The Committee (21 page)

Tony could feel the weight of the telephone Lazarus gave him in the pocket of his white robe. He prayed silently it would not ring. Now, more than ever, he felt his life was in danger. He hadn't had a full night's sleep since the call from Lazarus and was never without the phone within arm's reach. It sat on the sink when he showered. It was attached to the elastic waistband of his jogging shorts, and stared up at him from the desk in his office.

He knew it was inevitable Lazarus would one day conclude he too was a liability.
It's just a matter of time until he runs out of uses for me and decides I know too much. What if he ever thinks I'm lying to him? How can I get out of this? I want my life back. I'm a dead man walking,
were the thoughts that would race through his mind in the late hours of the night when he lay staring up at the ceiling.

 

 

Danny rushed into the bathroom holding the morning paper. “Gideon!” he called over the sound of the running shower. “Gideon!” he called out again. “You are
not
going to believe this!”

Torrents of water splashed onto Gideon's glistening body. He had been up until 3:00 a.m. the previous night pouring over KeyCorp documents and trolling the Internet for more information on the company. His usual 6:00 a.m. swim, a hot shower, followed by two cups of strong coffee were the only proven ways to kick-start his days.

“I'm almost done,” Gideon replied through the stream. “Give me a minute.”

Danny swung open the shower door and held up the newspaper. “This can't wait. Sheridan Hardaway is dead!”

Gideon froze under the flow. “What?” he asked in disbelief, and then saw the headline.

He joined Danny in the kitchen after quickly drying off and wrapping himself in a robe. A cup of coffee waited for him on the table.

Gideon read while Danny looked on with concern.

“It's Hezekiah all over again,” Danny said. “I told you—she's the same, if not worse than Samantha Cleaveland.”

“The paper says it was a heart attack,” Gideon replied. “No one else was in the room with him.”

“You can't think it's a coincidence that on the day you confront her at that press conference, her husband mysteriously dies? Come on, Sheridan,” Danny said. “I don't care what the paper says. Camille killed him. Just like Samantha killed Hezekiah.”

Despite all the facts laid out in black and white in front of him, Gideon believed Danny was absolutely correct. Camille had something to do with it. Years of investigative reporting taught him there were no such things as coincidences.

However, for Danny's comfort he contained his emotions and censored his words. Instead, he replied reassuringly, “It happens, honey. His world was collapsing around him. The pressure must have been too much for his heart. We don't know what preexisting conditions he may have had. Believe it or not,” Gideon smiled, “husbands die every day, and most do it without any help from their wives.”

 

 

Hattie's morning began just as thousands had before. A half slice of grapefruit sprinkled with a teaspoon of sugar, black coffee in her favorite cup and saucer, along with her Bible and the morning paper at the kitchen table.

She took her first sip of coffee and dug the same teaspoon used to stir the coffee into the meat of a yellow grapefruit. Juice spurted with the removal of the first wedge. Her taste buds cringed in anticipation of the bitter morning tradition. The headline assaulted her eyes as she reached over the newspaper for the bible.

S
HERIDAN
H
ARDAWAY
D
EAD

OF
A
PPARENT
H
EART
A
TTACK.

The bold font staring up from the table made her heart rate slow to a steady, reverent beat. Hattie read the first two lines without touching the folded paper, as if handling it would make the content true.

The words came as no surprise to her.
It was just a matter of time before she killed someone. I doubt he was the first, and he won't be the last,
she thought, and then said out loud, “God rest his soul.”

Hattie picked up the paper and read.

Hattie's thoughts turned from Sheridan to Danny and Gideon. She always included them in her potent daily prayers ever since the tragedy they shared. “Watch over them, Lord, and keep them out of harm's way.” But the recent visions and dreams made her question the influence of her supplications. Gideon was Camille's—or whoever was working on her behalf—next target. Her dreams never lied, and they always came true. Someone else would die soon.

She tried to warn Gideon once, but he refused to believe it was true.
Maybe this will make him listen to an old lady,
she thought and replaced the paper with the leather-bound Bible as her choice of reading for the morning.

Four police officers were stationed outside the Mayor's mansion at 5:30 a.m. An army of the world's media camped across the street from the house the moment the story broke, only an hour earlier. Every light flicking on or off in the windows was captured by over a hundred cameras. The housekeeper peeking out of the living-room window caused a storm of flashes.

“There she is,” someone shouted, and the mob's attention shifted in that direction. Then, “No, it's not her. Looked like a maid,” caused the cameras to drop in disappointment. Death, grief, and sorrow were the perfect fodder for the corps when they involved a public figure, and especially one who looked like Camille and had her poll numbers.

