Роберт Паркер - Robert B. Parker's Revelation

“We’re pleased you appreciate it,” she said. “It comes all the way from South America.”

“South America,” he said. “Imagine that.”

“I’m Tilda,” she said. “If you need anything else at all, just let me know.”

“I will, thank you, Tilda.”

Driggs smiled and watched her backside as she walked away a bit before he returned to reading the paper.

He liked to read the Appaloosa Star Statesman about the local happenings as well as current national events that involved politics, politicians, and the world. National and global news fascinated Driggs. When he was in Cibola he’d read every newspaper he could get his hands on. Most of the time it was the Tucson Citizen or The Santa Fe New Mexican or the San Francisco Chronicle, but he preferred The Guardian and The New York Times when he could get them. But here now in Appaloosa he was mostly interested in reading the Appaloosa Star Statesman and what was happening locally. At least currently, because in a short matter of time he had some particular business to attend to in Appaloosa and he felt it important to have a good lay of the land. The first article concerning the territory and the vicinity of Appaloosa was about the prison break, and this was, of course, most interesting to him. The article was a preliminary one: an unconfirmed account of the prison break, stating simply that the escape had happened but the details concerning just what happened would be forthcoming. Good, he thought. He read about the cattle, horses, and pigs that had been sold at the livestock auction. He read about the yearly rattlesnake roundup and how the record number of snakes caught this year would be on display through May. He read about Walter Jamison selling his ranch to a cow calf operation from Atlanta for a record price. He read about Vernon Vandervoort’s trip to New Orleans and his scheduled return to Appaloosa bearing goods from abroad. He read about the newest members appointed to the Appaloosa Alderman Association and the upcoming celebration at Vernon Vandervoort’s newly constructed Town Hall to be sponsored by investor Thane Rutledge. And he read about the shootout that occurred at Meserole’s, and when he came across Everett’s name he paused and reread the words: United States Deputy Marshal Everett Hitch, and it made him whistle.

“Everett fucking Hitch,” he said quietly to himself. “I’ll be goddamned. And here he is a U.S. Marshal living in Appaloosa.” Driggs lowered the paper and gazed out the window, thinking about Everett Hitch and those days so long ago. “Everett fucking Hitch.”

Later, Driggs sat in the Boston House Saloon and took a seat at the bar across from the longtime barkeep, the large but effortlessly elegant Fat Wallis.

“Whiskey, the best you got,” Driggs said.

Driggs set the newspaper on the bar in front of him and had the page turned to the article about the shootout at Meserole’s. He kept his head down, reading as Wallis poured the whiskey. Then he looked up.

“Heck of a deal,” Driggs said friendly-like as he tapped his finger on the article about the shootout.

Wallis leaned in, seeing the article.

“Oh, yes,” Wallis said. “Please know this sort of shooting is not common here in Appaloosa.”

“No, I wouldn’t think so,” Driggs said. “Says here U.S. Marshals were at the scene.”

“Yep, they live right here, well, when they are here,” Wallis said. “We do have a good police department as well with Sheriff Chastain and his deputies, but having marshals here is comforting.”

“Understandable,” Driggs said.

“The prison break is troubling,” Driggs said, flipping the page, “I read about that as well. So much discord. Your marshals I’m sure will be dealing with that.”

“Oh, they already are,” Wallis said. “Our good marshals are dealing with that as we speak, rest assured.”

Wallis rapped his knuckles on the bar and moved on to serve another customer.

Driggs watched Wallis walk off as he took a sip of the good whiskey and lit another expensive cigar. He was fortunate to have money. It was her money, but she made it very clear that what was hers was also rightfully his. He didn’t need to be told this, but he was happy to allow her the satisfaction of feeling generous.

He had yet to venture out too far from the Boston House, but he did move about through the streets surrounding the hotel, and with Hitch gone he enjoyed the unlimited free feeling of it all.

He was completely unconcerned with being found out or caught. He knew how not to draw suspicion, how to integrate. He felt more alive knowing he was a stranger among the others, but that was how it had always been with Driggs. He fondly remembered Isaiah 11:6: “The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb.”

But he was a handsome wolf. He wore tailored clothes that she had procured for him. He had a thick gabardine tapered frock coat, pin-striped shirts, silk ties, and fine twill trousers that tucked into high-topped polished black riding boots, and he had a beautiful woman, a princess, on his arm everywhere he went. They even walked across the street to the church and listened to the preacher.

Driggs appreciated hearing the scriptures being read as well as the preacher’s oratory regarding salvation, damnation, and the Holy Spirit. He was absorbed about the propagating notion that there is no life after death without Jesus, and if you do not ask Jesus into your heart to be your personal Savior you will go to Hell. Driggs felt like a kid in school. He wanted to raise his hand in protest but did not. He would not draw any more attention to himself than he’d already brought. But he thought about all the poor Indians he’d chased down and killed for the government who never even saw a Bible or heard the word Jesus, God , or Holy Spirit before a bullet ripped into their heads. Or the goddamn ignorant pigmies who chopped off the heads of their enemies and put them on poles around their camp to ward off evil spirits. They wouldn’t know Jesus from a fucking jungle snake.

The lofty talk of God Almighty gave Driggs a strong feeling of superiority. He got the message, he understood the alchemy of it all, it resonated with him in a way he knew others had no concept of; at least that is what existed in the reverie for him.

The sermon was transforming, it set Driggs even further apart from all those around him. It riled him, too, in a way that nothing else could. He somehow felt that he was actually there in the beginning, that he saw it all play out before him, that he’d seen it all before.

As the sermon ended the preacher asked the flock if there were sinners who needed to come forward and ask for forgiveness. The preacher’s invitation prompted Driggs to give up a low, involuntarily growl, which in turn initiated the princess to squeeze Driggs’s thigh. He looked at her. She was gazing up at him with a misty, wanton look in her eyes. He peered into her soul for a brief instant, but it was long enough.

His eyes moved above the preacher and focused on the cross hanging on the wall behind the preacher’s head, and he thought about Everett Hitch. He wondered if his ol’ pal Hitch was going to be a problem for him. Driggs was not begrudging by nature. Hanging on to grievances for transgressions made against him was unimportant and for the weak. But the art of vendetta intrigued him. Dismantling was a precise and systematic process he appreciated. Like taking apart a deadly weapon.