The Committee (10 page)

“Are those enough reasons?” Sheridan whispered while her head bobbed up and down the full length of his shaft.

Miss Vandercliff looked up with a satisfied grin and said, “Three more reasons than I expected.”

Sheridan lifted her head and returned his tongue to her still-open mouth. He then pushed her back and lifted her legs, causing the caftan to form ripples of silk around her waist. He wasn't surprised to see she wasn't wearing panties. Sheridan took a deep breath and quickly lowered his head between her legs, causing her to gasp.

“Convince me, Sheridan,” she moaned as the twists and turns of his skilled tongue caused her to squirm and buck under the weight of his head.

Sheridan slowed the whirl of his tongue.
Don't want to give her a heart attack before she signs the papers,
he thought.

He then lowered his pants to his ankles while Miss Vandercliff gently trembled from after-quakes of ecstasy. He guided his member into her flesh, one inch at a time.

“One reason,” he said narrating. “Two reasons,” as he slowly entered inch by inch. “Three reasons . . .”

With each inch her moans grew more intense. “Nine reasons. Are you convinced yet?”

“Give me two more reasons,” she moaned. “I want it all.”

Sheridan delivered the last two reasons with such force the gold bangles wrapping her wrists rattled like wind chimes blowing in the breeze on a back porch. Sheridan moved cautiously for fear of shattering old brittle bones, but Miss Vandercliff demanded more.

“Fuck me, Sheridan Hardaway,” she barked. “Fuck me harder.”

He dutifully followed her instructions and began to pound mercilessly into her dry flesh. “Is that enough to convince you?” he asked accenting every word with a plunge of his hips.

“Yes, my beautiful Mandingo,” she shrieked. “I'm almost there. Keep convincing me.”

“Are you going to sell it to me?” he asked in time with his thrusts. “Is this reason enough for you, Miss Gloria Vandercliff?”

The motion of Sheridan's hips quickly guided Miss Vandercliff to the height of ecstasy.

“Yes! Yes!” she finally screamed, thrashing her head from side to side. “Yes, I'll sell it to you! I'll sell it to you!”

 

 

The intercom in Camille's office buzzed at exactly 3:00.

“Excuse me, Mayor Hardaway,” came the voice on the intercom. “I have a Mr. Kelsey Hunt on line one. He said it's very important he speak with you.”

“What is it about?” Camille asked. “I'm busy.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am, he wouldn't say, but he called on your private line and was very insistent. He said it is of national importance, and you will understand when you speak.”

Camille wearily dropped her pen onto a stack of papers requiring her signature. “Put him through,” she grunted.

“Yes, Mayor,” came the relieved reply.

“This is Mayor Hardaway,” she said politely into the phone. “How may I help you?”

“Good afternoon, Mayor Hardaway,” the husky voice said. “Thank you for taking my call.”

“My pleasure. What is it you wanted to discuss with me,” she replied restraining her impatience.

“My name is Lazarus Hearst. Have you ever heard of me?”

“Hearst? My assistant said your name was Hunt.”

“I must apologize for the slight deception, but it is best for all concerned no one is aware of our conversation.”

“What is this about?” Camille grew impatient. “You've actually caught me at a very busy time.”

“I understand,” Hearst said calmly. “I'll get to the point of my call. I am the sole owner of Media Wise Industries, the largest media conglomerate on the planet. I control 60 percent of the media in the United States and 30 percent globally. Are you familiar with us?”

She recognized the name Hearst, one of the most influential families in the world when he said Media Wise Industries.

Hearst, a reclusive Philadelphia philanthropist, gave hundreds of millions to museums, public art collections, education, medicine, and political causes at both ends of the ideological spectrum. The only criteria was, it served to further his agenda.

Camille leaned back in her chair and simply replied, “Yes. I know the company.”

“Good. Now I have another question for you. Please indulge me,” he said politely. “Have you ever heard of The Committee?”

“I know of hundreds of committees. The entire city of Los Angeles is run by committees.”

Hearst laughed, “Of course. I should have been clearer. I am referring to ‘The Committee' comprised of the most powerful people in the country, who, among other things, have decided who the presidents of our great country have been since the early 1700s. We each bring our own unique talents and spheres of influence to the table and pool them to, in essence, run the country.”

Camille's heart stopped. She placed a hand over the receiver and gasped. After catching her breath, she responded. “The Committee is a myth. I've heard of it, but everyone knows it doesn't exist,” she said more in an attempt to convince herself. “There is no such group. The voters select the presidents.”

Hearst laughed again, and then replied, “That is the true myth. The voters choose who we tell them to choose. And, in the rare event the people go against our wishes, we veto it by any means necessary, as were the cases with Garfield, McKinley, Kennedy, and Gore. I assure you, Mayor Hardaway, The Committee does indeed exist, and I am a member.”

Camille's emotions raced between disbelief, fear, and irritation. Either this was a silly hoax, or she was actually speaking with a member of one of the most secret societies in the history of the country.

“Are you still there, Mrs. Hardaway? You can speak freely. The call was made using a point-to-point encryption key. I assure you anything we discuss will only be heard by you and me.”

“Yes, I'm here.”

“Good. I know you must think this is a prank, but I assure you it is not.”

“And how do I know that?” she asked skeptically.

“Maybe if I told you a few things about yourself that you thought no one knew . . . Would that help?”

Camille stood from the desk and walked to the window with the cordless phone attached securely to her ear. “Like what?” she asked guardedly.

“Well, let's see . . . for example, we are aware you were molested by a deacon in your family's church when you were eight years old. No need to confirm or deny this because I know it is true, Camille. May I call you Camille?”

