Chapter 2
Hattie Williams looked at her reflection in the oval vanity mirror. Her eyes followed the road map of lines that had been paved by life in her almond skin. She could almost pinpoint the exact event that had preceded each distinct wrinkle. The creases in her brow had appeared shortly after her husband’s death ten years earlier. The lines at the corner of each eye had come when she buried her mother. The hollows in her cheeks were the most recent indication that she had survived yet another tragedy. On a Sunday only three months ago, her beloved pastor, Hezekiah T. Cleaveland, had been gunned down in the pulpit of New Testament Cathedral.
Hattie ran the stiff bristles of a silver hairbrush through gray-streaked hair that cascaded over her shoulders. She never took her eyes off her face, fearing that if she looked away, she would miss the vision she knew was coming. Her few strands of black hair were awash in a sea of silky gray, which shimmered from the light of the full moon. Crickets could be heard chirping in the flower bed of pink and lavender foxgloves just outside her window.
She knew a message was only moments away. The light-headedness she always felt just before a vision came had caused her to wilt onto the stool at the vanity and had left her helpless, able only to wait for the scene to appear in the mirror. Sheer white curtains bristled slightly from the evening breeze, and the scent of lilac powder from a cloth-covered box on the vanity filled the room.
And then he appeared. Hattie’s face in the mirror slowly gave way to the image of Hezekiah Cleaveland. He looked just as he had only months earlier, when he was full of life, love, and hope. Light seemed to pour from beneath the surface of his glowing brown skin. His eyes were clear and bright, even brighter than she remembered. He looked to her lovingly, as if he knew she was there. But there was a divide between them that prevented her from reaching out and touching his gentle face.
Hezekiah didn’t speak, but she could hear every word in his heart, as if he were in the room. She felt every emotion. There was a peace that she had never felt from him when he was alive. His face was content, but beneath the surface she could also sense fear.
“What are you afraid of, Pastor?” she asked out loud.
But he did not respond. Instead, the feelings of fear and concern seemed to grow and overtake the peace and contentment.
“You’re with the Lord now,” she said gently. “No one can hurt you anymore.”
Hezekiah’s expression grew dire as her words evaporated into the moonlight. Now a pain so intense that she could feel it in her stomach poured from the mirror. Then she heard the words “Don’t let her do it.” Hezekiah’s lips didn’t move, but she knew his voice. Then she heard it again. “Don’t let her do it.”
“Do what, Pastor?” she asked the mirror. Hattie placed the silver brush on the vanity and leaned closer to the image. “Don’t let who do what? I can’t know what I’m not told.” She reached out and placed her open palm on the mirror and touched Hezekiah’s cheek. The glass surface was hot against her skin. She jerked away as if she had touched an open flame. Hezekiah looked more intently at her. A tear fell from his eye as he stared pleadingly.
“Don’t let Samantha do it again,” were the words from the mirror. “Please don’t let her do it again.”
At that point Hattie understood clearly. The guilt she had felt for not preventing his death washed over her like a flood. She had known Hezekiah was in danger months before he was killed, but she did nothing to prevent his death. She remembered the warning vision she had received in her kitchen window weeks before he was killed.
Until that sunny day four months earlier, Hattie had never seen so many warriors on the battlefield of one man’s soul. She had seen deadly equestrians attacking Hezekiah as she sat helplessly before her kitchen window. A white horse whose rider was death had galloped at full speed toward Hezekiah. Another horseman had thrashed at his breastplate. Confusion, riding a black horse, had delivered crushing blows to his head, and death had leveled the final assault, which had left him lifeless in the dust, under the horse’s hooves. Recalling the horrible images brought tears to Hattie’s eyes.
“I couldn’t interfere with the path you chose for yourself, Pastor,” she said pleadingly to his tormented image in her mirror. “A man’s life is between himself and God. It’s not my place to interfere,” she added, appealing to his unresponsive face.
The words came again. This time they were more intense. “Don’t let her do it again.”
Hattie began to sob out loud. “I prayed for you, Pastor,” Hattie said through her tears. “You know I did my best to intercede, but that was the path you chose.”
“Don’t let her do it again,” came even louder. Hezekiah’s face did not change. Her pleas had no effect on his expression or the feelings that poured from the mirror.
“But what could I have done to stop her? What can I do now? I’m an old woman. All I have is my faith and my prayers,” she said pleadingly. “That’s all I have to give anyone, and I gave that freely to you from the first day I met you until the day you died.”
Her words crashed onto the flat, shiny surface of the mirror and rushed back at her like a gust of wind, causing her tears to flow in a steady stream. “I’m so sorry, Pastor. I should have done something. I should have told you about the danger that was ahead, but . . . but I just didn’t know how. Please forgive me, Pastor. I should have warned you.”
