Robert B. Parker's Revelation Read online

  Just then, Skeeter, the young Mexican deputy, poked his head out the busted-out window on the second floor and threw up.

  Virgil and I stepped back and looked up to him.

  Skeeter wiped his mouth and shook his head.

  “Skeeter,” I said.

  He looked to me, shook his head, then threw up again. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  “Got a woman up here, dead . . . she’s been ripped apart. I ain’t never seen no dead person before, but I don’t think in a lifetime I would see a dead person like this. It is God awful.”

  “Young woman?” I said.

  Skeeter nodded and threw up again.

  “Oh my God,” Wallis said.

  “Any idea where this Mr. Bedford walked off to?” Virgil said.

  Wallis pointed.

  “Said he was going to the big party, at the Vandervoort Town Hall.”

  “The party?”

  “The fancy party at the Vandervoort Town Hall.”

  Virgil glanced at me.

  “He has a shotgun with him,” Wallis said.

  “What?” I said.

  “A side by side,” Wallis said. “He loaded it and walked off.”

  “Said he was going to the party,” Virgil said. “With a loaded shotgun?”

  Wallis nodded.

  “He was kind of . . . intent, it seemed, like he had something to do. Hell, I don’t know . . . He had that fucked-up look, you know.”

  “Goddamn Wallis,” I said.

  “How long ago?” Virgil said.

  “Twenty minutes, maybe.”

  Virgil looked to me and we started walking at a quick pace toward the Vandervoort Town Hall. I looked back to Skeeter as we walked.

  “Leave her, Skeeter,” I said. “Leave everything as it is up there.”

  Skeeter nodded and threw up again.

  We hurried the few blocks toward the Town Hall. We heard the music before we turned the corner onto Vandervoort Avenue, and as we approached the Town Hall we saw a number of people standing on the porch in front of the place.

  All the tall double doors that fronted the street were open, and toward the far end of the room the guests were moving about through the doors, easing from inside to out and outside to in. Virgil and I edged up to the first set of the tall doors and looked inside. The partygoers were all looking to be having a fine time. We did not enter, we just stood watching, and after observing for a few moments Virgil shook his head.

  “Don’t see Driggs,” he said.

  “Nope,” I said.

  “Be hard to miss walking around with a fucking shotgun,” Virgil said.

  “He’d be hard to miss without it,” I said.

  77

  Most of the party crowd was toward the opposite end of the long room, but we had a good view of everyone. The majority of the people were spaced out, sitting in chairs around the edges. In the center couples were dancing to waltz music being played by a big band that was perched up on one side of the stage.

  Virgil turned, looked around across the street, then looked back inside the room.

  “What do you think?” I said.

  Virgil shook his head a little.

  “Don’t make sense.”

  “Maybe he’s off to catch that train when it leaves,” I said. “Think it’s at ten.”

  “Could be,” Virgil said.

  “Wonder what happened to the woman?”

  “Been thinking that, too,” he said.

  “Think somehow Degraw might have got to her?”

  Virgil nodded.

  “From Skeeter’s look and description, sounds like the work of Degraw,” he said. “But this is all pretty much a spiderweb if there ever was one.”

  “There’s Allie and her friend,” I said.

  Virgil followed my look.

  “Margie,” Virgil said.

  They were sipping champagne and talking to two young men near the front by the band.

  “Allie looks to be having a good time,” I said.

  “She does,” Virgil said.

  “Want to go on in?” I said.

  Before Virgil answered, someone from the crowd called out, “Here he is.”

  A lighted coach pulled by a big white horse stopped in front of the main entrance. The door was opened by one of the party attendants and out stepped Vandervoort, followed by his new bride, Constance. As always, he was dressed in a handsome long coat with gold buttons but now sported a frilly white shirt. Constance was wearing a gold dress that shimmered, and around her neck was a jeweled necklace that sparkled even more than the dress.

  “The man himself,” I said.

  “Yep,” Virgil said.

  “Look like a couple from some damn painting.”

