The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

“I will. And in the meantime, please keep me fully apprised of your security arrangements, and have the contract drawn up in both our names.”

  We parted without a handshake, and I got back in the car and continued on to the guest cottage.

  I didn’t see my luggage on the lawn, and that was a good sign, but I didn’t know what awaited me inside.

  I mean, there were two ways to look at what I had done ten years ago to break up Frank and Susan’s happy affair: one, I did it to get Susan back because I loved her; and two, I did it out of spite and anger because I hated both of them. Maybe it was the usual combination of both those things, and I’m sure Susan understood that, but she loved me, so she was inclined to think I did it more for love than for hate. And she was right.

  And bottom line on her shooting Frank—I’m sure all three of us wished it hadn’t happened, especially Frank, and especially now that, as Mr. Mancuso was kind enough to point out, twice, the chickens were coming home to roost.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  I carried my purchases into my home office, and Susan was there, multitasking on the phone and the computer, while scribbling notes on a pad.

  She gave me a distracted smile, then continued her phone call and her e-mail.

  I unwrapped my carbine and put it on the coffee table, then I began feeding rounds into the magazine.

  Susan ended her phone call and asked, “What is that rifle for?”

  “For the car.”

  She didn’t reply.

  I laid the loaded magazine on the coffee table and got right to the point, asking, “Where am I sleeping?”

  “In the master bedroom.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m sleeping in the guest room.”

  I saw that she was joking, so I said, “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted some time to think about . . . what I said, and what I did.”

  “I thought about it.”

  “And?”

  “And . . . I understand why you did it, and I truly don’t believe that you meant for . . . what happened to have happened.” She restated the obvious and said, “I had the affair, and I killed him. Not you.”

  “All right.”

  She continued, “I know that all you were trying to do was to get me to come back.”

  “Right.” I reminded her, “All’s fair in love and war.”

  She recalled where she’d heard that, and said, “That’s . . . true.” She continued, “It’s impossible for us, now, to really understand what we were thinking and feeling ten years ago, so neither of us should judge the other for what happened then.”

  “I agree.”

  She concluded, “You realized, before I did, the problem with Anthony Bellarosa, and you could have cut and run, but instead you tried to help me, even before we were together, and now you’ve made my problem your problem, and put your own life in danger.”

  I couldn’t have put it better, and if I’d just met John Sutter and heard that, I’d say he was a hell of a guy. Or an idiot. I said to her, “I love you.”

  She stood and we embraced, and I could feel her tears on my neck.

  She said, “I love you. And I need you.”

  “We’re good together.”

  “We are.”

  She composed herself, looked me in the eye, and she said, “This is the end of it. I never again want to talk about what happened then. Ever.”

  “I agree. There’s nothing more to say.”

  “That’s right.” She took a deep breath and said, “So, I see you found the sporting goods store.”

  “I did, and the proprietor remembered me, and he also remembered that we have an anniversary coming up at the end of the month, so he suggested I buy you this small rifle, which is called a carbine, so we could go down to the dump and shoot rats together.”

  She played along with my silliness and said, “How sweet.” She looked at the rifle and exclaimed, “You didn’t have to be so extravagant, John.”

  “Ah, it’s nothing.”

  I picked up the carbine and explained its operation and its many fine points, then I handed it to her and said, “Feel how light this is.”

  She took the rifle, hefted it, and agreed. “I could carry this into Locust Valley and walk around with it all day.”

  “And it fits nicely under a car seat.”

  “I can see that.”

  I took the rifle from her, slapped in the magazine, checked the safety, and chambered a round. I said, “You just click it off safety, aim, and pull the trigger. It’s semi-automatic, so it will fire each time you pull the trigger—fifteen rounds. Okay?”

  She nodded.

  I then demonstrated how to get off a hip shot for close targets, then I raised the rifle to my shoulder and said, “For a shot of let’s say, over twenty feet, aim it as you would aim a shotgun for skeet, but you don’t have to lead the target, and—”

  Unfortunately, Sophie appeared at the door just then, screamed, and fled.

  I thought I should go after her—without the rifle in my hands—but Susan said, “I’ll be right back,” and left to track down Sophie.

  I used the time to make us two light vodka and tonics. I was feeling good that Susan and I had finally and completely put the past behind us, and also I was feeling good about buying the rifle and the shotgun ammunition, and good, too, that Felix Mancuso was on the case.

  What was also good was that Amir Nasim had decided to put in a full security system, which, if he was really concerned, he should have done some time ago. Then, I had this thought that Felix Mancuso had taken the opportunity to scare the hell out of Nasim, telling him perhaps that it had come to the attention of the FBI that the threat to his life was real and imminent. Condition Red, Amir.

  But would Mancuso have done that to Nasim just to get him to pay for the Sutters’ round-the-clock security service? Or was it just a coincidence that Nasim was talking to those security advisors after Mancuso’s visit? Possibly Nasim had called them as soon as he discovered that the gatehouse was in his possession. In any case, I had the feeling that Felix Mancuso had given Nasim the same advice he’d given me: Hire some guns.

  Susan returned and told me, “I gave her a raise.”

