Authors: Nelson DeMille
“Slow down.”
“John—”
“Stop!”
She hit the brakes and asked, “What—?”
I reached over and shut off the headlights, then said, “Go on. Slowly.”
She looked at me, then understood and began driving slowly up the drive, which was paved with gravel that crunched under the tires. She said, softly, “I can’t believe we have to do this.”
To lighten the moment, I joked, “Nasim does this every night.”
We continued on, and I asked for her cell phone, which she gave me, and I punched in 9-1-1, but not send.
The guest cottage came into view to our left, about a hundred yards away, and I could also see the lights from Stanhope Hall, which lay about a quarter of a mile beyond the guest cottage. If Nasim were watching through binoculars, he might think the assassins were coming for him.
As we drew closer to the cottage, I saw a few lights on inside the house and two exterior lights—one above the front door and one on a stone pillar to mark the turnoff from the driveway that led up to Stanhope Hall. Susan turned left from the main drive into the cottage driveway, and I said to her, “Turn around in the forecourt.”
As we reached the forecourt in front of the cottage, Susan swung around so the SUV pointed back to the driveway.
I gave her the cell phone and said, “I’ll check out the house, and you will stay here, ready to drive off quickly and call 9-1-1.” I added, “And push the panic button on your key fob.”
“John, if you think there’s a danger, let’s just go to a hotel tonight.”
I replied, “I don’t think there’s a danger, but I think we should take normal precautions.”
“This is not normal.”
“It is now.” Then I smiled and said, “Stay here, and stay awake.”
“John—”
I got out of the SUV, walked to the front door and checked that it was locked, then I walked to the side path that led to the rose garden to see if any windows were open or broken.
I went around to the back patio and checked the windows and doors, and peered inside. Then I moved to the other side of the house, and as I rounded the corner, something moved in the dark, and I froze.
I’d left a lamp on in the living room, and the light from the window illuminated a patch of the side lawn, and someone came into the light. It was Susan. She spotted me and said, “Everything looks good here.”
“I
told
you to stay in the car.”
“I stayed in the car. Then I got out of the car.” She added, “You were taking too long.”
I was very angry with her, but at the same time I was impressed with her courage. Susan is not timid, does not take orders well, and doesn’t have much patience with men who want to protect her. I’d seen that dozens of times at sea, and many times when we’d taken cross-country horseback rides. So I said calmly, “I learned in the Army that we all need to follow orders, and do only what we’ve been told to do, so that no one is taken by surprise.” I pointed out, “If I’d had a gun, I might have shot you.”
“Wait until we’re married.”
I wasn’t getting anywhere with logic, so I gave up, walked to the kitchen door, and unlocked it. I said, “Wait here.”
I went directly to the foyer to assure myself that the basement door was locked, then I did a quick walk-through of the ground floor, turning on the lights in each room. As I said, it’s a big house, and I had no intention of securing it room by room every time we came home. But for now—until the police spoke to Anthony Bellarosa and until I spoke to Felix Mancuso, and until we had a gun—that’s what I’d do, at least at night. This security check also showed Susan that this was real.
Susan did not wait outside, and she was in the foyer now, so I said, “Stay
here
,” and I went upstairs and checked out the five bedrooms, then came down and found her in the office. Apparently we were having a problem with the word “here.”
She was accessing her e-mail, and said to me, “My parents are flying in tomorrow . . .” She gave me the details of William and Charlotte’s broom ride, then said, “Edward will be in Thursday night, and Carolyn says to let her know when Ethel passes, and she’ll take the train in for the wake.”
“All right.” I noticed the message light on the phone was blinking, so I put it on speaker and retrieved the message. Elizabeth’s voice, sounding tired and strained, said, “I just wanted you to know that Mom passed away at eight-fifteen this evening.” There was a pause, then she said, “I’ll call you tomorrow with the arrangements. Thanks again for being such good friends.”
Neither Susan nor I said anything, then Susan dialed the phone, and I heard Elizabeth’s voice mail. Susan said, “Elizabeth, we are so sorry. But know that she’s at peace now, with God. If there is anything we can do to help with the arrangements, please call us.”
