The Committee

by Terry E. Hill

  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.

  SHERIDAN HARDAWAY DEAD

  OF APPARENT HEART ATTACK.

  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.

  “Mayor Hardaway has not yet made a public statement on the death of her husband. ‘She must be devastated,’ said Council President Sal Alvarez. ‘He was good for her. She always seemed happy when they were together.’ Mayor Hardaway is expected to issue a statement later today.”

  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.

  Chapter 11

  Three horse drawn carriages waited with coachmen at the ready in front of the mansion at 543 Rue des Bourbon. It was well past 2:00 a.m., and the country slept in ignorant bliss.

  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.

  Obituaries

  “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.

  “Fantoché was born on November 12, 1818, in Iberville Parish at Bayou Goula and died from unknown causes on August 31, 1857, at his home in New Orleans. Fantoché was the fifteenth governor of Louisiana. He was elected governor in 1852 and will be best remembered for his unwavering, and sometimes fanatical, efforts to assure that slavery is banned in all territories acquired from Mexico.”

  “But, Juliette,” Buchanan questioned, tossing the newspaper to the center of the table, “why did you kill him? I don’t understand. We agreed he would be my successor.”
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  Amadeus looked curiously down from his perch and released a piercing “Squawk!” as if to chide the president for questioning the wisdom of Mademoiselle Juliette Dacian Adelaide Dupree.

  “He served his purpose and was no longer of use to me,” Juliette replied calmly.

  “But the White House? Your plan? He was to sign the Proclamation.”

  “Yes, but he was far weaker than I anticipated. I made a mistake in judgment. He was not meant to be president.”

  Solomon Goldman was to Juliette’s left at the dining-room table. “Then who shall replace him?” he asked with a waxed handlebar mustache tittering on his lip.

  “You are the wealthiest investment banker in the country,” Juliette replied calmly. “Surely you must know of a man capable of executing our noble agenda.”

  Dahlia entered the room unnoticed by the council. She carried a tray to the sideboard holding an etched crystal decanter filled with brandy and three snifters and filled the rounded belly of each glass just as she had been instructed by Juliette earlier that day. The only sound from her was the gentle rustling of the petticoat under her lavender silk brocade dress. Juliette gave her a warm glance and nodded “Merci.” After she had placed a glass to the right of each man, Dahlia exited the room as quietly as she had entered.

  “It took you two years, and I imagine countless torturous nights, to groom that buffoon,” Solomon continued uninterrupted by the invisible servant, “and yet you made the unilateral decision to snuff out his life like . . .” He paused and looked at the black candle at the center of the mantelpiece behind Juliette. He then proceeded cautiously. “Well . . . like a candle. My skin crawls at the thought of you being subjected to his brutish paws, all to no good end.”

  “I do not appreciate your tone, Monsieur Goldman,” Juliette said firmly. “Please do not forget, you sit at this table at my behest. It is I who decides the value of a man’s life to our cause—and that includes yours.”

  The fourth member at the table was the owner of the largest newspaper and magazine chain in the world, William Abernathy. Abernathy created a media franchise that numbered nearly forty papers in major American cities. Any topic being debated in the country was initiated by Abernathy. He, more than anyone, created and controlled the American dialog and influenced public opinion.

  “I don’t believe Solomon intended to question your wisdom, Juliette,” Abernathy interjected. “This is simply a different course than we agreed upon.”

  “Gentlemen,” Juliette said with a hint of threat, “please do not delude yourselves into thinking that your opinions carry equal weight as mine. They do not. You are here to do my bidding. Do not allow me to regret my decision or grow weary of your company.”

  “There is no need for threats,” Abernathy leaned forward and said. “We have no desire other than to please you. The threat of death is useless. You have cast your spell upon each of us, and, I am sure, countless others, under which we are gladly your slaves. We know resistance is futile and acquiescence is bliss. Our choice, of freewill and with great pleasure, is bliss. The bliss we only feel in your presence. The joy your smile brings when your wishes are manifest. The hypnotic sparkle in your jade eyes.”

  “He speaks for all of us,” Solomon said humbly. “And also, I am confident, for those of The Committee who are not present tonight. I know of no greater happiness than to be in your presence. I would plead for death by your candle if you were to deny me your company.”

  She was unimpressed by the current of praise and pledges of undying loyalty flowing across the table.

  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.

  “Now let us put the question of loyalty behind us and never revisit it again,” Juliette said to the relief of the anxious men. They were pleased to have successfully reassured her of their loyalty, and Juliette was eager to move on to the more pressing matter at hand. “Tell me who shall be the sixteenth president and abolish slavery?”

  Moments of silence enveloped the room. Then Solomon spoke. “Should we consider again the congressman from Illinois? His name escapes me.”

  “Lincoln,” Buchanan answered. “Abraham Lincoln.”

  “Yes, yes. Congressman Lincoln,” Solomon said.

  “He has no formal education and has lost numerous campaigns in the past,” observed Abernathy. “Many believe he could never be president. The fear in the Republican leadership is voters would not respond to him favorably because of his off-putting and awkward manner.”

  “The voters will respond favorably to whomever we tell them to,” was Juliette’s dismissive reply. “More importantly, is he already inclined to support our agenda?”

  “He owns many slaves,” Buchanan said. “But he has spoken publically on numerous occasions of his moral, legal, and economic opposition to slavery.”

  “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.

  Target: Gideon Stanley Truman

  Age: 46

  Marital Status: Single

  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.

  Swims in home pool; Hollywood Hills Monday through Friday, 6:00 a.m.

  Leaves for work Monday through Friday at exactly 7:30 a.m.

  Works out at Equinox Fitness in West Hollywood, California, Monday and Wednesday.

  Allergic to MSG and dairy products.

  Sexual Orientation: Homosexual. Note: Presents as a heterosexual.

  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 Dan
ny 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.