The Committee

by Terry E. Hill

  “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.”

  “And what about his liquid assets?” Gillette asked calmly. “The file said he had millions in five different accounts.”

  “The night he died, he transferred just over 300 million into three offshore banks. We retrieved it all, and now it’s in your Swiss account.”

  “Good,” Gillette said. “Well done.”

  “Thank you,” he replied humbly. “The entire cleanup took our people less than an hour. There is now no connection between Camille and KeyCorp Development. There is, however, one loose end.”

  “And what is that?” she asked with a modicum of concern.

  “Gideon Truman. He knows about Sheridan’s little side business.”

  “That is very unfortunate for him,” Gillette replied. “How do you plan on handling Mr. Truman? We obviously can’t allow that to go unaddressed.”

  “It’s been taken care of. The Surgeon is on her way to Los Angeles as we speak.”

  “Good,” Gillette said with a smile. “I knew I could count on you to leave no detail unattended to.”

  “How was Camille when you saw her last?” Lazarus asked.

  “A bit shaken, but I have complete faith in her. Camille is stronger than even she realizes. After all, she is a Dupree. Power is in her blood.”

  “Her lineage was never more apparent to me than when I saw her standing next to Juliette’s portrait at Headquarters. The resemblance is remarkable. I’ve sometimes wondered why your sister never told Camille about her pedigree.” Lazarus commented curiously.

  “That’s because no one alive knows except you and me.” Gillette leaned back as if she were preparing to tell a bedtime story to a child. “You see, my mother gave birth to three girls before I was born. She was only fourteen years old at the time. One was Camille’s birth mother. Another was named Florence Weaver.”

  “Florence Weaver?” Lazarus questioned. “Why does that name sound familiar to me?”

  “Florence Weaver was Samantha Cleaveland’s mother.”

  “So Camille and Samantha are first cousins, and you are their aunt.”

  “Yes,” Gillette said bitterly. “That is, until Samantha was killed. I had such great plans for her,” Gillette said with a hint of regret. “Such a waste.”

  “And the third girl?” Lazarus asked.

  Gillette hesitated, then answered with a slight scowl. “The third is Hattie Williams.”

  “Ah . . . yes, Hattie,” Lazarus said in a sympathetic tone.

  “The state placed the triplets into the Children’s Aid Society. Mother never saw them again, and the three never knew the others existed. Camille’s mother died in child-birth, and she was adopted by the couple who raised her. Lovely people. So you see, I am the only person who knows her true lineage. Camille is the heir to the candle and The Committee, and she is destined to be the most formidable of us all.”

  “Does she know yet?”

  “No, it’s too soon.”

  “Then when?” Lazarus asked reaching for a cup of tea on the coffee table separating them. “Now seems as good a time as any. She already knows most of our secrets.”

  “Most,” Gillette said. “But not all. In due time.”

  “And what do you plan on doing about Hattie?” Lazarus asked returning to the vexing subject. “She is the one remaining person who could disrupt the entire plan.”

  Gillette couldn’t disguise her displeasure with the topic. “Hattie killed Samantha, but I will not let her interfere with my plans for Camille,” she said firmly. “My sister and I will have to sort out our relationship in a completely different realm. One in which, unfortunately for me, we are on equal footing.”

  Hattie sat on the edge of her bed with perspiration on her face. She reached for a loose Kleenex on the nightstand and dabbed her brow and upper lip. It was 4:10 in the morning and sleep had been unkind.

  Gideon visited her dream, but he perished in the night before she could shake the chains of sleep. She saw a dark angel flying over the city searching for Gideon. It glided silently through the night, with eyes like red stars searching the horizon for Gideon on the earth below.

  The angel’s slow descent resembled a bird of prey when she spotted Gideon. “She?” Hattie pondered in her sleep. Gideon roamed the earth unaware that at any moment his life would be snatched away.

  The dark angel’s velocity increased to lightning speed as she descended, causing the rapid clapping of her wings to echo in Hattie’s dream. Then, with surgical precision, Gideon was violently plucked from the earth and carried away, helplessly screaming and flailing in her mighty claws, deep into the night.

  I have to call him, she thought looking at the florescent green numbers on the nightstand. Today is the day.

  “I can’t let the same thing happen to him that happened to Hezekiah. I have to warn him, Lord.”

  It had been almost a year since Hattie saw the last vision of her beloved pastor, Hezekiah Cleaveland, in her kitchen window, beaten and killed by the equestrian of death. Only two days later, Hezekiah lay bleeding on the pulpit from gunshots to the head and chest.

  She never told him, and the guilt brought her a depth of pain and remorse she never knew existed. “I should have told him,” she rebuked herself on so many nights. “He would be alive today if I’d only warned him.”

  Hattie rummaged through the nightstand and found the business card Gideon gave her with his private cell phone number.