I said into the speaker, “Let me know if you’d like us to meet you at the funeral home. Don’t try to handle this all yourself. We want you to let us help.”
Susan hung up and said to me, “I remember when George died, and how I thought that an era was coming to an end . . . and that a little piece of my childhood went with him.”
I walked to the bar and asked, “Drink?”
“Please. Anything.”
I poured two brandies while Susan sent out e-mails, notifying the appropriate people of Ethel’s death.
So, I thought, Ethel Allard was dead. And, I recalled, so was John Gotti, and they’d died within a day of each other. Aside from that fact, I’m sure they had very little in common. And yet these two deaths had impacted my life; Ethel’s death had brought me home, and Gotti’s death might unleash a danger that had been on hold for the last ten years.
I gave Susan her brandy, we touched glasses, and Susan said, “To Ethel.”
I shared my thought with Susan and said, “She brought me home.”
Susan nodded and confessed, “I asked her to speak to you about me.”
“I know, and she did.”
“That was very selfish of me to ask that of a dying woman.”
I assured her, “I think she was happy to do it.”
Susan agreed, “I think she was.”
We took our drinks upstairs, undressed, and got into bed.
We talked and read for a while, then Susan fell asleep. I got out of bed and went into the basement to take another look for the shotgun. I still couldn’t find it, so I went to the kitchen and got a long carving knife, then returned to the bedroom, locked the door, and pushed my dresser in front of it.
I sat up in bed, thinking about all the events that had to happen, in a certain sequence, to get me here in this bedroom with a carving knife on my night table.
Well, it could have been worse; I could have been lost at sea. Or, even worse, married. Or it could have been better; Frank Bellarosa could have found the restaurant in Glen Cove ten years ago and never laid eyes on Alhambra, or Susan Sutter.
But things happened and didn’t happen, people lived and people died, and at the end of the day, you had to stop wondering why, and you had to start thinking at least one move ahead of anyone who had a fatal move planned for you.
I turned off the lamp, but kept myself half awake through the night.
I
t rained through the night, which made it difficult to hear if anyone was trying to get into the house.
I sat up in bed and looked at Susan sleeping beside me; this was still hard to believe. Even harder to believe was that Susan was a marked woman. Well, I’d lost her to Frank Bellarosa, but I was not going to lose her to Anthony Bellarosa.
It had been a long night, and I think I’d gotten myself worked up because of what Felix Mancuso had said—
She needs to be frightened
—and I was glad Mancuso was coming so I could tell him he’d kept me up all night. Susan had no such complaint.
I’m not the paranoid type, and when I’d made my sail around the world, I was one of the few skippers I met who did not keep a rifle on board, even though a few men had refused to crew for me because of that.
There was one time, however, off the Somali coast, when I did need a weapon, and I had to settle for a flare gun. It turned out all right, but barely. After that, I gave in to reality and picked up an AK-47 in Aden, which was easier to buy there than a bottle of Scotch, and cheaper.
With the AK-47 on board, I realized that I slept better at night, and I wondered how I’d gone so long without it. Reality sucks, but having your head in the clouds or up your butt can be fatal.
It was a gray, rainy dawn, but it was a welcome dawn. Of course, people can be murdered at any hour, but we have a primal instinct that tells us to stay alert when we’re supposed to be sleeping; there are night predators out there, and they hunt when we sleep.
I got out of bed, put on my robe, and went down to the basement again. After fifteen minutes of searching, I became convinced that the shotgun was back in Hilton Head, or that the movers had stolen it. Well, it was easy enough to buy any shotgun or rifle I wanted at a local sporting goods store. God bless the Second Amendment, and privately owned gun shops. It couldn’t be any easier if I was in a souk in Aden.
Here, however, despite my constitutional right to bear arms it was very difficult to obtain a license to own a concealed weapon—a handgun in this area—which is what I actually needed when Susan and I were out of the house. And I was fairly sure that Anthony Bellarosa and La Cosa Nostra did not have that same problem.
