“It was Hattie,” Gideon said as he exited the kitchen. “She’s still a bit shaken up from her dream last night. I told her we . . .”
Gideon first saw the red. It took four seconds for the scene to fully register.
“Danny!” he called out racing to the edge of the pool and diving in. “Danny!”
With the limp body in tow, he paddled to the shallow end of the pool and lifted Danny in his arms. His legs flailed as Gideon carried him quickly up the stairs and laid him on the cement. They each glimmered from water. Blood flowed onto the cement.
“Danny!” he cried, cradling the man he loved in his arms. “Oh, God, please don’t let him die.”
The UCLA Level I Trauma Center pulsed with the city’s latest batch of victims. The mournful cries of sirens provided the soundtrack for births, deaths, and every imaginable malady in-between.
Gideon Truman bolted from a chair in the waiting room when the Emergency Room doctor approached. “Are you Mr. Truman?” the doctor asked. “Gideon Truman?”
“Yes,” Gideon answered anxiously.
Earlier that morning Gideon had ridden in the ambulance as it raced up Sunset Boulevard, and watched helplessly as paramedics worked to stop the flow of blood. Hours had since passed without any word on the condition of the man he loved.
“Good morning, Mr. Truman. I’m Dr. Banks. Mr. Danny St. John has you listed on his medical directive as his next of kin. Is that correct?” he asked, referring to a medical chart.
A blood-smeared accident survivor rolled by on a gurney surrounded by a team of doctors and nurses working frantically to bring the man back from the brink of death as they spoke. “Forty-one-year-old male,” a paramedic shouted to the medical crew. “Found on the side of a cliff on Pacific Coast Highway. Had to use a helicopter to airlift him back up to the highway. Broken right and left femurs, hip, and both arms. Possible spinal injury.” The life-and-death exchange faded into insignificance as the crew raced by.
“Yes, that is correct,” Gideon answered the doctor while bracing himself for the worst possible news.
“Are you his brother?” the doctor asked matter-of-factly.
“No,” Gideon said, brushing aside all concerns about revealing the true nature of their relationship. “No, I’m his lover,” he answered blindly tossing fear to the wind. “Is he alive? Please, God, tell me he’s alive.”
“Yes, sir, he is alive,” the doctor said removing a scrub cap ringed with perspiration. “He’s being moved from surgery now to the Intensive Care Unit.”
Gideon dropped his head into his hands and wept. “Thank God. That bullet was meant for me. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if he had . . . Whoever did this thought it was me in the pool. This is all my fault. I was supposed to protect him.”
“If the bullet had entered half an inch higher it would have damaged the part of the brain called the medulla oblongata located in the brainstem here,” the doctor said reaching over his shoulder pointing to a spot at the base of his skull. “The medulla connects the brain to the spinal cord and regulates autonomic functions like the heart rate, respiratory rhythm, swallowing, coughing, and sneezing. Half an inch lower, he would have been permanently paralyzed and . . . well, we would be having a very different conversation right now.”
Gideon’s brain reduced the doctor’s words to an indecipherable buzz after hearing, “Yes, he is alive.” The doctor’s mouth moved, but Gideon struggled to process the words. “He’s alive” pounded in his skull like a clapper against the walls of a brass bell.
“He lost a lot of blood, so he’ll be very weak for a few weeks,” the doctor continued, after noticing the streaks of red on Gideon’s shirt. “Mr. St. John is AB negative which is a somewhat rare blood type, but fortunately, we were able to find a match. We removed the bullet but there will be a permanent scar just under the hairline.”
“Will there be any permanent damage?” Gideon asked, wiping his moist cheek with a trembling hand. “Have his speech or motor skills been affected?”
“The bullet entered in such a way that we were able to remove it without damaging any of the surrounding tissue. Mr. St. John is a very lucky man. There doesn’t appear to be any permanent damage at this point, but we’ll have to wait to see the extent of his injury.”
