The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  Elizabeth’s voice mail informed me that she couldn’t take the call and invited me to leave a message at the beep. I said, “Elizabeth, this is John. Sorry I won’t be able to meet you at seven.” I hesitated, then said, “Susan and I are meeting.” I added, “Hope your mother is resting comfortably. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”

  I hung up and dialed Susan’s cell phone. She answered, and I said, “Hi, it’s me.”

  “John, I’m glad you called. How is it going?”

  “All right—”

  “Did you tell him—?”

  “Not yet, and I can’t speak freely.”

  She probably thought that I was in earshot of Anthony, and not thinking about a phone tap. She said, “Well, let me tell you what’s happening. The phone rang in the gatehouse while I was packing your things, and I answered it.”

  “All right . . .” Samantha? Elizabeth? Iranian terrorists?

  Susan continued, “It was Elizabeth, looking for you.”

  “Right. I used to live there.”

  “She said that her mother has taken a turn for the worse and has slipped into a coma.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but we knew—”

  “And she won’t be able to meet you at seven.”

  “Oh . . . right. She wanted to take me to dinner to thank me—”

  “She told me that. And I took the opportunity to tell her that you and I were back together.”

  “Great. She was hoping we’d get back together.”

  “That’s not the impression I had from our brief conversation. She seemed surprised.”

  “Really? Well, I’m surprised, too. All right, let me get Anthony aside—”

  “John, just tell him you need to leave now. I told Elizabeth we’d meet her at Fair Haven.” She added, “You can phone him later and tell him.”

  “Susan, I need to do this now. In person. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

  “All right. Good luck. I love you.”

  “Me, too.” I hung up and looked around the den again. Above the fireplace was a reproduction of Rubens’ Rape of the Sabine Women, which I thought said more about Anthony Bellarosa’s head than about his taste in art.

  I was about to leave, but then I noticed, sitting on an easel, a familiar painting. It was, in fact, Susan’s oil painting of the palm court of Alhambra in ruins. I’d seen this painting for the first and last time in the restored palm court of Alhambra with Frank Bellarosa’s body lying a few feet away, and the artist herself being led off in handcuffs.

  My judgment of the painting then was that it was one of her best. And I also recalled, looking at it now, that I’d made some sort of analogy between Susan’s representation of ruin and decay and her state of mind. Even today, I’m not sure if I wasn’t overanalyzing this. But I do remember that I put my fist through the canvas and sent it and the easel flying across the palm court.

  I moved closer to the painting, and whoever had restored it had done a perfect job; it would be nice if life restoration was as perfect.

  More to the point, I wondered who had it restored, and why, and also why it was here in Anthony Bellarosa’s den. I could see Susan’s clear signature in the right-hand corner, so Anthony knew who painted it.

  I could think about this for a long time, and I could come up with any number of valid and invalid theories about why this painting was here; also, I could just ask him why. But that would only confuse what was simple; it was time to tell Anthony I wasn’t working for him, and tell him to stay away from my once and future wife.

  When Caesar crossed the Rubicon, he knew there was no going back, so with that in mind, I took a letter opener from Anthony’s desk, went to the painting, and slashed the canvas until it was in shreds. Then I left the den and walked down a long corridor toward the sounds of dinner being served.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The long dining room table was set at one end for six people, and on the table were platters of mixed antipasto, a loaf of Italian bread, and a bottle of red wine.

  Anthony was at the head of the table, Megan to his right, and his mother to his left. The kids sat together next to their mother, and Anna was helping herself to salami and cheese. She said to me, “Sit. Here. Next to me.”

  I announced, “I apologize, but I need to go.”

  Anna stopped serving herself and asked, “Go? Go where?”

  I explained to everyone, “Ethel Allard, the lady who lives in the gatehouse, is in hospice, and she’s slipped into a coma.”

  Anthony said, “That’s too bad.”

  I continued, “I do apologize, but I need to be there in case”—I glanced at the children—“in case she passes tonight.”

  Anna made the sign of the cross, but no one else did, though I considered it briefly.

  Young Frank asked, “What’s a coma?”

  Anthony was standing now, and he said to me, “Sure. No problem. We’ll do this again.”

  Megan, too, stood, and said, “Let us know what happens.”

  Kelly Ann inquired, of no one in particular, “What happens when you slip on a coma?”

  Anna offered, “Let me pack you some food.”

  “That’s very nice of you, but I need to hurry.” I looked at Anthony and nodded toward the door. He said, “I’ll walk you out.”

  I gave Anna a quick hug, wished everyone a good dinner, and followed Anthony into the foyer.

  He said to me, “When you know how that’s going, let me know. And when Gotti goes, you’ll know on the news, so after all this is done, we’ll get together.”

  I said to him, “Let’s step outside.”

  He looked at me, then glanced back toward the dining room and shouted, “Go ahead and start,” then he opened the door and we stepped outside and stood under the portico. He took the opportunity to light a cigarette and asked me, “What’s up?”

