The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  Anthony also let me know, “Tony took your wife’s Lexus. I hope you don’t mind. So, you’re thinking to yourself, ‘How did this dumb wop get the drop on me?’ Right? Is that what you’re thinking, smart guy?”

  The thought had crossed my mind, and I was angry at myself for being so damned stupid. But the attacker always has the advantage. His late uncle would agree with that.

  “You and your wife think you’re so fucking smart. Or maybe you and your stupid wife thought I wasn’t coming after you, and you got sloppy.”

  I reached the top of the stairs, and he said, “Stay on your hands and knees and move toward your bedroom.”

  Anthony moved quickly past me, keeping the rifle aimed at me as he went toward the bedroom door. He stopped and watched me as I crawled down the hallway toward him.

  He said, “Yeah, your dumb wife gets a call from the gatehouse, but it’s Tony calling, and he says, ‘I got a package for you, Mrs. Sutter. I’ll bring it around when I check out the property, like your husband asked me to do.’ So, you got to be careful who you talk to, John. Maybe that security guy you talked to was working for me. Right? Hey, say something. Say something smart.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “That’s not so smart. I can’t believe I was going to hire you. Look at you—buck naked on your hands and knees, with cuffs on, and you’re crawling where I tell you to crawl. So you’re really not that fucking smart. And I’m not as dumb as you thought I was—okay, stop there.”

  I stopped about ten feet from the bedroom door.

  He continued, “Yeah, so Tony rings the bell, she looks through the peephole, sees a guy in an All-Safe uniform, then just opens the door. How fucking dumb is that? And you should’ve been there, John, when Tony pushes her into the house, and I walk in behind him. I mean, she just stares at me, and right away she knows who I am. And then she remembers Tony from when she was fucking my father. And I say to her, ‘You killed my father, you bitch,’ and I thought she was going to piss her pants. And then she goes for this rifle in the umbrella stand, and I knock her on her ass.”

  “You’re a real man.”

  “Shut the fuck up.” He said, “So you keep a rifle by the door. You expectin’ trouble?” He laughed. “Does that rich bitch even know how to use a gun?” He realized that was a stupid question and said, “That bitch shot my father for no reason—”

  “I told you the reason—”

  “You’re a lying asshole, but I’ll get the truth out of you and her tonight.” He threw open the door, stepped aside, and said, “Go see your wife.”

  I started to stand, but he shouted, “Hands and knees, asshole!”

  I crawled through the bedroom doorway.

  “Up on your knees.”

  I got up on my knees.

  Susan was lying on the bed, naked, and it took me a moment to realize that her wrists and ankles were tied to the bedposts. Then I noticed white tape over her mouth.

  She turned her head toward me, and I could see fear in her eyes. But thank God she was alive.

  Anthony shut the door behind me and said, “So there she is, John. You wanted to see her, and now you and me can see all of her. And I see she’s a real redhead.”

  I kept staring at Susan, and she was looking at me, tears running down her face.

  I stood and took a step toward her, then I felt a blow to the middle of my back, and I fell forward onto the floor. I lay there, less stunned than I pretended to be, and I tried to judge how far he was from me.

  He said, “Get up.”

  I could tell he’d moved away from me, so I lay motionless, hoping he’d come close enough to hit me again with the rifle butt.

  Instead, he fired a round into the floor next to my face, which made me jump. He shouted, “Get up, or the next one goes up your ass!”

  I lifted myself back to my knees, took a deep breath, and looked at Susan. She was pulling at her bonds, which I saw were nylon ropes, and she was crying and trying to call out. I also saw that there were red marks on her face, where he’d apparently hit her, and I saw a leather belt—one of my belts—lying on the bed.

  Anthony said, “I’m going to rape your wife, and you’re going to have a front-row seat.”

  “You’re a sick bastard.”

  “No. I’m a nice guy. I told you, women and children get a pass. So I’m not going to kill her, but when I get through with her, she and you are gonna wish you were dead.”