“When can I see him?”
“I’ll have a nurse take you to him as soon as he’s settled in ICU.”
“Thank you,” Gideon said with relief. “This has been a nightmare.”
“I understand. Now if you’ll wait here, I’ll tell the nurse to come for you when he’s ready.”
As the doctor turned to walk away Gideon called out, “Thank you, again, Dr. Banks. Thank you for saving Danny’s life.”
The doctor responded with a slight smile over his shoulder and disappeared into the maze of corridors.
“Mr. Truman,” came a commanding voice from behind Gideon. “I’m Detective Guthrie, Los Angeles Police Department. May I have a few words with you?”
Gideon turned quickly and was standing eye to eye with a police identification card and a pair of blue eyes peering over the leather wallet.
“I know this is a difficult time for you, Mr. Truman. I promise to only take a few minutes.”
“Of course,” Gideon said struggling to transition from medical to law enforcement.
“Would you like to sit down, Mr. Truman?” the detective asked pointing to two chairs in the waiting room.
“Sir, can you please tell me what happened this morning in your backyard?” the detective asked with his pen poised over a small spiral notepad.
Gideon rubbed his eyes as if he was trying to activate his memory. “It was a few minutes after 6:00. I was in the pool. I swim every morning at 6:00. I had been in for about two or three minutes before Danny came out on the deck. He never swims with me . . . well, almost never. I asked him to join me and . . .” Gideon’s voice faded as the role he played in Danny’s near death pressed down on his chest.
“Take your time, Mr. Truman, and try to remember everything. It’s very important.”
“I told him he should get in with me. He agreed and said he had to change into his swimsuit. A few minutes passed and I swam a few more lengths of the pool. Then he came back out, put his toe into the water and commented on how cold it was. I told him to jump in to get the shock over quickly.”
The detective continued scribbling unintelligible notes on the pad. “And then?”
“Well, then,” Gideon paused again and took a deep breath. “Then he jumped in and started swimming in the opposite direction. We passed each other a few times at the center of the pool. Then my phone rang. It was in the kitchen on the island. I had to take it because a friend of ours called earlier that morning, about 4:00 a.m., and I thought it might have been her.”
“And who was that friend?” the detective asked looking up from the pad.
“Hattie. Hattie Williams. She had a vis . . . nightmare and was upset.”
“Thank you, sir. Go on.”
“I got out of the pool and answered the phone.”
“And was it Miss Williams?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, it was,” Gideon answered cautiously. “But she doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t, sir. Just wanted to know who was on the call. Is it normal for Ms. Williams to call you at that hour of the morning?”
“No. She had a difficult night. Anyway, I was on the phone for no more than two or three minutes, and when I came out. I saw . . .”
The image of Danny floating facedown in the pool flashed in Gideon’s mind. Ripples of red surrounded his motionless body.
“Would you like some water, Mr. Truman?”
“No,” Gideon said brushing the picture from his mind. “I’ll be fine. I jumped in and swam to him. He was unresponsive when I lifted his head from the water. I pulled him to the shallow end, carried him up the stairs, and laid him on the deck. I could see he was still breathing.
I held him for a few seconds and ran back inside to my phone and called 911. The paramedics arrived in less than five minutes.”
“Did you hear or see anything unusual on or around your property before or after you got out of the pool?”
“No.”
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm Mr. St. John?”
“No. The only person who would have wanted to hurt Danny is dead.”
“And who is that, Mr. Truman?” the officer asked suspiciously.
“It’s not important. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Besides, I don’t believe Danny was the intended target. It was me they were trying to kill.”
Detective Guthrie looked up again. “You believe they were trying to kill you? Why?”
“Do you know who I am, detective?”
“Yes, sir, I do. I’m very familiar with your work, and so is the mayor,” the detective said as if divulging a secret. “She is very concerned and instructed the police chief to commit every available resource to this case.”