  When the waltz ended everyone clapped. It was as if it were orchestrated by some kind of divine order, the end of the waltz coupled with the arrival of the Vandervoorts.

  Everyone turned and acknowledged Vandervoort and his wife with a round of applause when they entered. Then, after the long clapping died down, a chant started—Speech, speech, speech!

  Vandervoort smiled and waved, then moved up the stage steps with Constance on his arm. Constance stood to the side and Vandervoort stepped behind the lectern as the crowd clapped. He held up his hands and resembled a Christ-like politician.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Everyone began to settle down, and once everyone stopped clapping Vandervoort put his hands together.

  “Thank you, thank you, the fine citizens of Appaloosa . . . Thank you.”

  The crowd moved in around the stage to listen to Vandervoort and Virgil and I drifted in the door and stood just inside as he began to speak.

  “Some of you know I just returned from New Orleans where I received a shipment of incredible goods that I procured from some auctions and estate sales overseas—from places like France and Italy and Spain. Fine merchandise, mind you, the kind of merchandise one might find in Philadelphia, Chicago, New York, or Boston. Nevertheless, the point is, this merchandise, in these two boxcar loads I brought back with me, will soon find its way into your homes and places of business. These goods, along with this wonderful Town Hall and this avenue with the fine stores and businesses, is what will separate Appaloosa from all the other hamlets that have sprung up during this country’s western expansion. It has been my intention all along to build a city west of the Mississippi that will rival any of those aforementioned. It has been my intention since the first day of my arrival here to lift this community of Appaloosa out of the confines of backward culture. I see here among us some of my business and leasing partners. Please come up here with me, Bob Kirkwood is here, James Carlisle, Red Peterson, and Allison French. These are the owners and operators of new business along Vandervoort Avenue here. Allie, Bob, James, Red, come. Allie I am particularly proud of, our one and only woman business owner in all of Appaloosa. The tide is changing, folks, and we here in Appaloosa are on the forefront of that change.”

  Allie and the other men all walked up the steps. When they were all there behind Vandervoort he turned and looked to them and clapped. This encouraged the rest of the folks in the room to start clapping, too.

  Then, rising up the steps from behind the stage, came Driggs, with the double-barrel shotgun pointed at the back of Vandervoort’s head.

  78

  The crowd instantly began to clamor and start for the doors until Driggs yelled with a booming voice, “Nobody move!”

  Everyone did as he said.

  Driggs was calm and commanding, and his physical presence was powerful and instantly convincing.

  “Goddamn, Virgil . . . goddamn,” I said.

  Virgil and I were at the back of the crowd and any move we made, one way or the other, would not be wise.

  Vandervoort turned slowly to see Driggs.

  “Turn back around,” Driggs said loudly.

  The crowd gasped.

  “Everybody quiet,” Driggs said. “The first person that
makes a move to leave here, this worm at the end of this gun will have his head scattered all over you.”

  Vandervoort turned slowly back and faced the crowd. His face was white and his jaw was slack.

  “Put both your hands on that lectern,” Driggs said.

  Vandervoort did as he was told.

  “This speech that he began was rousing,” Driggs said. “But it’s going nowhere. He’s going to start over and tell you another story. Aren’t you?”

  Vandervoort said nothing.

  “Looks like he’s seen a ghost,” I said under my breath.

  Driggs moved up between Allie and one of the other men standing behind Vandervoort and put the barrel to the back of Vandervoort’s head.

  “Aren’t you?”

  Driggs popped him in the head with the gun.

  “What do you want me to say?” Vandervoort said.

  “Tell them who you really are.”

  Vandervoort said nothing.

  “Tell them.”

  “No.”

  “Can’t, can you?”

  “Just do it,” Vandervoort said.

  “What? My God,” Constance said. “No!”

  “He might be right,” Driggs said to Constance. “That might be the best. Certainly the easiest.”

  “Dear God . . .”

  “God has nothing to do with this, lady.”