  I didn’t say anything, but I knew I had to make a move, even if it was a bad move. Where was the shotgun? It wasn’t where I’d left it propped against the nightstand. Maybe it was in the closet.

  Anthony moved around to the far side of the bed, and he put the muzzle of the rifle to Susan’s head and said to me, “Crawl over to that radiator. Come on, asshole. Move it.”

  I knew if I went to the radiator, I’d be cuffed to the pipe, and that would end any chance I had to turn this around.

  Anthony picked up the leather belt on the bed, stepped back, and brought it down hard across Susan’s thighs. Her body arched, and I could hear a muffled scream through the tape.

  He raised the belt again, and I shouted, “No!” I moved on my hands and knees toward the radiator under the window. I looked around the room as I crawled to the radiator and saw Susan’s robe and panties on the floor, and I also saw that the two suitcases were knocked off their luggage racks, and the clothes were strewn around the carpet. Where was the shotgun?

  “Kneel next to the pipe with your back to the wall. I want you where you can get a good view.”

  I knelt beside the radiator. He took another pair of handcuffs from his gun belt and flung them at me, hitting me in the face.

  “Cuff yourself to the radiator.”

  I hesitated, and he said, “You’re fucking with me, John. I don’t want to kill you. I want you to watch. Don’t fuck me up, and don’t fuck yourself up.”

  I cuffed my left wrist to the radiator pipe and knelt, staring at him.

  Anthony set the rifle on the bureau and looked at me. He said, “Okay, let the fun begin.”

  He walked to the foot of the bed and looked at Susan. “Well, I can see why my father liked to fuck her. Good tits, nice ass, and great legs.”

  Anthony had a script, a fantasy, and I knew he’d thought about this. And I hoped, too, that he really didn’t intend to commit a double murder.

  He lit a cigarette and said to me, “So you were going to London. What’s the matter? You don’t like it here? Something here scare you?”

  He drew on his cigarette and said, “Just so you know what to look forward to, John—you’re going to watch her give me a blow job, then I’m going to fuck her so hard she won’t be good for you anymore.”

  When I didn’t respond, he said, “And you better watch, asshole. And when this is all over, you two will shut your fucking mouths and thank God you’re alive. But if you go to the cops, then I swear on my father’s grave, I’ll kill her, and I’ll kill your kids. No free pass for them if you go to the cops. Understand?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay. So you understand the rules. No one has to die. You just got to live with this so every time you fuck your wife, you can both think about me. Right?”

  Again, I nodded.

  “Good. And you don’t care, anyway. My father fucked her, I’m gonna fuck her, and maybe we’ll let Tony fuck her later. Right?” He looked at me and said, “I don’t hear much coming out of your wise-ass mouth now, Counselor.”

  He pulled the tape off Susan’s mouth. “What do you have to say, bitch?”

  She took a deep breath between her sobs and said, “Please. Just do what you want and leave us alone.”

  He laughed. “Yeah. I’m gonna do what I want all right.”

  He threw his cigarette on the rug and ground it out with his heel. He asked me, “Why’d you slash my painting, John?”

  I didn’t reply, and he said to Susan, “I liked that painting, and your husband here fucked it up. So you’re gonna
paint me another one. And when you’re done, you and John are coming over to the house to give it to me and Megan. Right?”

  Susan nodded. “All right.”

  He smiled, then looked at me. “Okay, John? You and your wife come over for coffee. Just like the old days. And you sit there, like you did ten years ago when you knew my father was fucking your wife, except this time, it’s me who fucked your wife. And you won’t have shit to say about it.”

  I nodded. It was possible, I thought, that we’d get out of this alive, and if I ever got close enough to Anthony Bellarosa to have coffee with him, then I would be close enough to put a knife in his heart.

  He said, “And you’re both gonna be nice to my wife, and bring over a bottle of wine, and say, ‘This is a very nice house, Mrs. Bellarosa,’ and ‘Thank you for inviting us, Mrs. Bellarosa.’”