  “Call me anytime, day or night, if you ever need me,” Gideon told her. “Danny and I love you, Hattie. You are very important to us.”

  She picked up the telephone and dialed his number.

  After four rings, Gideon answered. “Hattie,” Gideon said fully alert, “are you all right?”

  “No, I’m not all right,” she said slowly. “Baby, I’m sorry to call you at this hour, but it’s very important.”

  “Do you need me to take you to the hospital? I’ll be right there. Give me ten—”

  “No,” she interrupted. “I don’t need you to come here. Gideon, your life is in danger. You have to be careful.”

  Danny stirred in the bed next to Gideon. “Who is it?” he asked groggily.

  Gideon placed his hand over the phone and mouthed, “It’s Hattie.”

  Danny bolted upright. “What’s happen
ing? Is she all right?”

  “Hattie, you sound very upset. Are you sure you don’t want us to come over?”

  “I know you think I’m a crazy old lady, but, son, you have to listen to me. She’s going to try to kill you today.”

  “She? Who?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but it’s a woman, and I think it must be Camille Hardaway.”

  “Camille Hardaway?” Gideon replied in disbelief. “How?”

  “From the air,” Hattie said, doubting the words herself as they slipped from her lips. “I know it sounds crazy, but she’s going to descend from the air. Listen to me, son. Your life may depend on it.”

  “I am listening to you, Hattie,” he said, humoring her. “I will be very careful today. I promise. Now, I think you should go back to bed and try to rest. It’s almost 4:30.”

  “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “I promise. Now get some rest. I’ll check on you in the morning.”

  “What did she say?” Danny asked after Gideon disconnected the line.

  “She had a bad dream.” Gideon saw the concern in Danny’s eyes and responded accordingly. “It was nothing. Just a nightmare, and it shook her up pretty good. She’ll be fine. I’ll go by and check on her later today.”

  Danny knew it wasn’t the entire story. Hattie was not a hysterical old woman who cried wolf in middle of the night. She called to warn Gideon about something. He vowed to call her himself in the morning to find out exactly what had distressed her so.

  The sun rose slowly from the east, casting haunting shadows on the canyon below and signaled birds to begin their morning serenade. It was 5:57 a.m. and the hills grudgingly came to life around Gideon’s home. The giant “HOLLYWOOD” sign at the peak looked down on Gideon’s pool in the distance and anticipated his arrival.

  Steam rose from the cold, chlorinated water evaporating in the morning sun. The water rippled at the touch of Gideon’s toe as he gauged the level of shock he would feel when he plunged in for his morning swim.

  Gideon loved—and hated—the ritual. Loved how invigorated he felt when it was over and hated how it felt while he was thrashing in cold water. Forty laps across the length of pool was the only proven way to assure he’d be alert and ready for the world waiting for him below.

  Gideon took a deep breath and dove headfirst into the water. The shock of his 98.6 degrees slicing into the 60-degree blue liquid elicited the usual response in his head of . . . Why the fuck do I do this?

  He swam through the water on his usual path down the center of the pool. Water splashed in his wake from his arms lifting and crashing and feet flapping behind. Black Speedos clung to his waist and provided no protection from the chill. His weightless body slowly acclimated to the cold and settled into a comfortable medium between the two extremes.

  On his fourth lap Gideon looked up and saw Danny standing at the edge of the pool. Gideon stopped and dog-paddled in the water. “Get in,” he said through labored breaths. “The water’s great.”

  “I think I will,” Danny replied to Gideon’s surprise. “Let me get my suit. I’ll be right back.”

  Danny joined Gideon only once before on his morning swim. The shock was too much for him before his first cup of coffee, but today was different. He wanted to be close to Gideon. Maybe it was the call from Hattie at 4:00 in the morning.

  Danny returned quickly wearing his black Speedos. Gideon looked up and saw yet another reason why he loved him. God, I love you so much, he thought as Danny lowered his foot into the water and recoiled quickly in reaction to the cold.

  Gideon had never been in love in his entire forty-six years. He purposefully didn’t allow himself to get close enough to anyone and never allowed anyone to get close to him. Until meeting Danny his entire focus was on career. The gentle wounded spirit had awakened something in Gideon he didn’t know existed . . . The capacity to love, nurture, and be loved.

  Theirs was a quiet, knowing passion. There was no courtship. Danny moved into Gideon’s home shortly after Hezekiah Cleaveland was killed. He was shaken, damaged, and afraid. Afraid he would be Samantha Cleaveland’s next victim. Gideon comforted him, protected him, and reassured him he was safe in his arms.

  As the weeks went by the bond they shared transformed into a deep and comforting love. Danny needed Gideon, and now Gideon needed him. He needed to love someone, to protect them from the cruelty the world so indiscriminately meted out to the just and unjust alike. He could see himself in Danny’s eyes. He could feel his own warmth in Danny’s embrace. For the first time, Gideon existed beyond the one-dimensional television screen and outside the reach of the cameras. He was alive for the first time, and it was only because Danny made it so.