  Constance had tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Please,” she said. “Please don’t hurt him.”

  “Hurt?” Driggs said. “You don’t know what hurt is.”

  “Please . . .” she said.

  “Shut the hell up,” Driggs said.

  Driggs poked the gun again at the back of Vandervoort’s head.

  “Talk.”

  Vandervoort shook his head.

  “No.”

  “I will tell them then, and you can fill in the blanks. Let’s start not at the beginning but toward the end. Let’s start with that necklace around your wife’s neck.”

  Everyone looked to the stunning diamond and ruby necklace hanging around Constance’s throat. Her hand instantly clutched the necklace as if someone were trying to take it from her.

  “Don’t worry, lady, it doesn’t belong to you anyway. None of the jewelry belongs to you, or the gold, or the money. In fact, that necklace was what set all this in motion. Happened on the day you returned from your fucking honeymoon in France . . .”

  Driggs poked Vandervoort with the gun again.

  “I was not certain you were in trouble until I found out the Pinkertons were after your ass. Good thing I got to you before they got to you . . . They are here, you can bet your ass. You gave that necklace to her for a wedding gift and you end up with a photograph of the loving newlyweds in the fucking society news wearing the very necklace you stole off that ship from Spain eight years ago. Did you really think that they would stop looking for that? The fucking King of Spain hired the Pinkertons eight years ago and now they are here for you. They even paid for this party just so she would be an idiot and wear that or one of the other ones. That little cute woman there? She’s one of them, too. Isn’t that the truth? Tell him.”

  The crowd looked to Margie. They opened up as Margie moved a few steps toward the lectern.

  “He’s correct, Mr. Vandervoort . . . This does not need to end like this,” Margie said.

  “No?” Driggs said.

  “And that fella over there that put this party together, he’s one of them, too.”

  Driggs looked to Rutledge and his two men.

  “Those two with him, brothers,” Driggs said. “Them, too.”

  “I’ll be goddamn,” I said silently. “You damn sure called it, Virgil.”

  79

  “But that is not the best part,” Driggs said, then nudged Vandervoort with the gun. “Is it?”

  Vandervoort said nothing.

  “I was with him on the heist of that ship in Mexico,” Driggs said. “Hell, it was my idea. I knew about the shipment and I organized the robbery. But what I did not count on was to be shot in the back and left for dead.”

  Driggs poked the gun again.

  “But I’m not dead, am I? No . . . I am the first and the last. I am the one that lives. I was dead but behold I am alive for evermore . . .”

  Driggs nudged Vandervoort again.

  “You want to tell them who shot me?”

  No one moved.

  “No?” said Driggs. “It was him. He shot me.”

  The crowd gasped.

  “I should have known that would have happened.”

  Allie was shaking so hard we could see the ruffles on her dress fluttering.

  “Talk to him, Everett,” Virgil said quietly. “Start a conversation.”

  I glanced to Virgil and he nodded some.

  “Here’s why I should have known it would happen,” Driggs said. “Because he’s been a ruthless killer his whole life. One of the first that I knew about was a man named Vandervoort, a Dutch salesman with a wagonload of supplies. So what does he do? He kills the Dutchman and takes the wagon and then years later he takes his fucking name, too. He thought it sounded like Vanderbilt. He thought he could be just like him. The Commodore.”

  “Driggs?” I said.

  He leaned out from behind Vandervoort.

  “Hello, Everett,” he said. “Welcome back. Who are you talking to? You see, we are both Driggs up here. This is Augustus Noble Driggs the first and I’m the second.”

  “Give it up,” I said.

  “That’s right, this is my father,” Driggs said. “He taught me everything I know . . . including killing . . . well, mainly killing. I think he killed at least five men that I know of before he killed my mother.”

  “Shut up,” Vandervoort said.

  “Or what?” Driggs said.

  “Just shut the fuck up.”

  “Driggs,” I said. “Just come with us.”

  The crowd parted some and Virgil and I eased forward.