  This was Anthony’s revenge fantasy, and he’d obviously thought about this for a long time, and he was going to draw it out, to taunt us, humiliate us, and do everything he could to make sure this stayed with us long past the time he walked out the door.

  And then I thought of the other painting in his den—the Rape of the Sabine Women. And now I understood—or had I always understood?—why it was there, and why Susan’s painting was also in his den.

  I realized, too, that this bastard was so sure of himself that he thought he could rape Susan and smirk about it every time he saw us. And I didn’t want him to think otherwise. I said, “Just don’t hurt her.”

  He smiled at me and said, “I’m going to make her feel good. Like my father did.”

  Susan said to him, “Please. Just do it and leave. We won’t say anything.”

  “You’re fucking right you won’t say anything.”

  I saw Anthony glance at his watch, and I wondered if he was on a schedule, or if he was waiting for Tony to return.

  He lit another cigarette and said to me, “When I’m done with your wife, I’m gonna call Tony, and when he gets here, we can have some real fun.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Yeah. This is going to be a very long night. But it’s better than being dead.” He looked at Susan and said, “Okay, sweetheart. You waited long enough. You excited?”

  Susan didn’t respond.

  “Come on, tell me you’re excited.”

  “I’m excited.”

  He laughed, then went to Susan’s bureau and took the camera that she’d put there to pack.

  He ground his cigarette out on the bureau, then examined the camera. He took three shots of Susan on the bed, then a shot of me. He threw the camera on the bed and said, “Okay, we’ll use up that roll tonight when Tony gets here. Hey, you don’t mind if I keep the film? I’ll send you copies.” He looked at me and said, “If you live. And that depends on how good she is to me. And I want you both on that plane tomorrow. Understand? I want you the fuck out of here. You’re gonna need a nice vacation after tonight.” He unbuckled his gun belt and threw it on the bureau. He kicked off his shoes, got undressed, and dropped his clothes on the floor.

  As he walked toward the bed, I could see that he was aroused. He said to Susan, “How’s that look, sweetheart? You think you can take all that?”

  She nodded.

  I noticed that he had a pocketknife in his hand. He unclasped the knife and cut the nylon cord on Susan’s left wrist, then moved around the bed and cut the other three cords.

  “Okay, bitch, out of bed.” He grabbed her hair and pulled her off the bed, then shoved her onto the floor. “You kneel right here where your husband can see you.”

  Susan knelt alongside the bed, and we made eye contact. I nodded and said to her, “It’s all right.”

  He smiled at me and said, “Yeah? It’s all right? Good. It’s all right with me, too.”

  He put the knife under her chin and told her, “Don’t try anything, or I’ll kill you both. Understand?”

  She nodded.

  “All right . . .” He took a step closer to her and said, “Put that in your mouth.”

  Susan hesitated, so he grabbed her hair again and pulled her face into his groin. He glanced at me and said, “You better fucking watch this, or I’ll beat her ass with that belt.”

  I nodded.

  He said to her, “Open up. That’s it . . . put it in there, bitch . . . okay . . . ooh, that’s nice . . . John? Watch her suck my cock—”

  All of a sudden, he let out a scream, dropped the knife, and jumped backwards.

  Susan fell face first on the floor and rolled under the bed. Anthony was holding his groin, doubled over and groaning in pain, then he dropped to the floor, stuck his head under the bed skirt, and grabbed for her.

  I shouted, “Anthony, you fuck! You dumb piece of shit!” I grabbed the radiator and rocked it, trying to break the connection between the radiator and the pipe, but it held. Damn it. “Anthony!”

  As I looked up, he was standing and moving quickly to the far side of the bed, screaming, “You fucking bitch! You’re dead, you fucking bitch!”

  I saw Susan’s head and shoulders rising above the bed, then as Anthony came at her, she stood, and slowly and deliberately raised the shotgun to her shoulder. He was less than three feet from her when he stopped dead in his tracks and said, “What the—?”

  I heard a loud blast, and I saw Susan’s right shoulder lurch back. Anthony’s whole body moved backwards, then he lost his footing and fell.