I went upstairs and found Susan sitting at the kitchen table in her white teddy that accentuated her tan. She was reading a women’s fitness magazine while absently popping vitamins into her mouth and washing them down with carrot juice, which matched her hair.
She looked up from her magazine and said, “Good morning.”
I was a little sleep-deprived, and annoyed about the shotgun, and not in the best of moods on this gray morning, so I didn’t reply.
She asked, “What were you doing in the basement?”
“I was trying on your winter dresses.”
“John, it’s too early.”
I noticed a pot of coffee brewing, so I poured myself a cup.
Susan suggested, “Have some carrot juice.”
“Thanks, but I already had an injection of pomegranate juice.”
“It’s
really
too early for that.”
I asked her, “Are you sure you took the shotgun from Hilton Head?”
“Yes, and I remembered where I put it.”
“Good. And where is that?”
“In the attic.”
“You said it was in the basement, Susan.”
“Basement, attic. Same thing.”
“Really? Okay . . . so, if I go up to the attic—”
“I’ve already done that.” She pointed to the broom closet and said, “It’s in there.”
“Of course.” I opened the broom closet, and leaning against the wall between a sponge mop and a broom—where long things are kept—was a gun case.
I took the case out of the closet and removed the shotgun, then made certain it was on safety before I examined it.
It was a twelve-gauge, double-barreled, side-by-side, Italian-made Beretta. On the walnut stock was a brass plate on which was engraved
Susan Stanhope Sutter
, and the nickel finish on the receiver was engraved and gold-inlayed with an elaborate floral design. If I had to guess how much this model sold for, I’d say about ten thousand dollars. Maybe it was a wedding gift from Sally Da-da, with thanks to Susan for clipping Frank Bellarosa.
Susan straightened me out on that and said, “Dan gave that to me when I joined a local shooting club.”
Apparently Dan didn’t know what happened to her last boyfriend.
She suggested, “You can sell it, and get another one if you want.”
I guess I had to decide if the shotgun had any sentimental value for her—fond memories of her and Dan blasting clay pigeons out of the sky, or vaporizing ducks in a swamp.
She set me straight on that, too, and said, “He didn’t shoot. I did.” She added, “He golfed. And golfed.”
I assured her, “We can keep this. It has your name on it.”
She shrugged and went back to her magazine.
I broke open the gun to be sure she hadn’t left shells in the chambers, and peered down the barrels, which were clean enough, but probably the whole gun could use a cleaning and oiling. I asked her, “When was the last time you fired this?”
Without looking up from her magazine, she replied, “About two years ago.”
I commented, “It would have been nice to have this last night.”
She had no reply.
I asked her, “Do you have a cleaning kit?”
“I couldn’t find it.”
“Shells?”
“I’ll look for them.”
Well, the shotgun wouldn’t have done much good last night. I said, “I’ll just go to a sporting goods store today.”
She didn’t respond.
I put the shotgun back in its case and said, “I think we should get a dog.”
“I had a dog.”
“Is he in the attic?”
She ignored that and said, “Dogs are a lot of work. Why do you want a dog?”
Apparently we weren’t on the same page. I said, “For security.”
“Oh . . . well . . . all right. But let’s wait until after the funeral, and after everyone has left.” She added, “My parents don’t like dogs.”
I was sure their pet rats didn’t either. I reminded her, “They’re probably not staying here.”
“Would you mind if they did?”
“I’d be surprised if they did.”
She threw her magazine aside and said, “John, I don’t think they will react as negatively as you think they will.”
“I will be happy to be proven wrong.”
“Did I hear that right?”
I had this horrifying thought that today was the first day of the rest of my life. I suggested to her, “Cut down on your Vitamin Bitch pills.”
I walked to the refrigerator to see about breakfast, but before I opened the door she said, “For
that
remark, you have to eat
this
for breakfast.”
I looked back over my shoulder, and Susan was lying on the table with her spread legs dangling over the edge and her teddy pulled up to her breasts. My goodness.
Well . . . I was thinking about an English muffin, but . . .
A
fter my breakfast of champions, Susan, I, and the shotgun went upstairs to the bedroom, and Susan informed me, “Sophie is coming today. So why don’t we put that in your closet?”