The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  Harriet was dressed chicly in her 1970s peasant outfit, and probably wore the same sandals she’d worn at her first anti-war demonstration. That was before Vietnam, so it was another war, though which one remains a mystery to this day. Harriet has long gray hair that I think she was born with, and the only jewelry she wears is made by indigenous people who’ve been screwed by Western Civilization, and are now returning the favor.

  We made idle chatter with the ladies for about one minute, and I could sense that some people at the bar and tables were talking about us. I haven’t had so much attention in a bar since cocktails here with the Bellarosas ten years ago.

  Harriet did not invite us to sit, so Susan took the opportunity to say to my mother and her friends, “I’m going to steal Harriet away for a minute, if that’s all right.”

  Harriet excused herself, and we went to the lobby. If my mother was wondering why Susan and I were together, she wasn’t bursting at the seams to know, and she just looked at Susan.

  Susan said to her, “John wants to tell you something.”

  Indeed, I had many things I wanted to tell Harriet, but I resisted the impulse and said, “Susan and I have reconciled.”

  Harriet nodded.

  I continued, “And we are going to remarry.” I gave her more good news and said, “I’m moving back from London.”

  Again she nodded, then looked at Susan as though she wanted her to confirm this nonsense.

  Susan said to her, simply and plainly, “We have never stopped loving each other, and John has forgiven me.”

  Harriet replied as though, somehow, she knew all of this and had rehearsed a good response. She asked, “Have you forgiven him?”

  That was a loaded and snotty question, but Susan replied, “We’ve discussed all the hurt we’ve caused each other, and we’ve put it behind us and are ready to move on.”

  Harriet looked at both of us, then said, “Well, children”—that’s what she called us—“I must say this is very sudden, and I’m not sure what to say.”

  Come on, Harriet, just say, “Fuck you,” and get back to your friends.

  Susan said to her, “I want you to be happy for us.”

  Harriet sidestepped that and asked, “Have you spoken to William and Charlotte?”

  Susan replied, “We wanted you to be the first to know, though we did call Edward and Carolyn, and they are delighted.”

  “I’m sure they are.”

  Susan continued, “We would appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to anyone until we have the chance to do that.”

  Harriet nodded again, then said to Susan, “I don’t believe your parents will approve of this, Susan.”

  Susan replied, “We would like their approval, but we are prepared to proceed without it.”

  “Are you?”

  That meant, of course, that Harriet hoped we understood that the word “approval” in this context meant money.

  Susan informed Harriet, “John and I have discussed all of that.”

  “All right. But I hope your remarriage does not alienate your parents from their grandchildren.”

  Definition of “alienate”: to be cut out of the will; to have your allowance cut off; to have Grandpa screw around with your trust fund. And this from a woman who didn’t believe in inherited wealth, unless, of course, the dirty old robber baron money was going to her grandchildren. Harriet was a case study in contradictions and hypocrisy.

  Susan replied, “I don’t see how our remarriage would affect my parents’ relationship with their adult grandchildren.”

  “I hope it doesn’t.”

  I get a little impatient with this kind of polite and evasive talk, so I said to my mother, “You don’t need to be happy for us, or to give us your blessing, or even come to our wedding, for that matter. But you do need to mind your own business.”

  Harriet looked at me as though trying to figure out who I was or how I got there. She said to me, “John, you’re being rude.”

  I continued to be rude and said, “For God’s sake, Harriet, life is too damned short for you to just stand there without a smile, or a hug, or a single nice word for us.”

  Susan said softly, “John . . .”

  I announced, “We’re leaving. Good evening, Mother.”

  I walked to the door, and Harriet said, “John.”

  I turned, and she came toward me, stopped, and looked up at me. We held eye contact for a moment, then she said, “I, too, would like a smile, a hug, or a nice word from you.”

  Harriet is very good at going from aggressor to victim, persecutor to mommy martyr, and ice queen to huggy bear in the blink of an eye. So I responded the way I’d always done since I first figured her out when I was a child, and I gave her a big hug, and we kissed and made up until the next time she took it to the brink.

  Susan was smiling, and we did a nice warm and fuzzy group squeeze. I would have given two years of my life for a triple Scotch just then, and so would Harriet.

  Anyway, we held on to our smiles, and Harriet said to us, “Your news took me by surprise, and of course I’m happy for you.”

  “I know you are,” said Susan. “John is the most wonderful man in the world, and the only man I’ve ever loved.”

  I wasn’t too sure about that last part, and Harriet wasn’t too sure about the first part, but she said, “That’s wonderful.”

  I said, “It’s wonderful to be back.”

  Susan shot me an annoyed look, then said to Harriet, “We’ll let you get back to your friends.”

  Harriet replied, “I suppose we’ll all be together soon at the funeral parlor.”

  Susan said, “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Ethel has slipped into a coma.”

  Harriet nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard.” She prognosticated, “I’m afraid the end is near.” Then she eulogized, “Ethel Allard is a great lady.”

  Well, Harriet Sutter would think so.

  We said good night, and Susan and I walked to the car. Susan said, “I’m glad we got that over with.”

