The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  “You know me too well.” I replied, seriously, “I can’t ever forgive or forget what they’ve put us through during our marriage, and just recently, but . . .” I can be magnanimous in victory, so I continued, “I will say this: If your father—and your mother, as well—is looking for forgiveness and trying to make amends, then I’m open to that, and I’m certain that your father is going to forgive me for calling him an unprincipled asshole, and so forth. But my question to you is: How do you feel about them?”

  She took a deep breath, then replied, “I’m angry. And I’ve seen this very unpleasant side of them. But they are my parents, and I love them, and I will forgive them.” She added, “We would want that from our children.”

  “Well, we would, but we don’t need their forgiveness for anything.”

  She stayed silent a few moments, then confessed, “I did. For what I did. And they forgave me, unconditionally. Just as you have.”

  I nodded and said, “Life is short.”

  Maybe I could eventually forgive Charlotte and William for what they did to the Sutter family—the best revenge is living well. But I could never forgive William for what he did to those young girls, and that would stay with me, and with him, until the day we both died.

  So we sat in the shade of the patio and looked out into the sunny rose garden as we sipped our cold beers. It really was an exquisite day, and nature was in full bloom, and the air was scented with roses and honeysuckle. I watched a big monarch butterfly trying to decide where to land.

  Susan broke into my quiet moment and said, “We need to e-mail the children with this good news, and give them some calendar updates, and . . . well, maybe mention that they might see something in the newspapers about . . . us.”

  “You should e-mail Carolyn about this good news. I’ve already e-mailed her about our possible mention in the bad news.”

  Susan nodded, then said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Subject closed.”

  “All right. Then I’ll e-mail Edward . . .”

  “And definitely tell him that Grandpa has blessed our marriage by handing over his trust fund to him. But don’t say too much about our possible appearance in the news.”

  “All right. But you know that he and Carolyn will discuss this.”

  “Fine. And we’ll answer their questions truthfully, but with a little spin.” I further suggested, “Call your parents and set up a date when they can visit Edward in L.A. They need to get to know their heirs better.”

  She smiled, then said, “That’s not a bad idea.”

  Again we sat in silence, enjoying and savoring the moment together. There are not many perfect hours such as this, especially on a day that had begun so badly, which made this moment all the more extraordinary.

  Of course, in every Garden of Eden, there is at least one serpent lurking in the flowers, and we actually had two. The first had a name, and it was Anthony Bellarosa. We knew he was here, and we were avoiding him, and we even avoided speaking of him—at least for now.

  The second serpent had no name, and it had recently slithered into the garden. But if I had to give it a name, I’d call it Doubt.

  So, to kill this, before it killed us, I said to Susan, “What we did was an act of love.”

  She didn’t reply, so I continued, “I never doubted your love, and I know that your heart was breaking.”

  Again no reply, so I concluded, “And if we had to do it over again, we would do the same thing.”

  She sat there for a long time, then said, “You didn’t even want to take his money. And I . . . I feel so venal, so compromised—”

  “No. Remember why we did what we did. It wasn’t for us.” It was to screw William and Peter. And, of course, to see that Edward and Carolyn got their fair share of the family fortune.

  “John, that might be true for you, but I’m not sure about me.”

  “Don’t doubt your motives. Your father created an impossible dilemma.”

  “I know . . . but, God, I felt that I was selling myself and betraying you, and giving up our love for—”

  “Susan, I don’t feel that way, so neither should you.”

  “All right . . . you’re a very loving and wise man.”

  “I am. Have another beer.”

  She forced a smile, then said, “I hope this never comes back to haunt us.”

  I pointed out, “If we could work through what happened ten years ago, then this is nothing.”

  “I love you.”

  “That’s why we’re here.” I asked, “Where is the pizza guy?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never ordered a pizza in my life.”

  “Well, we’ll fix that in the next twenty years.”

  We sat and talked about London, and Paris, with maybe a side trip to the Loire Valley, as we’d done many years ago.