  “You have to jump in,” Gideon said laughing while treading water at the center of the pool. “Get the shock over all at once.”

  Danny flashed a distressed smile, took a deep breath, and plunged feet-first into the water.

  Karen Peters lifted the briefcase above her head and tossed it gently onto the curve of the first forty-five foot “O” in the “HOLLYWOOD” sign. Wearing all black, gloves, combat boots, jeans, and a turtleneck, she raised her hands and with little effort hoisted her five-feet-six-inch body onto the curve in white metal.

  Los Angeles was at her feet. She looked out and saw signs the city was slowly coming to life. Buses rolled along empty streets. Lights slowly blinked off along the roads, and in the cluster of downtown high-rises encased in a halo of fog in the far distance. The first smattering of morning commuters made their way along the maze of freeways. There was an unobstructed 360-degree view of the entire metropolitan area from the San Fernando Valley to the hills of Palos Verdes and East Los Angeles to Santa Monica and to the ocean beyond.

  Karen knelt down onto the curved surface and scanned the immediate surroundings. She was completely alone, apart from a squirrel scampering on the ground nearby. The only sound heard was the gentle breeze in the grass six feet below. She reached up, tightened the black Scrunchie holding her ponytail neatly in place, and then unsnapped the locks on the briefcase.

  Gideon and Danny swam in opposite directions and passed each other at the center of the pool. Synchronized splashes cascaded up as Danny matched Gideon stroke for stroke. Gideon was pleased to share this time with Danny. Anytime they were together he was a very happy and content man.

  Suddenly they heard Gideon’s cell phone ring in the kitchen through the open French doors. Gideon swam quickly to the edge and lifted himself from the water.

  “I better answer it,” he said walking to the house. “It could be Hattie.”

  Danny treaded water and watched Gideon disappear through the doors. Minutes passed and Gideon had not returned. I hope she’s all right, he thought. I’d better go by this morning and check on her. He then resumed his trek across the length of the pool.

  Karen removed the butt of an American-made Knights SR-25 rifle from the case. She nimbly attached the barrel and telescope and inserted the twenty-round magazine. Each click of metal against metal echoed off the canyon walls below. Once assembled, she set the rifle at her feet and removed binoculars from the case.

  Gideon’s house was in her sights within seconds. She recognized the Spanish terra-cotta tiled roof and footprint from the satellite images supplied by Lazarus. Karen saw Gideon in the pool and swiftly calculated the target was one and eight-tenths kilometers away.

  “Perfect,” she whispered, “I like a man with regular habits. Thank you, Mr. Truman, for making this easy for me.”

  “Hattie,” Gideon said answering the phone standing at the kitchen table, “I was going to call you in a few minutes. How did you sleep the rest of the night?”

  “I didn’t sleep,” she said calmly.

  Gideon could hear the scratchy tones of gospel music from the old radio in Hattie’s kitchen. “We were worried about you last night.”

  “Don’t leave the house today, Gideon. If you have to get out, then you and Danny should come to m
y home. I’ll cook for you. It isn’t safe for you today.”

  “Hattie, I have to go to work, darling,” he said basking in her love and concern. “I’m interviewing the vice president today.”

  Hattie was silent.

  “Hattie,” Gideon said responding to her obvious concern, “I assure you I’m going to be fine. How about this, right after the interview, Danny and I will come over and we can have dinner together?”

  Still no response.

  “Hattie, darling, are you there?”

  “I’m here. After the interview come straight here. At least I know you and Danny will be safe if you’re here.”

  “I will. I promise, now stop worrying. I’ll be fine.”

  Karen lifted the rifle to her cheek and secured the butt snuggly against her shoulder. She positioned a black-gloved finger on the trigger and looked through the scope.

  Her target swam away from her toward the house.

  “One,” she counted out loud.

  Karen placed one knee on the white metal “O” and her elbow held the rifle steady on the other.

  “Two.”

  The telescope keyed on the swimming figure. She moved the barrel until the back of his head appeared in the exact center of the opaque bull’s-eye. Water rushed over him as he glided an inch below the surface.

  “Three.”

  Karen squeezed the trigger. A puff of air jetted from the barrel as the bullet launched and began the three-quarter mile journey from her hand to the target. A millisecond before impact Danny suddenly dipped below the water’s surface. In exactly two and a half seconds the figure bobbed to the surface. She couldn’t tell where the bullet impact had been but knew she hit her mark from the ring of red forming around the still body.

  Karen watched him closely for ten seconds through the lens. There was no movement, and the red slowly spread with the ripples to the edges of the pool. The kill was confirmed. She quickly disassembled the weapon and placed it piece by piece, along with the binoculars, back into their appointed places in the case. She jumped from the “O,” case in hand, ran down the hill, and vanished into the wooded canyon.