  “Will she clean my guns?”

  “No, John, but I assured her that you’re fairly normal, and I gave her the raise because there’s an extra person in the house now.”

  “Good. Did you tell her that the Mafia is after us?”

  “No, I did not. But I will brief her again about answering the door to strangers.”

  I informed Susan, “There won’t be many strangers calling. Nasim has instituted a new regime for Stanhope Hall.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I handed her her vodka and tonic and said, “I just ran into him, and he was talking to some security advisors.” I toasted, “To a new Iranian-American mutual defense treaty.”

  I briefed Susan on my conversation with Nasim, and she commented, “This is going to be very inconvenient . . . and it affects my quality of life.”

  I pointed out, “So does getting killed.”

  She thought about that and said, “This is not what I hoped for when I returned.”

  “I’m sure not. But . . . well, we all have to give up some freedom for security.”

  “No we don’t.”

  I’d had this argument in London, and here in New York with Susan. It was a matter of degree—how much personal freedom do we want to give up and how much freedom from fear are we getting in return? I said to Susan, “Let’s see how it works. Meanwhile, no more running around the property naked.”

  She smiled.

  I also told her, “He’d like us to take out our hedges for our mutual security.” I added, “I told him, however, we like our privacy.”

  Susan thought about that and said, “If he didn’t have such a problem with the dress code . . . or the undress code . . . well, I think Nasim is just putting the pressure on me to sell.”

  “That is certainly par
t of it.” I looked at her and said, “You should think about that.”

  “I will not.”

  “Then buy the estate back from him.”

  “And where would I get that kind of money?”

  My eyes drifted, unconsciously, to the carbine on the coffee table.

  She made a few mental connections, looked at me, and said, “That’s not funny.”

  “What?” I asked, innocently.

  She changed the subject and asked, “What did you and Mancuso talk about?”

  I briefed her on our conversation about Anthony Bellarosa’s disappearance, and the possible scenarios that might play out in the next week or two. I also discussed with her Felix Mancuso’s reassurances concerning our houseguests and our children.

  On this subject, she asked me a lot of questions, so I gave her Mancuso’s card and said to her, “He wants you to call him, and you should ask him all your questions, and mention any concerns you have.”

  “All right. I’ll do that today.”

  “Good. Also, you should know that Special Agent Mancuso paid a visit to Mr. Nasim, and that may have prompted the fortification of Stanhope Hall.”

  Susan thought about that and asked, “How did we get involved with all of this? All these people . . . ?”

  I hoped that was a rhetorical question, because if I had to answer it, I’d have to begin by bringing up things we’d just agreed not to speak about ever again. Of course, the Nasim problem was not of Susan’s making, but if Susan had not urged Frank Bellarosa to buy Stanhope Hall, then the estate would not have been seized by the government, and quite possibly it would now be owned by a nice family who didn’t know anyone who wanted to kill them, and so forth. And if Susan hadn’t had an affair with and murdered Frank Bellarosa, then Susan and John would have been living here in marital bliss for the last decade, without worrying about being the object of a Mafia vendetta. And so forth.

  But rather than mention any of that, I replied, “This will pass.”

  She looked at me, and asked, “What would I have done without you?”

  I had a similar question, but . . . well, I’d made this decision with my heart, not my head, so . . . I shouldn’t ask myself too many questions.

  Susan moved on to more important subjects. “I have a caterer coming to help me shop and cook for the week, and I have Sophie all week, and I think we have enough wine, beer, mixers, vodka, Scotch, and everything, but Mom and Dad drink gin martinis and we don’t have any gin. They drink Boodles. So, would you mind running out for gin?”

  “I just went out for guns.”

  “Please, John.”

  “Okay. I’ll see if I can get a pass to leave the compound.”

  She ignored that and asked, “Should I call my parents and tell them about the new security at the gate?”

  “That might be a good idea.” I suggested, “Tell them it has to do with Nasim, not us.”

  “Of course. And I’ll let Edward and Carolyn know. Peter, too.”

  “And Nasim wants the names of our guests in writing. So please take care of that.”

  “I will.”

  “Don’t forget our household staff, tradespeople, and delivery people.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” She commented, “This sucks.”

  “Right. Okay, I’ll be back within the hour. Meanwhile, take the shotgun shells upstairs and put the carbine in the hall closet.”

  “Don’t you want to take the carbine?”

  “No, I’ll take the Taurus.”

  “I mean . . . do you believe we’re having this conversation?”

  I didn’t reply to that, and said, “I’ll see you later.”

  She decided to walk me out to the car, and before I got in the Taurus, she gave me her cell phone and said, “Call me.” Then she gave me a big hug and a kiss, and said, “Be careful.”

  I got in the car and headed down the long drive toward the gatehouse.

  The gates were still open and unmanned, and I turned right onto Grace Lane.

  After about a minute, I saw a black Escalade coming toward me, and it slowed as it got closer.

  I couldn’t see through the tinted windows, and it was too far to see the license plate, but obviously the Escalade was slowing for a reason. I was now sorry I hadn’t taken the carbine.

  The Escalade stopped in the middle of the road, about thirty feet from me, and as I got closer, I could see the American flag decal on the side window, and I could also see that it was Anthony’s license plate.