Gideon froze when he heard the words. If Hattie’s premonition from the night before was correct, it was Mayor Camille Ernestine Hardaway who was behind the assassination attempt. “I’m glad to hear that,” he replied, barely concealing his suspicion.
“Is there someone in particular you think might have done this?” Detective Guthrie continued.
Gideon avoided eye contact and said, “No . . . no one in particular. It could have been any one of millions of people who watch my show every night. Every word that comes out of my mouth seems to anger someone in this country.”
“I suppose that narrows it down a bit,” the detective said sarcastically. “It appears to have been a professional, Mr. Truman. This was not done by an amateur. The gun used was a high-powered rifle fired anywhere from a half mile to two miles away.”
Gideon looked startled. “You mean a contract hit?”
“Yes, sir.”
Detective Guthrie continued speaking, but Gideon could only hear Hattie’s warning from the night before. “She’s going to try to kill you today,” Hattie had said after waking from the nightmare. “It’s a woman, and I think it might be Camille Hardaway. She’s going to descend from the air. Listen to me, son. Your life may depend on it.”
“If what you said earlier about you being the actual target is correct,” Detective Guthrie continued, “then when they find out they shot the wrong person, I think it’s reasonable to assume they will try again.”
As the detective spoke, a nurse approached. “Mr. Truman,” she said ignoring the officer, “Danny is in ICU now. You can see him, but only for a few minutes. Please follow me.”
Gideon was eager to see Danny, and also to end the interview with Detective Guthrie. “Do you have any more questions, detective?”
“I do, but it can wait. One last thing, though, it’s clear that you are in danger. I suggest you either leave the city for a while, or if you’re not able to, please consider hiring private security, at least for a while.”
“Thank you. I’ll consider it. You know how to reach me. Please call if you have more questions.”
Gideon didn’t wait for a response as he followed the nurse through the waiting room and down a long corridor.
The nurse paused in front of a set of double doors at the end of the hall. “Don’t be alarmed when you see him, Mr. Truman. It looks worse than he actually is. Dr. Banks is one of the best neurosurgeons in the country. Danny was very fortunate he was available. Please limit your visit to a few minutes.” The nurse pushed open one of the doors and stepped aside.
Gideon was greeted with the familiar steady beep of the electrocardiogram attached to Danny’s chest. The beep . . . beep . . . beep sliced to his core. It meant the love of his life was tittering precariously between life and death. The neon green line formed jagged peaks and valleys with each beat of his heart. Gideon’s pulse fell in sync as he approached the bed.
A nurse and doctor stood at each side of the bed checking wires and IVs running from Danny’s skull, arms, mouth, and chest to an orchestra of blinking, beeping, and purring machines. White gauze with remnants of blood formed a turban around his head.
The nurse and doctor gave Gideon a comforting smile and walked past him to the door. “It’s very important that he not move, Mr. Truman,” the nurse said. “Please don’t touch him. I’ll be right outside the door if you need me.”
Gideon moved closer and placed his hand on the bed only a fraction of an inch away from Danny’s. His breathing was labored and eyelids fluttered as if he were in the deepest state of REM sleep.
“Hello, baby,” Gideon said softly. “I’m here.”
Danny slowly opened his eyes when he heard the familiar voice.
“Don’t move, honey. The nurse said you have to stay still.”
“What happened?” Danny asked weakly.
A tear dropped from Gideon’s eye. “You were shot, baby. In our pool this morning.”
Danny looked puzzled. “Shot by who?”
Gideon leaned in to Danny’s ear and whispered, “I don’t know for sure yet, but I promise you, baby, when I find out who did this I’m going to destroy her.”
Chapter 12
The funeral service for Sheridan Hardaway was held that morning at New Testament Cathedral. The 25,000-seat crystal cathedral was filled from the top row down to the front of the sanctuary. The structure was considered a jewel on the landscape of the city. Ten stories of jutting walls constructed of 500,000 rectangular panes of glass woven together by threads of steel formed a patchwork quilt of light and blue sky.
