glass birds and cherubs in the stained-glass windows come to life and join Hezekiah in his flight. Beams of light reach through glass panels, trying to catch Hezekiah as he falls, but his twirling body eludes their grasp. He tumbles in the air like a leaf falling to the earth, which heralds the end of a long, hot summer, or a snowflake foretelling the cold winter to come. The fall seems endless. Laws of gravity have ceased and have left him suspended in air, unable to touch the ground below. He is a wounded bird in flight for all to see and pity.
Hezekiah looks down and suddenly sees the faces of his beloved members have contorted into hideous shapes, spewing bile and contempt.
“You lied to us, Hezekiah Cleaveland!” they shout.
“If God loved you so much, then why has he let you fall?” they challenge, mocking and laughing.
The chorus of truths causes Hezekiah’s body to slow its descent. “Fall, Hezekiah Cleaveland,” they chant. “Fall!”
“God doesn’t love you anymore!”
The bulging eyes and distorted face of Samantha Cleaveland appears on the balcony of the auditorium. A diamond bracelet on her wrist sparkles as she extends her long, deformed hands toward the falling Hezekiah, not to break his fall, but to speed it.
Hezekiah’s plunge continues mercilessly as familiar faces, dreaded confrontations, and painful events flash in rapid succession through his mind. This is it. His life has been condensed into the eight seconds it took to fall to the earth.
“Please tick faster.” His eyes are pleading. “I don’t want to see any more of my life. Please, God…let this end.”
Hattie violently jerked her head one last time and bolted upright in the chair. She was shaking and her brow was doused with perspiration. She gasped for breath as she gripped the cushioned arms of the chair.
Through anguished gasps Hattie cried out loud, “She’s going to do it. Lord, you’ve got to stop her.”
Lance typed revisions to the article after his interview with Danny:
Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland has been involved in a homosexual affair with Mr. Danny St. John, a resident of the Adams District. St. John is an employee of the Los Angeles Homeless-Outreach Team.
Cleaveland and St. John met for the first time in June of last year. It is not clear if they are still together, but e-mail messages obtained by this reporter show that their last correspondence occurred as recently as last week.
In one such e-mail Cleaveland wrote, “I can’t meet you tonight, baby, because there is a planning commission hearing I have to attend. They’re finally deciding tonight whether to grant the conditional-use permit for the new sanctuary. Wish me luck. I am free tomorrow evening. I love you, Danny, and can’t wait to hold you again. Love, Hezekiah.” The e-mail was dated April 17.
Parties close to Cleaveland have confirmed that the relationship was sexual in nature, and that the two have met a minimum of once per week over the last twelve months. Our source, who requested anonymity, is quoted as saying, “His driver takes him to Mr. St. John’s house usually after dark. He stays there for at least two or three hours. I only know of one occasion when he actually spent the night.”
Colleagues at the Los Angeles Homeless-Outreach Team have confirmed that Cleaveland has called personally on many occasions inquiring as to the whereabouts of St. John.
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 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:
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?”