  Susan’s portable phone rang, and it was the guard at the gate announcing the pizza man.

  I got up, went through the house, and waited for him outside the front door. But as I stood there, I realized that it was moments like this, when you are least expecting it, that your world could suddenly explode—as it had for Salvatore D’Alessio.

  I saw a small van coming up the driveway. I went back into the house, bounded up the stairs, grabbed the carbine, went down into my office, and looked out the window. The van stopped, and a young Hispanic-looking guy got out, retrieved the pizza from the rear, then ambled toward the front door. I mean, I wasn’t thinking that the pizza delivery kid could be a hit man, but it was just the act of me standing outside, with no one around, and Alhambra Estates five hundred yards away through the trees, that had spooked me for a moment. Well, that was good. Uncle Sal had been stuffing a cannoli in his mouth, or doing something other than watching the door, and the next thing he knew, he was looking down the barrels of a shotgun. Then, bang, he was in hell.

  The doorbell rang, and I went to the front door. I stuck the carbine in the umbrella stand and opened up.

  I looked over the pizza guy’s shoulder as we exchanged pizza for money, plus a nice tip, and I locked the door.

  I can balance a pizza box on one finger, but I used my whole hand, and carried the box and the carbine out to the patio.

  Susan couldn’t help but notice the carbine, and asked, “Do we really need that out here?”

  “I hope not.”

  I opened the box on the table, and the aroma wafted into my nose and engulfed my soul.

  I sat, and Susan went inside, then returned with plates, napkins, knives, and forks. I explained that napkins were optional, and the rest of the stuff was not necessary.

  I know that Lady Stanhope has eaten pizza—I’ve seen her—but she always approaches food like this with some trepidation and perhaps a little disdain.

  I showed her how to flip the point back and bite it off, then fold the slice to stabilize it. I said, “It’s basic physics.”

  So we sat there with our beers, and our pizza, and our rifle, and we had a nice lunch.

  Susan confessed, “This actually tastes good.”

  “And it’s good for you.”

  “I don’t think so, but we can have this once in a while.”

  I pointed out, “We could buy the whole pizza parlor.”

  She laughed, then said, “Well, John, you saved the day, and I guess I owe you something.” She asked me, “Aside from the yacht, and unhealthy food, what would you like?”

  “Just you, darling.”

  “You already have me.”

  “And that’s all I want.”

  “How about a sports car?”

  “Okay.”

  I ate half the pizza—six slices—and Susan had a second piece, and we wrapped the rest for my breakfast.

  Then we went to the bedroom to work off the pizza—sort of a victory lap—and pack for our trip. I had a whole wardrobe in London, so I just threw some odds and ends in my suitcase, and Susan saw this as an opportunity to pack more of her clothes in my luggage. She said, “I have some nice things
in the basement that I haven’t gotten around to unpacking.”

  Well, we could be gone a lot longer than three weeks, so I didn’t object.

  After we packed our suitcases, we took a nap, then at about 5:00 P.M., I got up and said to Susan, “I’m going to run into Locust Valley for a few things. Would you like to come?”

  “No, I have a lot to do here, but I’ll give you a list of what I need.”

  So I got dressed and said to her, “Keep the doors locked, and don’t go outside.”

  She didn’t reply.

  I further advised her, “Keep the carbine or the shotgun near you. I’ll put the carbine in the umbrella stand near the front door.”

  “John—”

  “Susan, we have about”—I looked at my watch—“less than fifteen hours before we’re lifting off the runway. Let’s play it safe.”

  She shrugged, then asked me, “What time do you want the car to pick us up for a seven-thirty A.M. flight?”

  We’d have to leave for the airport at about 5:00 A.M. in the dark, so I replied, “We will take my rental car so that I can keep the carbine with us, and we’ll park the car in the long-term lot.”

  “I’d really rather take a car service and avoid the hassle.”