Camille sat on the front row dressed in black from the birdcage veil and waist-length Armani tortoise-button jacket and skirt to the lambskin gloves and Jimmy Choo pumps. Tony Christopoulos sat nervously to her left staring blankly ahead at the mahogany coffin. Camille asked him to sit with her. He was the only person she trusted to be at her side at a time like this.
“Sheridan liked you, Tony,” she told him on the telephone the night before. “He would want you to be on the front row with me.”
The voice of a baritone soloist filled the sanctuary.
“But if the storms don’t cease
And the winds they keep on blowing, blowing in my life
My soul has been anchored in the Lord.”
Camille dabbed a tear at the corner of her eye. Yes, she killed him, but she did love him. She loved standing next to him at the podium on the steps of city hall. She relished the hundreds of times they appeared together on the covers of magazines and front pages of newspapers. Nevertheless, it didn’t make up for the betrayal.
Her life changed in the time it took to strike the match and light the candle. She didn’t shoot Sheridan or stab him in the heart, but the method was irrelevant. What mattered was she killed her husband, and, sitting somberly with the eyes of the world focused on her head, she felt a hint of remorse.
Do you or don’t you want to be president? Camille silently questioned. There was no point in waiting for a response. The answer was always yes. Then this is the price that must be paid.
The words Gillette said on the night she lit the candle echoed in her mind. In order to get what you want, you have to give up something you love. Sheridan, of all people, would understand this fundamental truth. After all, he had given up her trust and love in exchange for profit.
Camille was introduced to a world of power she, and the rest of the world, never knew existed. Lazarus Hearst controlled her destiny, and Gillette controlled her soul. She decided on the morning the call came from the police chief the right decision had been made. Her husband, her soul, and her destiny were fair exchange for the office of the president of the United States. Her initial feelings were confirmed while sitting in front of the coffin. Remorse was brushed aside, and only hope for a powerful and bright future remained.
I’m sorry, darling, she said to Sheridan. I had no other choice. If you were alive I’m sure you would understand.
The bari
tone sang only for Camille.
“You see, I realize that in this life, you’re gonna to be tossed
By the winds and the currents that seem so fierce.”
Tony’s knee bobbed up and down nervously. Camille touched his arm reassuringly and whispered, “It’s going to be all right, Tony. You and I are going to be fine. Let’s just get through this.”
Tony found no comfort in the words. He could feel Lazarus’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his head. I doubt he’s here, he thought, but I know he’s watching. He could feel the weight of the ever-present cell phone in his pocket. Please don’t vibrate. Not here. Not now.
Tony couldn’t help but acknowledge the very real possibility it could be him lying in a coffin next. Lazarus would no longer require his services. Camille would find out about his relationship with her dead husband or learn of his involvement with KeyCorp Development. It didn’t matter which happened first. He was a dead man in all possible scenarios.
The organ chords bounced off the glass walls amplifying the already-palpable grief in the sanctuary.
The Learjet soared over the Grand Canyon. Karen rested in the plush leather seat. The Committee made her a millionaire ten times over, but her family lived on her husband’s $348,000-a-year salary from the Department of Homeland Security.
Karen typed a message on a server accessed only by Lazarus Hearst and Gillette Lemaitre. “Mission accomplished,” it said. “Will wait for next assignment.”
The cryptic response appeared immediately on the screen. “Accomplished?”
Karen looked puzzled. She paused for a moment, then typed, “Yes, accomplished. The target has been neutralized.”
Moments passed with no hint of a reply. Then the shocking words appeared. “We are very disappointed in you.”
Disappointed? Karen had never seen or heard the word used in connection to anything she touched in her life. The doting mother. The attentive wife. The elegant hostess. The perfect soldier and flawless killing machine. Disappointed?
Karen was mystified. “Please clarify,” she tapped.
The Committee Page 21
