The Committee (25 page)

“They said we'll never raise the enough money to build it, and we said . . .”

“Yes, we can!”

“They told us we wouldn't finish construction in time for the opening season game, and we said . . .”

“Yes, we can!”

The euphoric volley of words and recital of promises kept continued until Camille whipped the crowd into an almost uncontrollable frenzy of excitement. She was the mayor of the people, and they loved her more today than ever before.

“Without further delay,” she said, “I am honored to be the very first mayor to say in this new Doberman Stadium: Let the game begin!”

Camille was consumed by an avalanche of applause. If the crowd's reaction to her words was a barometer of her popularity, she would definitely have a 100 percent approval rating on this day.

Gillette, Lazarus, Isadore, and Robert watched Camille start the game on a floor-to-ceiling monitor in the Headquarters basement in the French Quarter. It was one of the most secure rooms on the planet. The bunker was built to survive a multimegaton nuclear detonation within one nautical mile. A round acrylic conference table with a hollow center sat in the middle of the room with thirteen high-back leather chairs, one for each Committee member. Walls filled with row upon row of buttons and blinking lights, twenty-four-hour newsfeeds from all the major world news networks, CCTV monitors following the every move of heads of state and persons of interest around the globe, and other sundry gizmos and gadgets needed for the weighty task of running the county surrounded the table. The room's perimeter included three-ton Swiss-made doors, five-foot-thick walls, a six-foot-thick steel-reinforced concrete ceiling, and two escape tunnels. The extreme design provided ample assurance that only persons with the proper retina scans could enter or exit the room. The mansion aboveground on Rue de Bourbon served as a quaint and homey setting for generations of Committee members, but the 1,000-square-yard bunker ten stories belowground was clearly command center.

Four members present sat around the conference table at equal distances from each other. The only source of light in the dim room came from the massive screen and the blinking wall of buttons and lights. The darkness gave the illusion of the room having no floor and no ceiling.

“She is magnificent,” Gillette said studying the life-size image of Camille tossing out the first ball in Dober Stadium on the screen.

“This is going to be a slam dunk,” Lazarus echoed.

“Agreed. But, first things first. We have to make her governor,” was Isadore's contribution to the exchange.

Lazarus smiled and said. “That's already been taken care of.”

“Are the ballot machines programmed?” Gillette asked. “I don't want to have to deal with another Florida fuckup.”

“Yes,” came Lazarus's defensive response. “We got the top programmers at Apple working on them now. I assure you, the majority of votes will go to Camille.”

“Have we lined up her Republican competition?” Gillette continued the direct line of questioning.

“Yes,” Robert Irvin answered quickly. “Christi Wedgewood is going to be the Republican front-runner. She's the CEO of CompuCo. Never held public office and doesn't know her ass from a hole in the ground. We've convinced her she can win. Wasn't hard. The woman's ego is almost as big as her bank account.”

“Excellent,” Isadore said. “I know her. Camille will destroy her.”

“She won't have to,” Robert replied. “Christi has a shitload of skeletons in her closet, all just waiting for us to open the door and send them crashing down on her, including a lesbian lover in Puerto Rico, a husband who frequents transsexual prostitutes on Hollywood Boulevard, and three undocumented workers on her household payroll. We're going to start leaking the stories a few months before the general election. She'll start to unravel on her own like a cheap sweater. Camille won't have to lift a finger.”

“By this time next year, Camille Ernestine Hardaway will be the governor of California and one step closer to the White House.”

 

 

“Don't let her get to you,” Danny said, cautiously. “Baby? Gideon, did you hear me?”

Gideon stared intently at the television screen as Camille beamed on opening day at Dober Stadium.

Danny's recovery from the gun shot had been slow and steady. Two weeks in the hospital was followed by months of Gideon doting, and waiting on him hand and foot in their Hollywood Hills sanctuary. The house was under 24 hour surveillance by a private security firm hired by the network. An armed, highly trained security guard accompanied them both whenever they left the house.

“Gideon,” Danny said again, this time accompanied by a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Turn her off.”

Gideon looked up lovingly at Danny who was now standing behind his chair. “I'm not going to let her get away with it. She almost took you away from me. She has to pay for that.”

“You still don't know that she had anything to do with it. It's almost been a year and nothing else has happened. The only reminder is the little scar. It's over, baby, you have to let it go.”

“It's not over. What happens when the network decides to stop paying for our security? We'll be sitting ducks. I'm not going to just wait for her to try it again,” Gideon said, touching Danny's hand on his shoulder. “Next time we may not be so lucky,”

 

 

Hattie wiped her dining room table in concentric circles with the white cloth doused with furniture polish. She could see her reflection in the glasslike finish of the wood grain and smell the scent of Lemon Pledge that filled the room.

The words of a hymn accompanied each swipe of the rag.

“There is a fountain filled with blood drawn from Emmanuel's veins;

And sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains.

Lose all their guilty stains, lose all their guilty stains;

And sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains.”

Hattie sang the words and interspersed a hum here and a whisper there.

“The dying thief rejoiced to see that fountain in his day;

And there have I, though vile as he, washed all my sins away.

Washed all my sins away, washed all my sins away;

And there have I, though vile as he, washed all my sins away.”

As she completed the final arc of the last circle on the wood, she felt a rush of blood to her head. At first she assumed she had reached her daily quota of furniture wax vapor, but it quickly became apparent there was something more supernatural in the works.

Hattie's reflection in the table slowly faded and gave way to the face of a woman that she did not recognize. The face looked up directly into her eyes. Hattie sensed something familiar about the woman. An innocent, almost loving expression on the face seemed to say, “I mean you no harm,” but Hattie was not so easily deceived.

Months of prayers and supplication after Danny's near death had prepared her for moments like this. She had prayed for strength to face any evil that might be placed in her path and today would be the first test of her faith. She did not back away from the table but instead, planted her feet firmly on the round Sears and Roebuck braided area rug.

“Who are you?” Hattie asked out loud.

There was no response.

“Tell me who you are,” Hattie demanded.

Then she heard the words, “I am Madame Gillette Lemaitre.”

Gillette Lemaitre continued with an unspoken dialogue.
I'm not your enemy,
her eyes gently conveyed.
I have no qualm with you.

Hattie responded out loud with a firm, “I rebuke you in the name of Jesus.”

This was met with a look of disappointment from Gillette.
You don't want me as an enemy
.
This is not your battle,
was the next unspoken message from the table came.

Hattie was undaunted. She looked defiantly at Gillette with a clear, yet unspoken, response to what she rightly perceived as a threat.
This is my battle, and I am prepared to fight.

Gillette's face suddenly turned cold, hard and menacing. The gentleness vanished, and was replaced with hate and loathing. Hattie heard the audible words, “You have been warned.”

The face in the table slowly vanished and was replaced with Hattie's own reflection in the high gloss.

She relaxed her warrior stance, took a deep breath and resumed forming circles with the rag on the table as if to wipe away any remnants of the mysterious Madame Lemaitre. The words of her hymn filled the room once again.

“Dear dying Lamb, Thy precious blood shall never lose its power

Till all the ransomed church of God be saved, to sin no more.

Be saved, to sin no more, be saved, to sin no more;

Till all the ransomed church of God be saved, to sin no more.”

It is of the highest importance that you agree to meet with my associate Juliette Dupree of New Orleans [Stop] A train ticket awaits you at the Springfield Union Station [Stop] A private carriage will be in New Orleans to take you to Mademoiselle Dupree [Stop] The future of our country rests upon your prompt attention to this matter [Stop].

President James Buchanan Jr.