Hattie felt tormented by Hezekiah’s unyielding glare, which seemed to look straight through her. She cupped a hand over her quivering mouth and sobbed uncontrollably. But the forgiveness she sought was nowhere to be found in his pained expression or felt in his tortured spirit. He was oblivious to her pain and consumed by his own.
“Don’t let her do it again,” his voice insisted. “Don’t let her hurt him.”
Hattie froze when she heard the words. “Who, Pastor?” she begged. “Hurt who?” Her face was wet with tears as she leaned closer to the mirror. She reached her hand out again to the mirror but stopped short of touching it, remembering the fire she had felt during her last attempt to cross the divide. “Tell me who, Pastor,” she desperately implored. “Who?”
When she said the words, the room grew still. She felt somehow suspended in time. The quivering curtains rested dead against the window seal. The chirping crickets could no longer be heard. Hezekiah’s face became soft and expressionless. Hattie had sat frozen in front of the mirror for what seemed like an eternity when she finally heard his calm voice say, “Don’t let her hurt Danny.”
She could feel the fear that had flowed so powerfully from the mirror dissipate into the night as the words reverberated in her head. Once again peace came forward as the dominant emotion she felt from Hezekiah. The light from deep within him began to glow again, and his eyes were as bright as they had been when he first appeared. She knew he was free now. He had spoken his heart and revealed his love. Now he could rest in peace.
“It’s all right, Pastor. I know you loved him, but more importantly, he knew it too,” she said calmly as his image slowly faded from the mirror. “You can rest now.”
The shimmering glass building had finally risen from the dust. The construction of the new church and media center was complete. It had taken three years, forty-five million dollars, and the lives of three men to build the shrine to the Cleavelands. The ten-story, twenty-five-thousand-seat sanctuary sparkled like a diamond on the lush green ten-acre compound in the heart of downtown Los Angeles. Three months had passed since Hezekiah’s death. Samantha had insisted that construction continue the day after his murder and that the workers not stop until the last nail was hammered, the final Italian tile was laid, and the last glass panel was installed.
Cement trucks had churned along dirt roads while Hezekiah’s cold body had lain in state in the mortuary. Scaffolding had been erected precariously along the sides of the steel skeleton, and workers had pounded, bolted, and soldered on all levels of the structure. On the morning after Hezekiah’s death Samantha had received a call from Benny Winters, the general contractor for the construction project.
“Mrs. Cleaveland, this is Benny . . . ,” he had said timidly. “Benny Winters. Ma’am, I don’t know what to say. This is such a tragedy. Pastor Cleaveland was such a great man. He will be deeply missed.”
“Thank you, Benny,” Samantha had replied with a measured dose of grief.
“Everyone on the crew asked that I convey to you their deepest condolences.”
“Please tell them, ‘Thank you,’ and to remember me in their prayers,” she said, finding it tiresome to feign sorrow.
“Of course, I’ve halted construction in honor of Pastor Cleaveland, and I will wait until I receive further instructions from the board of trustees before we resume.”
Samantha was standing in the window of her study at the Cleaveland estate on that Monday morning when Benny called. A burning cigarette in an ashtray on her desk released ribbons of smoke into the room. When she heard the words, her body became rigid.
“Who told you to stop construction?” she asked through clenched teeth.
“Well . . . no one, ma’am,” Benny replied gently. “I assumed that under the circumstances the board of trustees would think it only appropriate.”
At that moment in the conversation Samantha lost all ability to play the role of grieving widow convincingly.
“Mr. Winters,” she said curtly, “you assumed incorrectly. First of all, stopping construction is neither your nor the board of trustees’s decision. My husband and I raised the forty-five million dollars that is paying your salary and that of your crew. Therefore, in the absence of my husband, the decision becomes mine alone.”
She took a threatening step toward the window, as if Benny were standing in front of her. “Secondly,” she continued, no longer able to contain her contempt for the presumptuous blue-collar worker, “I want you to get your full crew onto that construction site within the hour.”
Benny Winters couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “But, Mrs. Cleaveland, it’s standard industry practice in situations like this, when the primary client dies unexpectedly, to stop all work for at least two days. It’s just common respect.”
“I need you to respect me,” she snapped. “Hezekiah is no longer your primary client, nor is the board of trustees. From the moment that bullet entered his head, I became your primary client. Do you understand?”
Benny was speechless. The cold way in which she spoke of her husband’s death, which had happened only the day before, the contempt in her voice, and the callousness of her words left him both angry and afraid.
“I said, do you understand me, Mr. Winters?”
“Yes, m-ma’am,” he finally stammered.
“Good. From now on do not make any decisions without consulting with me first.” As she spoke, her anger slowly began to dissipate and the grieving widow returned. “Now, after I’ve buried my husband, I would like to meet with you to go over some changes to the designs. My secretary will contact you to let you know when.”