Camille didn't leave her bedroom the entire morning. The call from the chief of police came at exactly 4:38 a.m.

“Mrs. Mayor, this is Police Chief Saunders. I'm afraid I have very bad news.”

“What's happening? Has there been a terrorist attack?” she asked sitting upright in bed.

“No, ma'am. The city is fine. I'm very sorry to have to tell you this, but it's Sheridan. I'm afraid he was found dead this morning in a hotel room at the Bonaventure.”

Chief Saunders tactfully left out the details of his hand gripping his penis and the dried semen on his chest. “He was alone. We checked the last call on his phone, and it was to United Airlines. He purchased a one-way ticket to Freeport, Bahamas, via Fort Lauderdale. I've taken the liberty of sending four police officers to your home. I suspect the media will be arriving there any minute now.”

Camille said very little during the call. “How did he die?” was her first question.

“It appears to have been a heart attack. We won't know for sure until we get the coroner's report. It's a top priority, so we should have the results by this afternoon.”

The chief waited for the tears, but they never came. Instead, his condolences were met with, “Is anyone from the media at the hotel now?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Make sure they are kept in the lobby and not allowed up to the floor. I don't want footage of his body being taken out of the room on the news. Have them use a freight elevator and take him out through the basement.”

“Yes, ma'am. Mrs. Mayor, you have my deepest sympathy. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, Chief. There's nothing anyone can do now. Thank you.”

Camille was too stunned to cry so she did what came naturally. The first call was to Tony Christopoulos. “Tony, Sheridan is dead. I need you to go to the office now and contact every department head,” she continued before he could speak. “No one is to speak to the media.”

“Yes, ma'am,” was his mortified reply.

“I need a statement for the press. The usual. Devastated, grief stricken, he will be deeply missed. Don't pour it on too thick. I want to sound brave, not weak.”

Again, “Yes, ma'am,” were the only words he could string together.

Her next move was to transfer the contents of the one account belonging to Sheridan she knew the password to. The balance was only $153,000, but she wanted to transfer it before the banks learned of his death and froze the account.

It was safer to be productive than to think about the bizarre role she played in her husband's death.
Or was it murder?
She quickly brushed the question from her mind and moved on to the next task.

“Scott, this is Camille. Have you closed the deal on the Playa Del Rey property?”

“Not yet, Mayor,” Scott said groggily from bed. “I'm still waiting for the contract from her attorney.” He hadn't seen the headline yet.

“I want that contract signed today. Bring it to my home before close of business. Is that clear?”

“I'll try, but—”

“No buts,” she snapped. “Before the close of business today. Understand?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

The more she moved, made decisions, and barked orders to confused staff members, the deeper the consequence of her actions burrowed into the hidden recesses of her soul. Memories of Sheridan grew faint. The glimmer in Gillette's green eyes from the glow of the candle dimmed, and the late-night flight to New Orleans faded into the clouds. In their absence, however, the white paint on the house at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue seemed to grow brighter. All roads were leading her there, and tallying the cost would have to wait until after Inauguration Day.

Juliette Dupree sat at the head of the dining-room table in the company of three members of her distinguished conclave. Etched glass kerosene lamps, mounted in each corner, and the quivering flames from a crystal chandelier above, cast ominous kinetic shadows over the room. President James Buchanan sat to Juliette's right and read the
New Orleans Daily Picayune
out loud.

 

“The
Picayune
is sad to report the death of Louisiana Governor Jean-Luc Fantoché. Governor Fantoché collapsed on the steps of the State Capital only minutes after giving a speech which seemed to mark a softening in his administration's previously adamant stance against slavery in the South. Doctors attribute his sudden death to cardiovascular thrombosis. He is survived by his wife of thirty years, Morticia Gertrude Fantoché, and two children, Horace and Hortincia Fantoché. He is one of eleven children, including seven sisters.

The influence of her beauty was undeniable. She was an exquisite free woman of color,
une femme libre de la couleur
. A beauty that required no validation, coupled with the power to control a man's destiny and possess his soul, laid the world at her feet. Her true power originated generations earlier and now rested on the mantel behind her—the black candle that held life and death within the crackle of its flame.

“That is a very good start,” Juliette said optimistically.
“Très bon effet
. Bring him to me. I want to speak with the congressman face to face.”

 

 

The jet lifted off from Manassa Airfield at exactly 12:05 a.m. en route to Long Beach California. Karen Peters sat alone in the softly lit cabin. The gentle hum of the engine helped wash away thoughts of soccer games, visiting parents, and the three dozen cupcakes she promised to make the next day for her daughter's class bake sale.

