The Gate House (83 page)

“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?”

“I don’t know.”

“I aimed for his heart. But he moved.”

I had no comment on that, but I did say, “You’re very brave, and very smart.”

She took another sip of brandy and said, “I wasn’t too smart when I opened the door.”

“I probably would have done the same thing.”

She didn’t reply, but I saw she was looking at the shotgun on the couch.

She said to me, “We should check on him. Before the police arrive.”

I thought, of course, about Frank Bellarosa, lying on the floor in Giulio’s, his carotid artery spurting blood.
Stop the bleeding.
That was rule one of basic first aid. So I stopped the bleeding. He lived, and here we were, ten years later, dealing with the consequences.

Susan stood and walked toward the shotgun on the couch.

“Susan.”

She looked at me and said, “Before you got here . . . he said to me—you and your husband think you’re so fucking smart, so fucking above—”

“I know what he said.”

“So fucking high and mighty . . . well, he said, when I get through with you, you’re never going to be the same again . . . and your fucking husband is never going to look at you the same again . . . and you can live with that, bitch, the way I live with thinking about you killing my father . . .” She picked up the shotgun and said, “And he told me I might like it so much, I might want to do it with him again.”

I stood and moved between her and the door. I said, “You can’t do that. I won’t let you.”

She stared at me, the shotgun cradled in her arm, then said, “I am so sorry, John, for everything that has happened to us.”

“That subject is closed.”