  “Me, too. But we need to take that final precaution.”

  She didn’t look happy about that and said, “John, we’re going on vacation—not into battle.”

  “Don’t argue with me, or I’ll call your father and tell him to straighten you out.”

  She smiled and said, “You are going to be insufferable.”

  “Yes.”

  I gave her a kiss, and she said, “Don’t be too long. Do you want my cell phone?”

  “I do.” She gave me her cell phone, and I said goodbye, took the carbine, and went downstairs. I placed the rifle in the umbrella stand, then went out the front door, which I locked.

  I had the keys for both cars, and I decided to take my Taurus, which would be easier to park downtown.

  I got in and drove down the driveway. When I got to the gatehouse, I used the remote and the gates swung inward. I had a thought, and I honked my horn, then got out of the car.

  The gatehouse door opened, and a young security guard, whom I didn’t know, came out.

  I said to him, “I’m Mr. Sutter and I live in the guest cottage.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “I am until eight P.M., then a second man comes on duty.”

  “All right . . . well, what I need you to do, in about fifteen or twenty minutes, is to drive up to the guest cottage and just walk around to see that everything looks okay.”

  “Well . . . I’m not supposed to leave my post.”

  “That is part of your post tonight.” I gave him a twenty-dollar bill and said, “Mrs. Sutter is in the house, and we are expecting no visitors, so do not let anyone in, unless you call us and get an okay. I will be back in about half an hour.” Actually, it could be closer to an hour, but he didn’t need to know that.

  He seemed happy with his tip and replied, “No problem,” whatever that means.

  I got back in the car and headed toward Locust Valley.

  Aside from Susan’s shopping list in my pocket, I had Ethel’s letter, which I needed to photocopy. In fact, I’d make twenty copies, and send one to William every month, plus Father’s Day, Christmas, and his birthday.

  As I got to the edge of the village, I called Susan, and she answered. I said, “Traffic is heavy, and parking will be tight, so I’m not sure how long this will take.”

  “Take your time.”

  “Do you need onions?”

  “No onions, sweetie.”

  “Okay.” I told her, “I asked the guard at the gate to check out the house in about fifteen minutes.” I reminded her, “The carbine is in the umbrella stand in case you need to go downstairs. Leave the shotgun in the bedroom. I’ll call you later.”

  The village was crowded with cars jockeying for parking spaces. I glanced at the dashboard clock: 5:39. Well, with any luck, I could be back within the hour.

  What could happen in one hour?

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  I bought everything on the list for our trip, and I also made a dozen copies of Ethel’s letter at a local print shop in case William needed monthly reminders of why we were negotiating a family financial agreement. I began the fifteen-minute drive back to Stanhope Hall. It was now 6:23 on the dashboard clock.

  I used Susan’s cell phone to call the house, but she didn’t answer, so I left a message. “I’ll be home in ten or fifteen minutes. Call me when you get this.”

  She was probably in the shower, or despite my advice to stay inside, maybe she was on the patio without her portable house phone. Another very likely possibility was that she was in the basement, looking for clothes to pack, and there was no phone down there.

  When I was a few minutes from Grace Lane, I called the gatehouse to tell them to open the gates, but no one answered. Maybe the guard was on the other line, or he was outside, or using the bathroom.

  I turned onto Grace Lane and pressed on the accelerator. Within three minutes, I was in front of the gates, and I used the remote control to open them.

  I drove through the moving gates and glanced at the gatehouse as I passed by. No one stepped out the door, and I continued on faster than I would normally drive up the curving gravel driveway to the guest cottage. I wasn’t worried, but neither was I completely unconcerned.

  I saw that Susan’s Lexus was gone, and I breathed a sigh of relief. At the same time, I was angry at her for not calling to let me know she was going out, and also angry at her for going out at all, especially without her cell phone. The woman just doesn’t listen.

  I parked the Taurus, retrieved the shopping bags, unlocked the front door, and went inside.