“Ch-changes?” Benny sputtered. “What sort of . . .” As the words spilled from his lips, he imagined Samantha’s eyebrows shooting up and her temper rising. He stopped short of completing the question and simply added, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good, Mr. Winters,” she said. “I’m glad we have an understanding.”
The construction went uninterrupted from that day forward for the next three months, and the world fell deeper in love with Samantha Cleaveland. Her face graced the covers of major newspapers and national magazines. The headline in the New York Times read, BRAVE WIDOW CONTINUES THE DREAM OF HER HUSBAND. The Huffington Post’s headline was, SAMANTHA CLEAVELAND, RELIGION’S JACKIE O. The front page of the London Times proclaimed, SAMANTHA CLEAVELAND, AMERICAN HEROINE.
Images of the beautiful woman flashed nightly on every major TV network. In the wake of her husband’s death, she became one of the most beloved and photographed women in the country. The gleaming cathedral became a symbol of hope and fortitude for millions of people facing home foreclosures, the death of loved ones, and life-threatening illnesses.
“If Samantha Cleaveland can survive tragedy, then so can we,” became the national mantra. After hearing of Samantha’s decision to continue the construction uninterrupted, many said through tears, “She is such a brave woman.”
And now the sun-drenched cathedral was complete. Cantilevered pews spilled from the top of the cavernous stadium down to the pulpit, affording all in attendance unobstructed views of Samantha Cleaveland. The slanted and jutting cathedral walls were constructed of five hundred thousand rectangular panes of glass, which had been woven together by threads of steel, forming a patchwork quilt of California sunlight, powder puff clouds, and pristine blue sky. Two fifty-foot-high waterfalls, constructed of pure white marble imported from quarries in Italy, flanked the pulpit and released sheets of water that flowed almost silently into pools at their base. The behemoth liquid works of art had added an additional two million dollars to the final cost of construction.
Two thirty-by-forty-foot JumboTron screens had been mounted at angles in the front corners of the room, offering front-row views of the beautiful Samantha Cleaveland even to those parishioners seated in the back rows during the Sunday morning services.
Glossy photographs of the cathedral appeared on the cover of that week’s issues of Newsweek, Time, Essence, and O, two of the headlines reading, AMERICA’S MOST BEAUTIFUL CHURCH and THE CRYSTAL HOUSE BUILT BY PASTOR SAMANTHA CLEAVELAND. The stories inside were dotted with pictures of a defiant and stunning Samantha standing in front of the cathedral.
“Did you ever consider not completing the construction of New Testament Cathedral after the tragic death of your husband, Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland?” was one of the questions posed in Newsweek.
“Never,” was Samantha’s quoted response. “This was not only the vision of my late husband, but it was mine as well. His death was a tragedy, but I’m a woman of faith, and I never doubted for a second that this was exactly what God wanted me to do.”
The first service to be held in the new sanctuary was scheduled for the coming Sunday morning. Parishioners from around the country and the world had RSVP’d for the privilege of sitting in one of the twenty-five thousand seats at the inaugural service. A special section at the front of the sanctuary had been reserved for the hundreds of VIPs whose press secretaries, managers, publicists, and schedulers had called to announce they would be in attendance. The list of celebrities, professional athletes, local, national, and international politicians, and six- figure donors who would make an appearance assured that the world’s media would be focused that day on Samantha Cleaveland and the house of worship she had built, despite her grief and the unimaginable tragedy she had endured.
Cynthia Pryce pressed the button on the remote control, causing the flat-screen television in her den to flicker and bounce from one image to the next. It was seven o’clock on a Tuesday evening, and many of the air waves were dedicated to the evening news. On every news station Cynthia was assaulted either by stories heralding the grand opening of New Testament Cathedral or by the smiling face, coiffed hair, and conture swathed Samantha Cleaveland. She was everywhere. CNN, FOX . . . all the networks and all the local news stations.
Cynthia Pryce pressed the remote harder every time Samantha’s high-definition smiling head filled the screen. Her fingers ached from the death grip she had on the device.
“Tonight our guest is the incomparable Pastor Samantha—” said Anderson Cooper. Cynthia flinched and quickly pressed the remote.
“Everyone wants to know just how you were able to build this magnificent church even though you just lost your husband,” said Tavis Smiley.
“Faith in—”
Cynthia pressed the remote hard again before being battered by Samantha’s response.
“New Testament Cathedral has risen like a phoenix from the ashes in downtown Los Angeles,” the blank-faced brunette anchor read from the teleprompter. “The first service at New Testament Cathedral’s new forty-five-million-dollar sanctuary is only five days away.”
Cynthia had grown weary of running from Samantha and allowed the reporter to fill her head and home with the latest on the woman she hated.