  I said to him, “Susan and I have decided to get back together.”

  “Huh?”

  “Susan. My ex-wife. We are getting back together.”

  He thought about that for a second, then said, “And you’re telling me this now?”

  “When did you want to know?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “I didn’t know yesterday. And what difference does it make to you?”

  He answered indirectly. “You know, I never understood how a guy could take back a wife who cheated on him. I don’t know about a guy like that.”

  I would have suggested that he go fuck himself, but that would have ended the conversation, and I wasn’t finished. But I did say, “I hope you never have to find out what you’d do.”

  That annoyed him, and he told me, “Hey, I know what I’d do, but you can do what the hell you want.”

  “Thank you. I have.”

  “I thought you were a smart guy, John. A guy who had some self-respect.”

  I wasn’t going to let him bait me, and I didn’t need to respond, but I said, “That is none of your business.”

  He replied, “I think it is. I think maybe this changes things between us.”

  “There was never anything between us.”

  “You’re full of shit. We had a deal, and you know it.”

  “We didn’t, but if you think we did, the deal is off.”

  “Yeah. If you go back to her, the deal is definitely off. But . . . if you change your mind about her, then we can talk.”

  “I won’t change my mind about her, but you should.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Oh, yeah. You still on that? Come on, John. I told you, if that was a problem, it would have been settled long ago. Don’t get yourself worked up. Go marry her. Have a happy life.”

  He knew not to say anything that I could take to the police, and in fact, he reassured me by saying, “Women, children, and retards get a pass. Understand?” He explained, “There are rules.”

  I reminded him, “Someone tried to kill your father right in front o
f your mother, who could also have been hurt or killed. Did someone forget the rules?”

  He looked at me a long time, then said, “That’s none of your business.”

  “Excuse me, Anthony. I was standing two feet from your father when the shotgun pellets went past my face. That’s when it became my business.”

  He thought about that, then said, “It’s still none of your business.”

  “All right. Don’t let me keep you from your dinner. Thank you for your hospitality. You have a nice family. I especially like your uncle Sal. And just so there’s no misunderstanding concerning Susan Sutter, I’m informing you now, as her attorney, that I’m going to have Susan swear out a complaint with the police, and go on record as being concerned about her safety regarding your intentions toward her. So, if anything should happen to her, the police will know who to talk to. Capisce?”

  I expected him to go totally nuts, but he just stood there, staring past me. So I said, “Good day,” and I turned and started walking across his lawn.

  “John.”

  I turned, half expecting to see a gun, but instead he walked toward me, stopped, and in a conciliatory tone of voice said, “Hey, John, you don’t have to go complaining to the cops. We’re men. We can talk.”

  “We’ve talked.”

  “I thought you understood what I was saying. About what you did for my father. I told you that night I stopped by, I owed you a favor for saving his life. So you mentioned something about your wife. Remember? I wasn’t sure what you wanted, but now I understand. There was never a problem there anyway. But if you think there is, and that’s the favor you want, then you got it.” He added, “I swear this on my father’s grave.”

  That should have been the end of it, but only if I trusted him, and I definitely did not. Given the choice between swearing out a complaint with the police and Anthony Bellarosa’s word of honor, I’d put my money and my life and Susan’s on the sworn complaint against Anthony. And the shotgun.

  Anthony waited for a reply, but when none was forthcoming, he said, “No hard feelings. We go our separate ways, and you stop worrying about whatever you’re worried about. We’re all even now on favors.”

  I didn’t want Anthony Bellarosa to think he was doing me any favors, even if we both knew he was lying, so I informed him, “Your father already repaid me for saving his life. So you don’t owe me anything.”

  This seemed to surprise him, and he said, “Yeah? He paid you back for saving his life? Good. But I’ll pay you back again for that.”

  “I do not want any favors from you.”

  “Yeah?” He was clearly getting angry and impatient with me for not accepting his good wishes for a happy, worry-free life, and his promise not to kill Susan. So he said, “You’re an asshole. Get the fuck out of here.”

  That really pissed me off, so I decided that Anthony now needed to know how his father repaid the favor. I moved closer to him, and we were barely two feet apart.

  “Yeah? What?”

  “Your father, Anthony, was in love with my wife, and she was in love with him, and they were ready to run off together, and leave you, your brothers, and your mother—”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “But he owed me his life, so—”

  “He was fucking her. That’s all he was doing. Fucking your wife for sport.”

  “So I asked him to tell her it was over, and that he never loved her—”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “And he did that for me, and unfortunately Susan, who was in love with him, snapped, and—”

  “Get the hell out of here.”

  “Anthony, that’s why she killed him. She loved him and he loved her, and he broke his promise to take her with him to Italy under the Witness Protection Program.”

  “How the fuck do you know—?”

  “He was a government witness, Anthony, and you know that as well as I do. Look it up online. It’s all there.” He didn’t respond to that, so I concluded, “You asked me for the truth about your father, and I just gave it to you.”