  But was Anthony in the car? And would he use his own car to whack John Sutter? He was stupid, but this was like Mafia Hit 101—don’t use your own car or your own people, and don’t whack anyone in your own neighborhood.

  I could speed past the Escalade, or make a U-turn, but for the above reasons, and because I was curious about who wanted to speak to me, I drew abreast of the Escalade and stopped.

  The driver’s window went down, revealing Tony.

  I lowered my window, and he said to me, “Hey, Mr. Sutta. I thought that was you. How ya doin’?”

  “I’m doing very well. And how are you doing?”

  “Great.”

  I could see movement in the back seat, and I had the Taurus in drive and my foot ready to hit the accelerator. And if I had the carbine across my lap, I’d really feel better about this conversation.

  He asked me, “Whaddaya up to?”

  This idiot always asked the same stupid questions, and I replied, “Same old shit.”

  “Yeah? How’s Mrs. Sutta?”

  I almost said, “Fuck you,” but instead I asked, “Where’s your boss?”

  He smiled, and if we’d been closer, I’d have buried my fist in his face. He kept smiling and replied, “I don’t know. Why do you want to know?”

  I divided my attention between Tony and the movement in the back seat. I said to Tony, “Tell him I’m looking for him.”

  “Yeah? Why ya lookin’ for him?”

  I recalled that these conversations with Tony, even when he was doing business as Anthony, were not very enlightening or meaningful. I replied, “I remembered some other stuff about his father that I wanted to tell him.”

  “Yeah? He likes to hear that stuff. Me, too. Tell me.”

  Well, he asked, so I said, “If Frank had lived a little longer, he would have given you up to the Feds, and you’d still be in jail.”

  “Hey, fuck you.”

  “No, fuck you, Tony. And fuck your boss, and fuck—”

  The tinted rear window went down, and I was ready to cut the wheel and ram the Escalade, but Kelly Ann said, “You’re cursing! No cursing!”

  I took a deep breath, and said to her, “Sorry, sweetheart.” I said to Tony, “Tell your boss to stop hiding and act like a man.”

  Tony would have said, “Fuck you,” but Kelly Ann was waiting to pounce, and I could hear Frankie, sitting next to her, mimicking his older sister, “No cursing, no cursing.”

  Tony said to me, “I’ll let him know what you said.”

  “That’s very kind of you. But I’d like to tell him in person.”

  “Yeah. We’re workin’ on that.”

  “Good. And my regards to his future widow.”

  That seemed to confuse him, then he got it, and said to me, “Yeah, you too,” which wasn’t exactly the correct reply, but I got it.

  We rolled up our windows and continued on our ways.

  The question would be, “Why are you making things worse?” And the answer is, “Things could not be any worse, so there’s no downside to pissing off the guy who already wants to kill you.” In fact, it makes me feel better, and it might cause him to make a mistake. And that’s all I wanted—one mistake on his part, so I could kill him myself.

  PART IV

  Honor thy father and thy mother.

  —Exodus 20:12

  I tell you there’s a wall ten feet thick

  and ten miles high between parent and child.

  — George Bernard Shaw Misalli
ance

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  It was ten minutes past five, and the rain had arrived, though the Stanhopes had not. But Susan assured me, “They called ten minutes ago, and they just got off the Expressway.” She gave me an ETA of fifteen minutes, which was more than enough time for my second Dewar’s and soda.

  Susan and I were in the kitchen, and Sophie had laid out hors d’oeuvres on the center island, which I wasn’t allowed to touch. Also, the caterer had arrived, and she and Susan had planned a few menus for the week. Plus, Sophie was going to live in the downstairs maid’s room for the next five days. This was a convenience for Susan, of course, but it also gave William and Charlotte someone to boss around besides their daughter, and it might even ensure that we’d keep our voices down if we all got into a screaming match.

  The phone rang, and Susan spoke to someone and said, “Yes, we’re expecting them.” Susan hung up and said to me, “It’s the florist, finally.” She informed me, “There are guards now at the gates.”

  I didn’t comment on that, though I did note all this preparation for the arrival of Mom and Dad. But I recalled, from my last life here, that William and Charlotte never seemed to notice or appreciate all that Susan did for them when they came to visit. Well, they were demanding parents, but yet they spoke of Peter as if he were the perfect child. In fact, he was a useless turd, but he knew how to butter up Mom and Dad, and he knew where his bread came from.

  My other thought was that Susan was far too optimistic about her parents actually staying here. She’d had their old guest room cleaned and stocked with bottled water and snacks, and I was sure there were flowers for their room. I looked at Susan, and though I didn’t want her parents here, neither did I want her to be disappointed or hurt. I said to her, “Look, Susan, why don’t I go to a hotel—?”

  “No. You are my future husband and the father of our children. You are staying here with me, Edward, and Carolyn.”

  “But—”

  “But I do want you to disappear until I get a drink into their hands.” She suggested, “Wait in the office with the door closed, and I’ll buzz you on the intercom. About fifteen or twenty minutes after they arrive.”

  “They’ll see my car when they pull up.”