The higher the plane flew the easier it became to focus on the task at hand. Her life in Fairfax Station slowly faded under the clouds. No luggage was required for this trip. She only carried a laptop and the black leather case at her feet. Nothing could link the woman on the plane to Karen Peters, wife of Simeon Peters and mother of Nelson and Winnie. At 41,000 feet, she was The Surgeon.

The internal cabin door opened and Angel appeared in the threshold. “Good evening,” she said avoiding eye contact.

Her instructions were clear: “Do not engage the passenger in conversation unless she speaks to you first. Avoid eye contact. Serve Moroccan Mint Tea, a wedge of lemon, and exit the cabin immediately. Do not return unless you are called.”

Karen did not respond and looked out the window into the black void as Angel placed the tea and lemon on the table next to her seat. Karen was skilled at minimizing collateral damage. Eye contact lasting one second too long could cost the alabaster flight attendant her life.

Angel suppressed the urge to ask, “Is there anything else I can get for you?” or point to the exits, “Here, here, and there,” but instead, quickly locked the cabin door behind her and prayed the passenger cloaked in secrecy would not require her services the rest of the flight.

Karen studied the laptop screen.

 

 

Gideon Truman's life was distilled to fifty-three glowing pages on the screen. The Committee took an interest in Gideon long before Camille landed on his radar. He was the up-and-coming black reporter who worked for one of Lazarus's holdings and would undoubtedly be of use to The Committee in the future.

The screen reflected in Karen's glasses as she studied the detailed dossier.

 

 

This last bit of intel was accompanied by a series of pictures of Gideon with exquisite women on his arm and one picture of him and Danny locked in a passionate poolside kiss.

Karen continued reading.
“Currently living with Danny St. John, age thirty. St. John is the former lover of Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland whose assassination was arranged by his
wife, Pastor Samantha Cleaveland. Samantha Cleaveland has never been connected to the murder by authorities. Samantha Cleaveland was killed by a lethal dose of digitalis glycoside (commonly found in the foxglove plant) administered by Mrs. Hattie Williams, 12120 Bremerton Way.”

A picture of Hattie Williams wearing a white Sunday hat and a wooden cane resting at her knee appeared next on the screen.

She doesn't look like a killer,
Karen mused silently.
But I suppose neither do I.

The level of detail and intrusion amazed Karen every time she read a file compiled by The Committee. Fingerprints, birth certificates, passports, arrest records, financial history, Social Security Numbers, medical records, dental records, family members . . . The list was exhaustive. If they wanted you to disappear, it could be done with the tap of one key. Your mother would have never given birth to you. College degrees earned from sweat, blood, and late-night study sessions would cease to exist. Dental records would vanish.

Or . . . Millions of dollars in Colombian drug money could appear in a bank account you never knew you had, and the Department of Homeland Security would receive an anonymous tip you were using the funds to promote global terrorism and finance bombings in Israel, Madrid, and the United States. The Committee had infinite resources and limitless options for wreaking havoc in the lives of their targets.

Karen used the next three hours to map out the quickest strategy for accessing and eliminating Gideon Truman. After all, she did have three dozen cupcakes to bake later that day.

 

 

It was 3:30 a.m. The citizens slept as the world changed around them.

“I will never understand why you choose to live here,” Lazarus said looking disapprovingly around the shabby little room. “You have a villa in Tuscany, an estate in Carmel, and that lovely mansion in Virginia where I saw you last.”

Lazarus sat on the sofa directly across from Gillette who was comfortable in the wingback chair with fraying fabric where her arms rested. Louis released the occasional shriek that reverberated from the floral-papered walls, bounced off the hardwood floors, and back again to its winged source.

“Because it suits my purposes for now,” Gillette said. “I want to be close to Camille. She needs me. We are at a delicate phase of her grooming, and this home is the perfect setting.”

“By the way, you handled Sheridan beautifully. My compliments. Heart attack by masturbation,” he smiled. “So devilishly wicked.”

“We have Camille to thank for that clever little twist,” Gillette said reaching for a cup of chamomile tea on the table next to her. “It was she who lit the candle, and however she imagined him at that moment dictated the way he would meet his fate. She obviously wanted him to go out with a smile on his face and thinking of her. The candle doesn't do anything we don't instruct it to do. It merely reflects our desires, gives them substance, and converts them into reality.”

“Nonetheless, it was worthy of Shakespeare himself.”

“What did you do with the KeyCorp assets?” Gillette asked.

“All connections to Sheridan have been purged and the holdings were distributed between seven different Committee-run corporations around the world. If the government ever decides to investigate any of Gideon Truman's claims, it would take them fifty years to piece together all the parts of puzzle.”