The Gate House   ::   Demille Nelson

When I was a few minutes from Grace Lane, Icalled 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.