“This coming Sunday morning, only eight weeks after the horrific assassination of her husband, Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland,” the reporter continued, “Pastor Samantha Cleaveland will preach the first sermon in her new twenty-five-thousand-seat glass cathedral.”
Cynthia could feel the muscles in her shoulders and neck tighten as the woman spoke.
“In addition to the millions of viewers around the world who are expected to watch the live broadcast, the guest list for the service includes such names as Magic Johnson and his wife, Cookie, Oprah Winfrey and Gayle King, Tyler Perry, Kevin Costner, Janet Jackson, former president Bill Clinton, and former secretaries of state Hillary Clinton and Condoleezza Rice.”
Cynthia’s left eye began to twitch as the reporter droned on about the woman who had captured the hearts and minds of millions. She twisted nervously on the leather sofa and resisted the urge to change the channel once again.
The demise of Hezekiah and Samantha Cleaveland had become an obsession for Cynthia over the past two years. She derived a modicum of pride from knowing that she had leaked the story of Hezekiah’s homosexual affair to the Los Angeles Chronicle reporter Lance Savage.
If that little reporter hadn’t gotten himself killed, she thought as she stared blankly at the TV screen, the story of that disgusting affair would have been front page news, and I would be the first lady of New Testament Cathedral right now.
It was Cynthia who had printed dozens of e-mails that Hezekiah had sent to Danny St. John from the computer in his office. These communications chronicled the passionate and emotional details of the relationship between one of the most powerful ministers in the country and a young social worker in downtown Los Angeles.
Cynthia squirmed even more when she recalled the cold night months earlier, when she talked with Lance Savage in her Mercedes, behind the large mounds of dirt piled near the then metal skeleton of New Testament Cathedral.
“I knew I couldn’t trust you. This is extortion,” she had said to the balding reporter.
“Now hold on, Mrs. Pryce,” Lance had said seductively. “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.”
A few minutes with this cretin, Cynthia had thought as the little man massaged her knee, is a small price to pay to get Hezekiah and Samantha out of the way permanently.
She then looked Lance in the eye and said, “I’ll do this on one condition.”
Cynthia squirmed more on the leather sofa in her den as the humiliation she had endured that cold night played in her head like a movie.
Lance looked at her guardedly and asked, “What’s the condition?”
“That as soon as we’re done, you’ll let me send the article to your editor.”
She remembered how horrible Lance had sounded when he laughed and said, “When we’re done, I’ll probably be too tired to send the story myself. It’s a deal.”
He removed his jacket and loosened his tie while Cynthia watched his every move.
Cynthia remembered how he had leaned forward and kissed her hard on the lips. She could still taste the remnants of stale cigarettes on his 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 could almost smell his cheap aftershave in her den as she recalled the horrible events of that night.
Lance fumbled awkwardly as he unbuttoned Cynthia’s blouse. She felt his lips gently circling her exposed nipples. The sounds of a cold wind whirling at the base of the building and the hum of the freeway in the distance could be heard through the car’s darkly tinted windows.
Cynthia lifted Lance’s head to hers and kissed him passionately. Her panting 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 the levers on the side of the seat and pressed 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 down around her ankles, and squirmed to lower 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 the story to your editor 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 forcefully and pounded double time to the beat of the whooshing rubber blades.
Cynthia could almost feel him pounding into her flesh as she thought of the sacrifices she had made that night. She remembered holding him tightly and raising her hips to meet each thrust. The two writhed in passion, heightened by the euphoric prospect of the Cleavelands’ demise. The car bounced uncontrollably until Lance reached a fevered climax and then collapsed, breathless, into her arms.
Cynthia was the first to speak. “It’s time. Get your computer from the backseat.”
Exhausted, Lance rolled back into the passenger seat. “Wow,” he panted. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”
“That was the agreement wasn’t it? I fuck you, and you fuck Hezekiah. 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 laptop. 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 of the article flashed on the screen: PASTOR HEZEKIAH T. CLEAVELAND INVOLVED IN SECRET HOMOSEXUAL 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 New Testament Cathedral.”
Cynthia returned her seat to its upright position. With her clothes still disheveled, she pressed the key without saying a word.
After a message appeared on the screen, confirming the article had been sent, Cynthia looked at Lance and firmly said, “Now, pull your pants up and get out of my car.”
The events of that night were etched in her brain. As Cynthia sat in her den, now months later, staring at the oversize head of Samantha Cleaveland on her television, she had no remorse for using her body to expose the story that would have brought down the Cleaveland dynasty. Her only regret was that the contemptible reporter and Hezekiah hadn’t lived long enough to make her sacrifice worthwhile. “If that little bastard was still alive, I’d fuck him again, and anyone else, if that’s what it would take to get rid of Samantha Cleaveland,” she said aloud.