  Then I realized that this made no sense. I could imagine her just hopping in her car and running off on an errand, but I couldn’t imagine her not having the sense to call me. I took her cell phone out of my pocket to see if I’d missed a call from her, but there was nothing on the display except the time: 6:42.

  I glanced back at the umbrella stand and saw that the carbine was missing.

  Then I smelled cigarette smoke.

  I stood frozen, and my heart started beating quickly. I dropped the shopping bags, then took a step backwards toward the front door and started to dial 9-1-1 on the cell phone.

  Anthony Bellarosa stepped out of my office and said, “Drop the fucking phone.”

  I stared at him. He was wearing the blue uniform of All-Safe Security, and he had my M-1 carbine in his hands—aimed at me.

  “Drop the fucking phone, or you’re dead.”

  I couldn’t believe that he was actually standing there. Mancuso said he was out of town, and Mancuso also said Anthony would not do this himself. And I believed that . . . except I also believed that this was personal, and that Anthony had more on his mind than murder.

  “Drop the fucking phone!”

  He fired.

  I could hear the bullet pass by my left ear and smack into the heavy oak door behind me.

  He said, “If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead. Like my uncle. But don’t make me kill you.” He pointed the rifle at my chest and said, “Drop it.”

  I dropped the phone.

  He cradled the rifle in his right arm and said, “Yeah, good balls, but not much brains today, John.”

  “Where is Susan?”

  “She’s okay. I was saving her for when you got home.”

  “Anthony—”

  “Shut the fuck up.” He asked me, “Are you carrying?”

  I shook my head.

  “Take off your jacket.”

  I took my jacket off, and he said, “Throw it down.”

  I dropped it on the floor, and he said, “Okay, strip and let’s see what you got.”

  I didn’t move, and he said, “Take your fucking clothes off, or I swear I’ll blow o
ut your kneecaps.”

  “Where is Susan?”

  He smiled and said, “She’s naked, like you’re gonna be. Like we’re all gonna be. Come on. Strip.”

  Again, I didn’t move. Anthony was about fifteen feet from me, and I couldn’t cover that distance before he got off a shot.

  He pointed the rifle toward my legs, then fired two shots. I didn’t feel anything, then I realized he’d put both rounds into one of the shopping bags and fluids were leaking onto the floor.

  “That was your last fucking warning. Get your clothes off. Slow.”

  I took off my clothes and dropped them on the floor.

  “Turn around.”

  I turned around.

  “Okay, pretty boy. No gun, no wire. You are totally fucked. Turn around.”

  I turned facing him. My heart was pounding and my mouth was dry. I tried to think. What was he up to? Why wasn’t I dead? Was Susan all right? Well . . . I knew the answers to all that.

  He was wearing a gun and holster, and he unhooked a pair of handcuffs from his gun belt and said, “Catch,” then threw them to me, but I let them hit my chest and fall to the ground.

  “Put the cuffs on, asshole, or I blow your legs out from under you.” He swung the barrel of the rifle toward my legs again. “Come on, John. I don’t have all fucking night. You want to see Susan? Put the cuffs on, and we’ll go see Susan. I want you to see her.”

  I lowered myself into a crouch and reached for the cuffs. I could possibly spring off from this position and get to him, but he knew that, so he took a step backwards as he brought the rifle up to his shoulder and aimed it at me. “Now!”

  I retrieved the handcuffs and snapped them loosely on my wrists.

  “Okay, you’re going up the stairs on your hands and knees. Down.”

  I got on the floor and started crawling toward the stairs. Anthony moved behind me, and I could hear the bolt on the front door slide shut.

  I made my way up the stairs on my hands and knees, and Anthony kept his distance as he followed me. He let me know, “I have the rifle pointed right at your naked butt, and my finger is twitching on the trigger.”

  I weighed my options, but there was nothing to weigh. I just wanted to see that Susan was alive—then I’d think about what to do.