Chapter 13 - The Broken Gate
The winter wind in Wisconsin blew hard off the frosted surface of Lake Geneva.
Ice clung to the jagged rocks along the shoreline.
Alexander stood outside the wrought-iron gates of the twelve-million-dollar estate he had called his home for five years.
He had hitched a ride on the back of a commercial delivery truck from Joliet, paying the driver his last twenty-dollar bill and his gold tie clip.
His shoes were soaked through with slush.
His fingers were numb, red, and stiff from the sub-zero chill.
The stone pillars stood tall and indifferent, flanking the heavy iron gates.
The brass plaque that once read The Whitmore Estate had already been unbolted.
Only four dark holes remained in the limestone where the screws had been ripped out.
Alexander staggered toward the keypad mounted beside the gate.
He punched in his master code: 1-0-2-4.
The keypad let out a low, discordant double beep.
Error: Code Denied.
He punched it again, harder, slamming his fist against the metal casing.
1-0-2-4.
Error: Code Denied.
"No!" Alexander screamed into the freezing wind.
"This is my house!"
"I bought this stone!"
"I signed the contractor agreements!"
He grabbed the iron bars and shook them with all the strength left in his trembling arms.
The gates rattled against their heavy latch, but they did not yield an inch.
A small security camera mounted above the intercom swiveled smoothly downward, its red sensor eye focusing directly on his face.
A crackle of static echoed from the speaker box.
"Mr. Whitmore," a voice spoke through the grille.
It was not Claire.
It was Thomas, the estate groundskeeper who had tended the gardens and maintained the heating systems for seven years.
"Thomas!" Alexander gasped, pressing his mouth close to the rusted mesh.
"Thomas, buzz the gate open!"
"I'm freezing out here!"
"I just need to get inside, get my warm coat, and get my passport from the safe!"
"I cannot do that, Mr. Whitmore," Thomas replied calmly.
"Thomas, I paid your salary for seven years!"
"No, sir," Thomas countered through the static.
"Mrs. Whitmore paid my salary."
"Every paycheck I ever received had her signature on the memo line."
"She called me this morning from Chicago."
"She told me you might come here."
"She instructed me to give you a message."
Alexander gripped the cold iron, his tears freezing on his cheeks.
"What message? What did she say?"
"She said your passport is no longer in the safe, Mr. Whitmore."
"She surrendered it to the federal marshals this morning as part of your asset audit."
"She also said that whatever you left in this house was paid for by company money you stole from the workers' fund."
"There is nothing here that belongs to you."
"Thomas, please!" Alexander sobbed, dropping to his knees in the dirty snowbank outside the gate.
"I have nowhere else to go!"
"The police are looking for me!"
"Just let me sleep in the guest house above the garage for one night!"
"Just one night!"
The speaker hissed with static for a long moment.
"I have a family, Mr. Whitmore," Thomas said quietly.
"If I open this gate, I become an accessory to a fugitive."
"The local sheriff has already been notified that a trespasser is on the perimeter."
"They are five minutes away."
"I suggest you walk down to the county road before the squad cars arrive."
The intercom clicked off.
The red light on the security camera snapped to black.
Alexander slumped forward, his forehead resting against the icy iron bars.
The wind howled through the bare birch trees surrounding the driveway.
Through the gate, down the long, winding private road, he could see the warm glow of the estate lights.
The chandeliers in the great room were blazing with soft, golden luminescence.
The smoke from the stone chimney rose into the gray sky, signaling that the fires were lit, the radiators were humming, and the house was warm, safe, and entirely beyond his reach.
He remembered the night of the gala.
He remembered turning to Claire in the ballroom and telling her she was ruining his evening over 'some old rocks.'
He remembered telling her to take the town car home because she looked tired and out of place.
She had taken one bag.
She had walked out into the cold without shouting, without crying, without begging.
And now, he was the one on his knees in the mud, begging a servant through a metal gate for a scrap of warmth.
A siren wailed in the distance.
The flashing red and blue lights reflected against the snowdrifts along the curving tree line of Highway 50.
Alexander stood up slowly, his legs shaking uncontrollably.
May you like
He didn't run.
He had nowhere left to run.