  I wasn’t sure if she meant my coming out to dinner at the club or my reunion with Lady Macbeth.

  Susan had a perceptive glimpse into the future and said, “This is not going to be easy, is it?”

  I used that opening to say, “I think we should move away.”

  “We did that. Now we are back.” She added, “Together.”

  I assured her, “It’s wonderful to be back.”

  “Your mother looked well.”

  “She makes her own makeup from recycled medical waste. Mostly blood and bile.”

  “John.”

  “Do you think we were both adopted?”

  She assured me, “For all their faults, they do love us.”

  “Well, you got a preview of that strange love two minutes ago. I can’t wait to see how your parents are going to top that.”

  Susan thought a moment, smiled, then said, “Maybe it’s us.”

  “You may be on to something.”

  We got in the car and headed back to Stanhope Hall. After speaking to Felix Mancuso, I wasn’t looking forward to entering the guest cottage at night, but this was not on Susan’s mind, and she chatted about our future while I was thinking about the next ten minutes.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  It was a dark night, the moon hidden by gathering rain clouds. I’d asked Susan to drive, and as she pulled up to the closed gates of Stanhope Hall, I pressed the remote control button and the gates swung slowly inward.

  We proceeded past the gatehouse, and the gates automatically closed behind us.

  The three-hundred-yard driveway that led to the guest cottage was narrow, curving, dark, and lined with huge trees, but Susan always saw this as more of a challenge than a hazard, and she began picking up speed.

  “Slow down.”

  “John—”

  “Stop!”

  She hit the brakes and asked, “What—?”

  I reached over and shut off the headlights, then said, “Go on.
Slowly.”

  She looked at me, then understood and began driving slowly up the drive, which was paved with gravel that crunched under the tires. She said, softly, “I can’t believe we have to do this.”

  To lighten the moment, I joked, “Nasim does this every night.”

  We continued on, and I asked for her cell phone, which she gave me, and I punched in 9-1-1, but not send.

  The guest cottage came into view to our left, about a hundred yards away, and I could also see the lights from Stanhope Hall, which lay about a quarter of a mile beyond the guest cottage. If Nasim were watching through binoculars, he might think the assassins were coming for him.

  As we drew closer to the cottage, I saw a few lights on inside the house and two exterior lights—one above the front door and one on a stone pillar to mark the turnoff from the driveway that led up to Stanhope Hall. Susan turned left from the main drive into the cottage driveway, and I said to her, “Turn around in the forecourt.”

  As we reached the forecourt in front of the cottage, Susan swung around so the SUV pointed back to the driveway.

  I gave her the cell phone and said, “I’ll check out the house, and you will stay here, ready to drive off quickly and call 9-1-1.” I added, “And push the panic button on your key fob.”

  “John, if you think there’s a danger, let’s just go to a hotel tonight.”

  I replied, “I don’t think there’s a danger, but I think we should take normal precautions.”

  “This is not normal.”

  “It is now.” Then I smiled and said, “Stay here, and stay awake.”

  “John—”

  I got out of the SUV, walked to the front door and checked that it was locked, then I walked to the side path that led to the rose garden to see if any windows were open or broken.

  I went around to the back patio and checked the windows and doors, and peered inside. Then I moved to the other side of the house, and as I rounded the corner, something moved in the dark, and I froze.

  I’d left a lamp on in the living room, and the light from the window illuminated a patch of the side lawn, and someone came into the light. It was Susan. She spotted me and said, “Everything looks good here.”

  “I told you to stay in the car.”

  “I stayed in the car. Then I got out of the car.” She added, “You were taking too long.”

  I was very angry with her, but at the same time I was impressed with her courage. Susan is not timid, does not take orders well, and doesn’t have much patience with men who want to protect her. I’d seen that dozens of times at sea, and many times when we’d taken cross-country horseback rides. So I said calmly, “I learned in the Army that we all need to follow orders, and do only what we’ve been told to do, so that no one is taken by surprise.” I pointed out, “If I’d had a gun, I might have shot you.”

  “Wait until we’re married.”

  I wasn’t getting anywhere with logic, so I gave up, walked to the kitchen door, and unlocked it. I said, “Wait here.”

  I went directly to the foyer to assure myself that the basement door was locked, then I did a quick walk-through of the ground floor, turning on the lights in each room. As I said, it’s a big house, and I had no intention of securing it room by room every time we came home. But for now—until the police spoke to Anthony Bellarosa and until I spoke to Felix Mancuso, and until we had a gun—that’s what I’d do, at least at night. This security check also showed Susan that this was real.

  Susan did not wait outside, and she was in the foyer now, so I said, “Stay here,” and I went upstairs and checked out the five bedrooms, then came down and found her in the office. Apparently we were having a problem with the word “here.”

  She was accessing her e-mail, and said to me, “My parents are flying in tomorrow . . .” She gave me the details of William and Charlotte’s broom ride, then said, “Edward will be in Thursday night, and Carolyn says to let her know when Ethel passes, and she’ll take the train in for the wake.”

