The Gate House (82 page)

“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 out 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.

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?