She did not respond. Her knees trembled slightly as Hearst continued.

“We also know you had a four-month affair with a professor while you were in law school. You became pregnant, but miscarried in your third month. Your parents never knew about it. Please accept my condolences, by the way. I know it must have been very difficult for you.”

Camille stumbled back to her desk and sat down slowly. Fear was now the dominant emotion.

“I'm going to share this next one with you, but please be aware it isn't to frighten or threaten you, but simply to remove any doubts you might still have at this point.”

Camille resisted the urge to hang up the phone; instead, she braced herself for the next revelation.

“We know about the role you played in the planning commissioner's untimely death,” Hearst said slowly.

Gillette!
Camille thought angrily. “I had nothing to do with his death,” she blurted. “It was an automobile accident. If you're trying to blackmail me—”

“No, no,” he interrupted. “This has nothing to do with blackmail, Camille,” Hearst said measuredly. “You and I both know it is true. Do you still have the baseball signed by Willie Mays the commissioner gave you?”

Camille sat silently with her hand cupped over her mouth. A tear threatened to escape her transfixed eyes, but she willed it to not fall. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she finally said weakly.

“Of course you do,” Hearst said with a slight chuckle. “But I would have been very disappointed if you'd said anything other than exactly that. I assure you, your secret is safe with The Committee. We understand you had no other choice and did what you did in the best interest of Los Angeles. You should be commended.”

“I did nothing,” she said, evoking the most basic tenet of a good defense:
Deny everything.

“Understood,” Hearst said sarcastically. “Now let's get past that. Do you believe me, or should we end this call now? If you decide to hang up, please know you will never hear from me again, and your secrets will go to the grave with myself and each of my colleagues on The Committee. Your file will be destroyed.”

“File?” she asked nervously.

“Yes, Camille. File. We know more about you than you know about yourself.”

Camille sat silently. A whirl of thoughts rushed through her mind.
This is the end of my career. My poor unborn baby. I'll never be governor. I wonder, do they know about . . . I could go to jail,
she thought while Hearst gave her time to process the information.

“Camille,” he finally said, “I'm assuming since you haven't hung up you would like for me to continue. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” she said reluctantly. “What is this all about?”

“I'm very pleased you asked. The Committee has been watching your career very closely for the last six years, and I must tell you, we are all very impressed.”

Hearst waited for a polite “thank you,” but none came. “I'll come directly to the point,” he continued. “We think you are presidential material, Camille. Of course, we would have to get you elected governor first. A simple formality.”

The words, delivered so casually, hung in front of Camille like a noose. Breath rushed from her body as if someone had sucker punched her in the gut. Her heart pounded, and the room began to spin like a wheel around an axle.
This can't be happening,
she thought.
I'm dreaming.
She willed herself to wake up . . . but it wasn't a dream.

After a few moments, Hearst said, “May I ask what you're thinking?”

There was silence, so he continued. “I understand this may all seem a bit sudden to you, but as I said earlier, we have been watching you for a while, and we like what we see.”

Again, there was silence. “Is this something you would like to explore further with us?” he asked.

Camille did not speak.

“We would love the opportunity to speak with you in person, Camille. I've taken the liberty of arranging for my jet to fly you to our Headquarters.” Hearst repeated the word, “Headquarters,” and laughed. “I know this must sound like a James Bond movie, but it's true; we actually do have a headquarters. Anyway, as I was saying, the jet will be waiting for you, whether or not you decide to meet with us, this Sunday night at the Long Beach Airport in my private hanger #217 at 8:00 p.m.”

“Where is ‘Headquarters'?” she finally asked.

“I'd rather not say at this point. But I can assure you, we will have you back in LA safe and sound on Monday morning so you can continue the fine work you're doing for the people of Los Angeles.”

“Who are the other members?” she asked.

“Again, I cannot say.”

She gave no response.

“Only two members will be there. But if all goes well, you will meet most of the others in due time.”

“Most?”

“Yes, I'm afraid some of our members prefer to remain anonymous. Nonetheless, we'll have a nice chat and answer all the questions I'm sure you must have.” Hearst paused briefly, then concluded, “I do hope you will decide to join us, Camille. Our country needs you.”

With his last words, he disconnected the line, leaving Camille alone and dazed in her office high atop city hall.

 

 

The teakettle on Hattie's stove began to whistle at the same moment the doorbell rang. “Just a minute,” she called out to Gideon Truman who stood at the front door. Hattie moved to the door as quickly as her legs could carry her.

“Come in, baby,” she said warmly. “Sit down, sit down. I'm making a pot of tea.”

“Is everything all right?” Gideon called out to her retreating back. “You said it was urgent on the phone.”

“No, Gideon,” she replied, competing with the shrieking kettle, “everything is
not
all right, and I need you to tell me all about it.”

Hattie returned shortly, carrying two steaming cups, each with the white Lipton Tea label dangling from strings down the sides. Gideon was still standing in the center of the room pondering the riddle of her last comment.

She set the cups on waiting coasters on the coffee table. “Are you going to stand there gawking at me,” she asked slowly lowering into a wingback chair, “or are you going to sit down?”

Gideon sat on the sofa directly across from her. A tray of lemon wedges, white sugar cubes, honey and cream was already waiting on the table.

“I didn't know how you take your tea so . . .” she said pointing to the tray, “I brought a little bit of everything.”

Gideon dropped two cubes in the cup. “Hattie, why are you being so mysterious? Is something wrong with your health?”

“My health is fine. It's you I'm worried about.”

“Me?” he asked in surprise. “I'm fine.”

“My spirit tells me otherwise.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about Camille Hardaway,” she said looking him directly in the eye.