  I saw Susan switch to the other barrel as she took a step toward him. She raised the shotgun to her shoulder again and pointed the barrels at his face.

  “Susan!”

  She looked at me.

  “No. Don’t.”

  She looked back at Anthony, who I could see was still moving, and he raised his right arm in a protective gesture.

  “Susan! Find the keys to these cuffs. Quick!”

  She took another look at Anthony, then threw the shotgun on the bed and found the keys in Anthony’s pants pocket.

  She knelt beside me, but we didn’t speak as she unlocked the cuffs. I stood quickly and went to the door and locked it. I looked at Anthony again, who was still very much alive, his hands over his chest, and his body rocking from side to side.

  I took Susan in my arms. She was trembling, and I said, “Just sit here . . .” I moved her toward a chair and sat her down. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, and stared at Anthony.

  I walked across the floor to Anthony and stood over him. Our eyes met. Then I looked at where he was holding both hands over the wound on the right side of his chest, and I saw blood seeping between his fingers. I’d expected to see his chest peppered with buckshot, but Susan had used the barrel with the deer slug. I looked at the wall behind where he had been standing, and I saw the bullet hole in the pale blue wallpaper.

  I looked back at Anthony and again our eyes met. I said to him, “You brought this on yourself.”

  His lips moved and a wheezing sound came out of his mouth. I heard him whisper, “Fuck you.”

  “No, fuck you.”

  I could see now that the blood coming through his fingers was mixed with red froth, meaning it was a lung wound. Not good, but he could live . . . if he got to a hospital. I noticed, too, that there was blood on his penis, which was the least of his problems.

  I went back to Susan, who was still sitting, staring at Anthony. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, never taking her eyes off Anthony.

  I took her robe and panties off the floor and gave them to her. I said, “I’m going to call the police.”

  She grabbed my arm. “No.”

  “Susan. He needs an ambulance.”

  “No! Not this time.”

  I looked at her, then I said, “All right . . . get dressed.”

  I helped her up, and she slipped on her robe, then walked toward her closet. On the way, she stopped and looked down at Anthony.

  I could hear him try to say something, then Susan knelt beside him and put her head down close to him and
listened. She shook her head and said to him, “No ambulance. You’re going to die.”

  He grabbed at her, and she knocked his arm away, then stood and went into the closet.

  I walked into my closet and pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt, then I went back to Anthony and knelt beside him. His breathing was becoming more labored, and I could hear a wheezing sound coming from the hole in his chest. Also, the blood from the exit wound was soaking the carpet around him, and there was dark blood coming out of his mouth, which was not a good sign—at least not for him.

  To treat a sucking chest wound you seal the entry and exit holes to keep the air in the lung from escaping, and you wrap the chest wound tightly to slow the bleeding. But did I want to do that?

  Susan came out of the closet dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. She glanced at Anthony and saw he was still breathing.

  I took the roll of film out of the camera, then I gathered the carbine, the shotgun, and Anthony’s gun belt with the holster and the pistol. I took Susan’s arm, unlocked the door, and led her out of the room and down the stairs.

  We went into the office, and I threw the weapons on the couch, then I sat her in the club chair. I went to the bar and poured each of us a brandy.

  She took a long drink, and I did, too, then I sat at the desk and picked up the phone.

  “John. Don’t.”

  I ignored her and dialed 9-1-1. A female operator answered, and I said, “I want to report a home invasion, an attempted rape, and a shooting.”

  I gave the operator the location, then I gave her some details of the incident as police and emergency service vehicles were being dispatched.

  The operator said, “About five minutes.”

  I told her about the iron gates that might need to be forced open, and she asked me, “Do you think there are any other perpetrators on the premises?”

  I replied, “There was, but I think he’s gone and waiting for a call from the assailant.”

  “Okay, sir, you just sit tight there with your wife, and please secure any firearms.”

  I thanked her and hung up. I said to Susan, “They’ll be here in five minutes.”

  She looked at me and asked, “Will he be dead?”