  “All right.” I noticed the message light on the phone was blinking, so I put it on speaker and retrieved the message. Elizabeth’s voice, sounding tired and strained, said, “I just wanted you to know that Mom passed away at eight-fifteen this evening.” There was a pause, then she said, “I’ll call you tomorrow with the arrangements. Thanks again for being such good friends.”

  Neither Susan nor I said anything, then Susan dialed the phone, and I heard Elizabeth’s voice mail. Susan said, “Elizabeth, we are so sorry. But know that she’s at peace now, with God. If there is anything we can do to help with the arrangements, please call us.”

  I said into the speaker, “Let me know if you’d like us to meet you at the funeral home. Don’t try to handle this all yourself. We want you to let us help.”

  Susan hung up and said to me, “I remember when George died, and how I thought that an era was coming to an end . . . and that a little piece of my childhood went with him.”

  I walked to the bar and asked, “Drink?”

  “Please. Anything.”

  I poured two brandies while Susan sent out e-mails, notifying the appropriate people of Ethel’s death.

  So, I thought, Ethel Allard was dead. And, I recalled, so was John Gotti, and they’d died within a day of each other. Aside from that fact, I’m sure they had very little in common. And yet these two deaths had impacted my life; Ethel’s death had brought me home, and Gotti’s death might unleash a danger that had been on hold for the last ten years.

  I gave Susan her brandy, we touched glasses, and Susan said, “To Ethel.”

  I shared my thought with Susan and said, “She brought me home.”

  Susan nodded and confessed, “I asked her to speak to you about me.”

  “I know, and she did.”

  “That was very selfish of me to ask that of a dying woman.”

  I assured her, “I think she was happy to do it.”

  Susan agreed, “I think she was.”

  We took our drinks upstairs, undressed, and got into bed.

  We talked and read for a while, then Susan fell asleep. I got out of bed and went into the basement to take another look for the shotgun. I still couldn’t find it, so I went to the kitchen and got a long carving knife, then returned to the bedroom, locked the door, and pushed my dresser in front of it.

  I sat up in bed, thinking about all the events that had to happen, in a certain sequence, to get me here in this bedroom with a carving knife on my night table.

  Well, it could have been worse; I could have been lost at sea. Or, even worse, married. Or it could have been better; Frank Bellarosa could have found the restaurant in Glen Cove ten years ago and never laid eyes on Alhambra, or Susan Sutter.

  But things happened and didn’t happen, people lived and people died, and at the end of the day, you had to stop wondering why, and you had to start thinking at least one move ahead of anyone who had a fatal move planned for you.

  I turned off the lamp, but kept myself half awake through the night.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  It rained through the night, which made it difficult to hear if anyone was trying to get into the house.

  I sat up in bed and looked at Susan sleeping beside me; this was still hard to believe. Even harder to believe was that Susan was a marked woman. Well, I’d lost her to Frank Bellarosa, but I was not going to lose her to Anthony Bellarosa.

  It had been a long night, and I think I’d gotten myself worked up because of what Felix Mancuso had said—She needs to be frightened—and I was glad Mancuso was coming so I could tell him he’d kept me up all night. Susan had no such complaint.

  I’m not the paranoid type, and when I’d made my sail around the world, I was one of the few skippers I met who did not keep a rifle on board, even though a few men had refused to crew for me because of that.

  There was one time, however, off the Somali coast, when I did need a weapon, and I had to settle for a flare gun. It turned out all right, but barely. After th
at, I gave in to reality and picked up an AK-47 in Aden, which was easier to buy there than a bottle of Scotch, and cheaper.

  With the AK-47 on board, I realized that I slept better at night, and I wondered how I’d gone so long without it. Reality sucks, but having your head in the clouds or up your butt can be fatal.

  It was a gray, rainy dawn, but it was a welcome dawn. Of course, people can be murdered at any hour, but we have a primal instinct that tells us to stay alert when we’re supposed to be sleeping; there are night predators out there, and they hunt when we sleep.

  I got out of bed, put on my robe, and went down to the basement again. After fifteen minutes of searching, I became convinced that the shotgun was back in Hilton Head, or that the movers had stolen it. Well, it was easy enough to buy any shotgun or rifle I wanted at a local sporting goods store. God bless the Second Amendment, and privately owned gun shops. It couldn’t be any easier if I was in a souk in Aden.

  Here, however, despite my constitutional right to bear arms it was very difficult to obtain a license to own a concealed weapon—a handgun in this area—which is what I actually needed when Susan and I were out of the house. And I was fairly sure that Anthony Bellarosa and La Cosa Nostra did not have that same problem.

  I went upstairs and found Susan sitting at the kitchen table in her white teddy that accentuated her tan. She was reading a women’s fitness magazine while absently popping vitamins into her mouth and washing them down with carrot juice, which matched her hair.

  She looked up from her magazine and said, “Good morning.”

  I was a little sleep-deprived, and annoyed about the shotgun, and not in the best of moods on this gray morning, so I didn’t reply.

  She asked, “What were you doing in the basement?”

  “I was trying on your winter dresses.”

  “John, it’s too early.”

  I noticed a pot of coffee brewing, so I poured myself a cup.