Free The Committee by Terry E. Hill Page B

But now, with John Spalding, she found it hard to call it anything other than murder.
    This time, it felt like she had pushed the car over the edge of the road herself, even though she was miles away and asleep in her bed at the time the car burst into flames on the deserted asphalt highway, she could almost feel the heat of the blaze while clinging to Sheridan’s comforting chest. She imagined the sound of John Spalding’s cries of desperation when the car crashed through the railing and almost felt the agonizing pain as the flames consumed his body.
    Her shoulders quivered slightly in Sheridan’s arms.
    â€œHoney, you’re shaking,” Sheridan said, pulling her closer. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
    It was murder, and she could no longer deny the blood of these three men was on her hands. Whether she believed in Gillette’s powers was irrelevant now. Three lives had been extinguished because of Gillette Lemaitre’s black candle.
    The black candle, she thought, still cradled in Sheridan’s arms.
    â€œI’m fine,” she said pulling away. “It’s just a little upsetting.”
    â€œOf course it is, and I was being an asshole.”
    â€œNo, it’s me. I’m being overly sensitive,” she said walking toward the bedroom door.
    â€œWhere are you going?” he asked curiously.
    â€œI have to make a call in the study.”
    â€œCall from here.”
    â€œMy notes are downstairs.”
    Camille left the room and moved hastily down the stairs, looking over her shoulder to ensure Sheridan had not followed as she entered her study.
    The light of the candle flashed before her eyes. Her emotions seemed amplified in the confines of the quiet paneled room. The earthy smell of fear mingled with the intoxicating scent of power in her head; power over life and destiny, power to design her future any way she chose. The world seemed limitless. Anything she desired could become reality under the glow of the mysterious candle.

Chapter 4
    â€œThere’s no doubt she’s going to make it happen now that John Spalding is dead.” Sheridan spoke on the telephone in his office on the fifteenth floor in the heart of the Financial District. The plaque on the door read “K EY C ORP D EVELOPMENT .”
    KeyCorp Development owned five shopping malls in Los Angeles County, six 1,000-plus unit apartment complexes, 180,000 square feet of commercial space downtown, and would soon add to its portfolio, 110 acres of prime beachfront property in Playa del Rey.
    Sheridan quietly set up the company during Camille’s first year in office. He was the sole owner under the alias Michael Kenigrant. His 200 employees had never met the mysterious Mr. Kenigrant. The company was now worth $460 million-plus, most of which was made on deals involving city hall insider information. Camille was unaware of the corporation’s existence or the vast fortune her husband had amassed during her tenure as mayor. She had no idea he used confidential information innocently passed over candlelit dinners or in the back of her limousine and occasionally just as his erect member was preparing to enter her trembling flesh.
    â€œTell me what you know, Brandon,” Sheridan said into the telephone.
    Brandon Birdsong was the only person who knew the identity of Michael Kenigrant. Brandon was Sheridan’s seven-figure-a-year front man. He spoke on behalf of the reclusive “Mr. Kenigrant,” oversaw the day-to-day operations of KeyCorp Development, and protected, with his life, the identity of the corporation’s owner.
    â€œGloria Vandercliff,” Brandon said in his usual succinct and efficient tone. “She’s an eccentric heiress who lives in Bel Air. Never married and no children. Hasn’t been off her estate in over twenty years. Inherited the Playa del Rey property, along with an estate estimated to be in the billions, from her