  He practically put his nose in my face and spoke in a slow, deliberate tone. “None of that changes what your wife did. Just so you know.”

  I put my hand on his chest and pushed him back, ready for any move he might make, but he just stood there, staring at me. I said to him, “That sounds like a threat. Is that a threat?”

  He should have backed off on that, but I’d pressed the right buttons, and he said, “Take it any way you want.”

  “I take it as a threat. And so will the police.”

  He didn’t reply, and I turned my back on him and walked toward my car.

  He called out to me, “You think guys like you don’t have to worry about guys like me. Well, Counselor, you’re wrong about that.”

  I was glad he understood the concept, but I wasn’t sure he was smart enough or cool enough, like his father, to know when to shut his mouth, take a hit, and move on. Or since he’d threatened Susan in front of me, then threatened me, he might be thinking he needed to get rid of both of us.

  I got in my car, and as I pulled away from his house, I saw he was still standing on the lawn watching me.

  I headed out of Alhambra Estates.

  Now, I thought, I didn’t have to protect Susan from afar; we were together, and Anthony and I were also where we belonged: nose to nose with everything out in the open.

  I stopped the car where the blacktop ended, and I looked at where Alhambra had stood, remembering the library where Frank Bellarosa and I had sat with cigars and grappa, talking about Machiavelli and about the murder charge he was facing. And before I knew it, I was part of the family. Well, history did not repeat itself this time, but history was still driving the bus.

  The last time I saw Bellarosa, as I said, he was lying half-naked and dead on the floor of the palm court, beneath the mezzanine outside his bedroom. I looked to where I thought the palm court had been, where a long blacktop driveway now led to the garage of a small villa, and I could actually picture him lying there.

  I took a last look around me, knowing I’d probably never again be on the grounds of Alhambra, then I continued on, past the guard booth, and turned right on Grace Lane for the quarter-mile drive back to the guest cottage of Stanhope Hall.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  I drove through the open gates of Stanhope Hall, past the gatehouse, and up the tree-lined drive to the guest cottage, where I parked next to Susan’s Lexus.

  I got out of the car and went to the front door. Susan never used to lock doors, and still didn’t, so I opened the door, went into the foyer, and as I used to do, I called out, “Sweetheart, I’m home!”

  No reply, so I went into the kitchen, and I could see her on the back patio, sitting in a chaise lounge, reading a magazine.

  I opened the door, and she stood quickly, hurried toward me, and wrapped her arms around me, saying, “Oh, I’m so glad you’re home.” She gave me a kiss and asked, “Did you tell him?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “Well, as I expected, he didn’t take the news of our reunion very well.”

  “Why did you even tell him that? That is none of his business. All you had to tell him was that you were not going to work for him.”

  “Right. Normally I wouldn’t announce my engagement to a Mafia don, but I wanted him to know we were together, and that you were not alone.”

  She thought about that, then replied, “All right . . . but I still think you’re overreacting.”

  She wouldn’t think that if she’d stood with me and Anthony Bellarosa on his front lawn, but I didn’t want to alarm her, so I said, “I don’t think there will be any problem . . . but tomorrow, you and I will go to the local precinct and you need to swear out a complaint against Anthony Bellarosa, so that—”

  “John, I don’t need to do that.” She added, “That might actually make him—”

  “Susan. We will do this my way, and I do
n’t want any arguments. I want him to know that the police are aware of the situation. Understand?”

  She looked at me, and despite my matter-of-fact tone, I could tell that she knew that I was concerned. She said, “All right.” Then she changed the subject and asked me, “Did you see Anna?”

  “I did.”

  “How was she? Friendly?”

  “She was.” But did not send her regards to you.

  Susan asked, “How is his wife?”

  “She seemed nice enough.”

  I recalled, from long ago, that whenever I went someplace without Susan, I got a cross-examination that rivaled anything I’d ever done with a witness. I really needed a drink, so I announced, “I think it’s cocktail time.”

  “What did his wife look like?”

  “Oh . . . she was actually pretty.” I added, “But not very refined.”

  “Who else was there?”

  “Salvatore D’Alessio. Uncle Sal. And his wife, Marie.” I asked, “Did you ever meet them?”

  “No. How would I . . . ?” Then, apparently recalling that she’d been a frequent visitor at Alhambra, she thought for a moment about things she’d been trying to forget for ten years, and replied, “Actually, yes. I did meet them. When I was at the house.” She explained, “I was painting in the palm court.” She wanted to end it there, but sensing she should share the entire memory with me, she continued, “They stopped by, and Anna introduced them, but we didn’t speak.”

  She concluded, “He was a frightening-looking man.”

  “Still is.”

  Susan said, “I’ll get you a drink. What would you like?”

  “A pink squirrel.”

  “How do I make that?”

  “You pour four ounces of Scotch in a glass and add ice cubes.”