  “He taught me how to snap a neck,” Driggs said. “Can you imagine your own father teaching you how to snap a neck? That is how he killed my mother.”

  “Shut up,” Vandervoort said. “Just shut up!”

  “Put the gun down and let us handle this,” I said. “Listen to me.”

  “Do like Everett says,” Virgil said. “Put the gun down. There is nothing you can do to change what happened, but you can change what happens now.”

  Book came in the side door and pointed a rifle at Driggs.

  “Drop it,” Book said.

  Driggs glanced at Book, and when he did Vandervoort spun on him with a powerful blow to the side of his head. The hard hit stunned Driggs. The people on the stage, the musicians and the others, scattered. Book had no shot and neither did we, as the people in front of us were all scrambling, trying to get out of the way.

  Virgil and I fought through the crowd toward the stage.

  Driggs was on his back. Vandervoort slammed a boot to his head, jerked the shotgun out of his arms, and stuck the barrel to his son’s head.

  “No!” I said.

  But Vandervoort pulled the trigger and Driggs’s head exploded, sending a spray of blood that shot up across Vandervoort’s shirt and face.

  Vandervoort grabbed Allie.

  “Vandervoort!” Virgil said.

  Vandervoort put the barrel of the shotgun under Allie’s chin and spun around with her in front of him.

  “Just let me walk out of here with her, or she will die.”

  “She dies,” Virgil said. “You die.”

  Allie had tears rolling down her cheeks.

  Constance, cowering on the floor, looked up to Vandervoort.

  “My God . . . Vernon,” she said. “Stop . . . Just stop . . . Let her go.”

  Virgil advanced on Vandervoort with his Colt pointed at his head.

  “Drop the gun,” Virgil said.

  “Do as he says,” Constance said as she got to her feet.

  Vandervoort’s eyes dart
ed between Virgil and me as he backed up, all the while holding Allie in front of him.

  “Drop the gun,” Virgil said.

  “Do it,” Constance said. “Do as he says.”

  “No,” he said.

  “You got but one shot,” Virgil said. “That’s not for Allie, and you know it.”

  Allie’s eyes were full of tears and her lip was quivering as she stared at Virgil.

  “Vernon?” Constance said. “Please . . . Don’t do this!”

  “Quiet, Constance!” Vandervoort said as he continued backing up with Allie, edging toward the exit.

  “You let me go, let me out of here,” Vandervoort said. “I will let her go.”

  “No! Vernon!” Constance said. “Stop!”

  Vandervoort looked to her.

  “Stop this, right now!” she said.

  He was perfectly calm as he stared at her.

  “Just stop this!” she said. “Right now!”

  Vandervoort snapped, “Did you or did you not say that I am nothing without you?”

  “Dear God, Vernon.”

  “God? God?” Vandervoort then roared with a vituperative growl, “LIKE MY DEAD SON SAID, GOD HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS, BITCH.”

  Then he shoved Allie and turned the shotgun on Constance.

  “VERNON, NO!”

  Virgil shot him, three quick shots to the chest. Vandervoort fell back and as he did he pulled the trigger.

  The double-ought buck hit Constance square in the chest, sending blood, diamonds, and rubies exploding across the stage as she stumbled backward, crashing through the fence of music stands and clutching the thirty-foot-tall curtain at the edge of the stage.

  “Virgil,” Allie cried as she hurried down the steps and fell into his arms.

  “I got you, Allie.”

  “Oh, Virgil,” she said as she buried her face in his chest.

  “I got you.”

  “My God,” Constance whispered.

  She was still miraculously alive and on her feet. Margie moved toward her, as did I, and we stood side by side, looking up at her on the stage. Constance looked down to the hole in her chest where the necklace used to be. Then she looked at us wide-eyed and fell from the stage, bringing down the tall curtain with her. Margie and I rushed over and pulled the curtain back from covering her face, but Constance Vandervoort was gone, staring dead-eyed at the ceiling of the Vandervoort Town Hall located on the only avenue in Appaloosa, Vandervoort Avenue.